Chapter 21
T he scrape of boots against the stone behind them had Calder and Emer’s heads snapping to find two other men approaching. One of them being the man from the Alder Barrel. His cut and bloodied face pulled into a snarl.
Although each was armed, it was not a weapon that caused a chill to lick Emer’s spine, but rather the rope, small sack, and makeshift gag of cloth. Their intentions were clear, and Emer tucked herself close to Calder, running her hands over him in search of a concealed weapon to replace the one she lost.
“You don’t want to fucking do this,” Calder warned.
The men laughed, looking at each other and back to Emer. “You didn’t mention she had a dog,” the one in front of them said.
“Wrong animal,” Calder growled under his breath.
Oblivious, the man from the tavern answered back, “Did you think I needed two of you for that little thing?” He punctuated his question by waving his sword at Emer.
She stepped towards him, shooting out her arm and brandishing the knife she had slipped from Calder’s sheath.
“Your face tells me you would,” she hissed .
“She wants to fight,” one of the men said with a hoarse laugh.
“No one said anything about the condition she had to be in when delivered,” said the man with the gag, licking his lips.
Death. Calder felt it chill his bones, and he closed his eyes, letting it cascade down his spine.
Alabaster croaked in the distance.
Calder leaned down and trailed his lips across Emer’s ear as he asked, “I want him this time. Share with me?”
His words did something to her that was entirely inappropriate for the current situation, and it was unclear who was more shocked by the satisfied smile that curved at her lips—the three men before her or the Sea Raven who smiled back.
“I want that one,” she said, pointing her knife at the man who called Calder a dog.
“Poor bastard,” Calder laughed and nodded in agreement.
The complete disregard for the three would-be assailants had them exchanging concerned looks.
Calder crossed his arms in front of him and unsheathed the two swords at his hips. “Tha mi an dòchas gu bheil thu deiseil airson bàsachadh.”
I hope you are ready to die.
The alley quickly became segmented by the two fights, Calder focusing on the two Emer had not claimed as her own. With his mind split, Calder allowed one of the opposing blades to kiss his arm and draw a feral sound from his throat. While Emer’s presence was a distraction for Calder, his was a motivation for her. The snarl that left him moments before caused the rage pooling within her to overflow. Dodging her opponent’s sword, she used the man’s move against him and pivoted out of the blade’s path. Emer gripped his wrist with one hand and spun into his now open chest, plunging her knife into his shoulder. He wailed as she pulled the knife free, warm blood spraying across her cheek. It ran down her neck and over her thundering pulse. Still holding the man’s arm, Emer spun herself from his grasp and then drove her knee into his elbow. His sword clattering against the stone was a melodic crescendo to their dance.
Bloodied and bitter, the man crouched low and lunged. As they fell, Emer threw her elbow into the side of his head—a final attempt to incapacitate him before she hit the ground. The impact left her vision spotting, and for a moment, she did not realize the weight on her had grown still. Shallow breaths rattled from her compressed chest as she pushed against the unconscious man, her other hand slipping against the stone now slick from his seeping wound.
She rose from the ground, a portrait of beauty and violence much like the cliffs by the keep, and just like the cliffside, she was now covered in blood.
When Calder caught sight of her, his eyes flared at how the dark parts of the man now tainted the parts of her that had been bright and clean.
Emer took a deep breath, set her jaw, and began to stalk towards where he fought; her knife gripped tight in her hand. Before she could draw too close, however, Calder waved her away. With her fight no longer distracting him, he could give his opponents his full attention and all the wrath that came with it.
He alternated defensive and offensive moves between the men, each intentional and powerful. As they began to tire, Calder devoured their struggles. He used a block to push the older man back, and his head hit the ground with a sickening crack that left him groaning in place.
Unfurling his fingers from the hilt of one of the swords, Calder crooked them and beckoned his remaining opponent forward. The man charged, bringing his weapon down with all his might. Calder blocked with one sword and lunged with his other, plunging it deep into the man’s abdomen.
As children, Emer and Finn played with wooden swords and would cry out dramatically as they pretended to die. It was at that moment Emer learned that men don’t cry out when they are stabbed through the chest. They grunt. A feeble noise, so muted compared to the sound made by the metal as it sliced through flesh.
Calder’s nostrils flared as he stared into the man’s eyes, driving the sword to the hilt.
Another grunt.
This time from Calder, straining from the force required to twist his blade.
Crack.
In one final act of aggression, he pushed back and kicked the man free of his blade.
Calder was prepared to see disgust when he looked at Emer. He expected to see terror in her eyes, possibly even for her to run. He was not prepared for the sigh of relief that swept through the now quiet alley nor the small arms that wrapped tightly around his middle.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.
He flinched.
Swords still in hand, he stood rigid in her embrace. Though his arms remained at his sides, he slowly lowered his head and allowed his chin to rest on her head.
Pressed against him, she opened her eyes to survey the carnage in the alley. The sun had just fallen, but not even the cover of night could hide the thick pool of darkness surrounding the one that met Calder’s blade.
A hint of mourning swept through her heart. Not for the man who lay dead before her, but for herself. For the girl from the meadow who never reached the shore. The part of herself that drowned below those waves—the one that would have felt sorry.
Calder stepped back and moved down the alley behind her, returning a moment later and securing her cloak around her. He took her hand in his, and the blood on their skin further bound them together .
Pressing his lips to the top of her head, he spoke softly, “You did good, Merrow.”
Another time, she could have gotten drunk off the pride that infused his voice, but just like whiskey, his words burnt all the way down. Throat tight, she remained silent as Calder led her into the night.