Shadowguard

The tavern descended into chaos.

Everna had been in large fights before, both in the tavern and during her days at the academy — predominately as an unsuccessful mediator forced to defend herself from the occasional fist and flying bottle — but those brawls were nothing compared to the sudden violence that gripped the taproom.

Guards turned on guards. Patrons scrambled out of the way of the conflict, chairs and tables toppling. A handful of them, including Lyra, ran for the cellar. A few of the braver — and drunker — patrons remained behind to assist, flinging plates and bowls and bottles into the fray with reckless abandon, while the rest fled for the door.

Windmore, realizing he was cornered, made his escape, Gillain on his heels. Her father barreled after him as well, throwing one of the smaller guards into the wall. A handful of the Windmore’s accomplices moved to intercept Corden while another pair slipped past and made straight for her.

Cursing, she leapt onto the bar, just as a sword skimmed past her legs.

Banor bolted upright as she passed, hazy eyes wide. The moment he took notice of the pandemonium, a drunken laugh tore from his lips. Hefting his axe with, he swung at the first guard that came within reach.

A second guard ducked beneath the swing and lunged for her. She kicked Banor’s abandoned mug into his face, just as a well-placed wine bottle clocked him on the back of the head.

It was pure and utter chaos in every sense of the word. The taproom transformed into a sea of stumbling bodies, swinging weapons. She could hardly keep track of what happened. There was no way to tell which of the guards were on which side.

Her brother broke through the line of guards struggling to hold him back and shot out the door, barking orders. Bree, the cook’s assistant, poked her head out of the kitchen, then struck the nearest guard with the underside of a heavy frying pan. Lisette bobbed in and out of sight, swinging and stabbing at anyone who dared get too close to her.

Banor leapt off the bar and onto a small cluster of guards and sent them toppling, his laughter ringing above the clamor of battle. One stumbled into Wil and quickly found a dagger wedged between his ribs. Another fell victim to a wayward serving tray. A rusted pail streaked through the air, its contents, which looked very much like vomit, spilling over a handful of guards.

From the corner of her eyes, she caught a flash of gold as Leah bounded down the stairs and into the fray.

She didn’t have time to question when she arrived. A gloved hand clamped around her ankle and yanked. The bar disappeared from beneath her. Her knee caught the edge and a mess of pins and needles shot through her leg. A second hand clamped over her mouth, swiftly followed by the sharp bite of a dagger at her neck.

“If you want to keep your head, I suggest you drop the sword and come with me,” her assailant said, his voice in her ear.

“Not happening,” Everna hissed.

She seized the man’s wrist with her right hand, anchoring his arm in place, and flipped her sword so that the tip pointed behind her. Her assailant stepped back to avoid the strike. She followed suit, taking advantage of the opening, and ducked out from beneath the dagger. Keeping her hand firmly on his wrist, she immediately stepped to the side and wrenched his arm forward. Her assailant — a Shroud agent, she realized — cursed.

Most assumed her mother was deadliest with a dagger in her hand, but the real danger lay in her martial prowess. Over the years, her mother tried to teach her several maneuvers, many of which pertaining to her predicament, but Everna lacked the strength and finesse required to see them through. She couldn’t throw a man twice her size, but she was resourceful, if nothing else.

Foregoing the flip that should’ve followed, Everna did the next best thing; she drove her knee into the junction between his legs.

The Shroud agent lurched forward, a pained whine pulling from his lips. She struck him again, just for good measure, then drove her heel into his kneecap. The moment his leg buckled, she released him and scrambled over the bar.

Blades came at her from every angle, some intentional, others a matter of poor placement. She skirted around a pair of guards burying punches in each other’s faces and snatched a serving tray off one of the few tables left standing. A guard, covered in blood and missing several teeth, made a grab for her. From the corner of her eye she saw the Shroud agent, who’d recovered more quickly than she expected, do the same.

Cursing, she flung the serving tray at the guard. It caught him square in the jaw and sent him staggering into the path of a flying dagger, which struck him in the shoulder. He tripped over a fallen mug and landed on his rear in a heap of failing limbs.

A chair sailed past her head. Shroud’s agent tore after her, tossing toppled furniture aside. She seized the first thing she could get her hands on — an untouched bottle of brandy — and swung it at him, missing. The agent lunged for her and she scrambled to the side, swinging her sword. She missed again; the tip grazing the outer edge of his hood. He swung own weapon in retaliation and she barely batted it away before it came at her once more and grazed her chin.

Something heavy collided with the side of her head. Liquid — wine — spilled into her eyes, glass shards digging into her skin. Her foot struck the splintered remains of a chair leg and, with a sharp burst of pain, her ankle gave out. The ground met her back with enough force to drive the air from her lungs.

The agent loomed over her, a darkened void where his face should be. He was winded — or seething — his shoulders jerking sharply as his gloved hand curled into a fist. Everna forced down the panic bubbling in her chest and readjusted her grip on her sword.

If this was how she went out, then damn it all, she’d go out fighting

The agent snarled and raised his sword. Though she could hardly see through the wine and tears burning her eyes, she flung the bottle. It flew wide, shattering against the back of a guard’s head.

Frustrated, Everna kicked at the agent’s ankle, but he caught her foot mere inches before it connected.

“Fortunately for you, Godwin wants you alive, and that’s not negotiable,” he sneered. “But he never said you had to be in one piece. How about I cut your legs off so you can’t keep running, huh?”

She’d cut his legs off instead, if her she could reach. The blade, which was roughly as long as her for forearm, wasn’t long enough and, with one leg hoisted high into the air, she couldn’t pull herself up far enough to make an attempt. The agent wisely kept out of reach of her other leg.

Out of options, she flung her sword at his face, but to no avail; he carelessly swatted it aside and set it spiraling across the taproom.

Not a moment later, it came at him from behind. The blade plunged straight through the back of his hand, forcing him to relinquish his weapon. Feeling his hold on her ankle slack, she wrenched her leg free and scrambled backward.

Several things happened at once. An arrow struck the agent in the shoulder. Wil appeared behind him, not from the shadows but from thin air, and drove his sword through his back. At that same moment, her mother burst from a well of writhing shadows, her face twisted with fury and her eyes wild with murderous intent.

With nothing more than a flash of dwarven steel, her mother sent the agent’s head tumbling from his shoulders. His body crumpled to the floor and, as if his death heralded the end of the fight, the tavern fell silent. The traitorous guards surrendered, and those who remained loyal to the kingdom swiftly apprehended them.