Chapter XIII. Of Crimson Wings #3
“A burst of grapeshot smashed Dawnseeker’s flank, tearing wood and flesh.
Dior and Reyne dove for cover, Phoebe roaring as she bore a barrelful’s brunt.
The fleshwitch couldn’t be killed by a blow unsilvered, but that didn’t mean she was impervious to harm—her left arm shredded to the bone, her flank flayed to the ribs.
The Highlander stumbled to one knee as Onslaught threw her grapples.
And through the fray stepped that hulking Ironheart thug, fangs bared as he raised his warhammer high.
“Dior cried out, her voice near lost as Onslaught crashed against the Seeker’s portside. Phoebe raised her forearm, bone crunching as the warhammer descended. But though she warded off the blow, the thug fought not alone; that Voss pistoleer now raising two wheellocks and letting loose.
“The first shot pierced Phoebe’s shoulder, whipping her crossways in a spray of red.
But the second was truer, striking the fleshwitch in the eye and blowing out the back of her skull.
Dior screamed again, Reyne flinching as she was painted with blood and brains.
Phoebe’s body tumbled over the railing, crashing into the raging waters as that thug charged toward the girls.
He knew not who they were, nor did he seem to care—knowing only that Dior seemed some kind of leader among our rabble.
“Dior knew she wasn’t ready to fight here, that her sanguimancy could hold no candle to this tempest. Instead, she took hold of Reyne’s sword.
Drawing her fist up its length, the Grail cried out, but the deed was done, silversteel anointed with her blood.
And turning, Reyne raised her blade toward the charging vampire, eyes narrowed to knifecuts.
“‘En garde.’
“The Ironheart was faster, stronger, unafeared of steel. Yet he was no true swordsman; used to sheer size and strength winning the day. But this day, he faced a foe trained by the Bladesingers of Montfort, armed with silversteel blessed by the blood of Heaven’s Scion.
As Reyne turned his first blow aside, beat his second with swift riposte to his face, the Ironheart learned how little size and strength were worth.
“The silversteel sliced his cheek—a mere scratch for a child of Voss. But as Dior’s blood met his flesh, he reared back, eyes gone wide.
We heard a sound, though not just a sound but a …
sensation. As if all the earth shook and then fell still.
And fire was birthed then, hot enough to melt an angel’s blade and seething white-hot over that Ironheart’s skin.
“He screamed, agonized, bubbling. The fire engulfed his face, his coat, Dead flesh catching like tinder in lost summertimes. And then his head toppled from his shoulders—spine cleaved through by the hand of the Nineswords’ bastard.
“‘That’s my girl,’ Dior breathed.
“Reyne grinned, twirling her bloodied blade. But the Princess’s victory was short-lived.
Even as the ashes of her foe struck the deck, more Ironhearts joined the fray—leaping from the Onslaught and landing upon the aftcastle.
Three more their number; a one-eyed brigand in a capitaine’s greatcoat, a fellow with a belly like a beer-barrel, a swift woman in hunter’s leathers, red hair bound in slayer’s braids.
This last struck us familiar, though through the chaos we didn’t place her, still winging toward the fray behind Maryn, desperate to reach Dior before these newcomers cut her down.
“The Princess met the capitaine, but the beer-belly drew two knives, he and the red woman skirting around Reyne’s sword. And with no choice left, Dior flung out her hand.
“Blood sprayed in a bright arc, but the vampires were too swift, dancing beneath the droplets, closing fast. Teeth gritted, the Holy Grail of San Michon willed yet more blood forth, coalescing, solidifying, forged by her will into a blade of dripping crimson.
“The beer-belly came on undaunted, understanding not what he saw. But the red woman paused then, squinting through the black ignis fog, the dancing embers, the pistol smoke, eyes gone wide as she finally whispered …
“‘Lachance.’
“We recognized her now; a foe from a lifetime ago. We could picture her among her brethren as we brawled upon the Mère, as Gabriel and Dior sent Danton Voss to hell. For this was one of the Beast of Vellene’s hounds, who’d survived her master’s death and his father’s displeasure both, apparently serving now in his fleet.
“‘Roisin…’ Dior whispered.
“And then came Maryn.
“A crimson storm, engulfing the deck. We heard Beer-Belly scream, Reyne’s steel striking the Dead capitaine’s.
We descended also, hundreds of droplets re-forming into one, cutting through the carnage and into the capitaine’s back.
The Ironheart staggered, a smoking gash carved through his spine by our blade.
And his gasp of pain became a scream as Reyne’s anointed blade sliced his skin, his body bursting into flames.
“The battle was turning, Ironhearts failing, Dior’s men cutting through their breaking thralls like knives. And in the heart of that blood-mad thresher, men fighting and screaming and dying, Roisin the Red stared at Dior, hissing cold promise through her fangs.
“‘My King will see you soon.’
“And turning, the Ironheart dove into the water like a spear.”