Shadowguard

"Well, this is a pleasant surprise," Windmore said. "You're a bit early, though, Everna. You weren't supposed to be here until morning."

"With the way you burst in with your lapdogs at your heels, it's almost like you expected to find her here," Wil said.

Captain Windmore neither confirmed nor denied the claim. He only smiled wider, the look in his eyes bordering on feral. When he pointed the tip of his sword at her, the neckline of his tunic shifted to reveal a smattering of blood. Her stomach did somersaults.

"I knew you had your hand in this!" Everna hissed. She forced her panic aside, adjusting her grip on her sword to stop her hand from shaking. She would not give Windmore the satisfaction of seeing her afraid. "You killed Mayor Ashburn too, didn't you?"

"Unfortunately, I can't take credit for that," Windmore said. His nonchalance made her blood boil. She'd always known he lacked empathy, but this was low, even for him. "I'd rather not, frankly. The assassin left quite a mess, and I was told they were skilled."

Wil raised a brow. "Rather bold of you to admit that."

"Oh, I'm not worried at all. Everna won't have anyone left to turn to and no one left to believe her," Windmore cackled. "And you won't live long enough to scamper back to your friends in Shadowguard."

His laughter — his hysteria — sent a shiver down her spine. He was deranged. Utterly insane. She could see it in his eyes, wide and brimming with madness.

As if a dam had broken, chaos descended upon the room. As Windmore lunged for her, Wil snatched the book from Sir Swiftbrook's desk and hurled it at the window. The sound of shattering glass coincided almost perfectly with the sudden clang of clashing blades as Everna brought her sword up to block Windmore's strike. Her arms shook beneath the force of the blow, her hands numbing almost immediately after his blade met hers.

Fighting him was nothing like sparring her father. Windmore didn't pull back when her sword dipped, her arms straining beneath his weight, her grip slackened by the pins and needles shooting through her fingers. Where her father would've allowed her a moment to readjust, Windmore pressed the advantage. He hounded after her, hammering his blade against hers as if it weren't a sword, but a bludgeoning tool.

A rather heavy blow sent her knees buckling, nearly forcing her to the floor. She dug her heels in as he struck again, this time pushing down against her blade. Everna gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her brow, as she struggled to hold her sword steady.

"I see Ronan taught you well," Windmore jeered. "You can barely hold your sword properly."

A dagger shot past her shoulder, missing her by mere inches, and burrowed into Windmore's thigh. His leg gave out, and for a moment, the weight bearing down on her lessened. Everna ducked beneath their crossed blades and bolted between his legs.

Windmore recovered more quickly than she'd expected. The tip of his blade tore through her left leg, searing pain erupting along the length of her calf. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away and drove her heel into his ankle.

She had to get to the window. It wasn't possible to win this fight and Everna knew better than to try. Windmore had her both outmatched and outnumbered, and the longer she allowed it to drag out, the slimmer her chances grew.

As she scrambled to her feet, Windmore lunged for her. She danced out of the way, batting his blade aside, and vaulted on the desk. Blood seeped between her toes, thick and viscid, and she nearly slipped as she stepped over Sir Swiftbrook's body.

The second her feet hit the floor on the other side of the desk, a hand sank into her hair. Her scalp screamed as Windmore hauled her backwards, his hand twisting until he had her by the roots. He did not relent; he yanked her away from the window — away from her only means of escape and held her there. His boot dug into her back, pushing her forward while he continued to pull at her hair until she was certain he'd break her neck.

It was by pure luck she kept her grip on her sword.

A fresh round of tears burned at her eyes, and through them, she caught a swirl of black and a flash of steel. The pained cries of the guards mixed with the ring of clashing blades. During her dash for the window, Sir Swiftbrook had fallen to the side; he now lay on the floor in a crumpled heap, his lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling above. A guard stumbled over his hand, and Wil drove a dagger through his chest.

Blood coated the walls now, flung carelessly from the tip of a blade.

People were dying. Some already had. At any moment, Windmore could bring his sword down upon her neck, and there she was thinking about painting.

A sharp twist of her hair and a fresh wave of pain catapulted her back to reality. She had to free herself somehow, but it was easier said than done. Unless Windmore relinquished his hold, nothing short of cutting her hair would suffice. As she learned as a child, cutting hair with a sword was an arduous task.

If she swung the blade behind her, she might catch him in the leg. Lady Luck permitting, she might cleave the damned thing off. Her sword could cut through solid wood. It should be no trouble at all to —

Cut her hair.

Oh...

She had to be careful; if she missed or struck too close to the roots, she might cut her scalp instead. Sharp as the blade was, even a glancing blow could spell disaster. Once she was free, there would be no going home to tend to her wounds.

Her parents would help her, but in doing so, she'd condemn them as well. They'd kill Windmore, and the penalty for killing a member of the Guard was one step short of treason.

Under these circumstances, it may well be treason, and she'd be damned before she dragged her parents to the gallows with her.

Steeling her nerves, she lifted her sword. Maybe Wil was right; she'd get nowhere playing by the rules.

She brought her sword down.

The blade tore through her hair with alarming ease, the severed locks pooling at her feet. She felt Windmore’s foot leave her back, and with his hold over her no more, she made for the window. Glass dug into her skin, tearing through the fabric of her skirt as she pressed through the opening and tumbled into the street beyond.

She didn't stop.

Windmore's voice carried through the night as she dove into the town, his string of curses and calls for action alerting every patrol within earshot. They echoed his orders, a chorus of voices ringing in the broken silence of the night. She'd never heard a more terrifying sound.

Footsteps quickly filled the gaps between her own. She veered left onto the southerly road, then again into a side street, which she followed until it joined with the eastern road. From there, she turned south once more.

Long after her lungs burned with a need for air and her legs threatened to give out, Wil appeared from the darkness beside her.

"I told you this was a bad idea," she breathed.

"What do you want, a fucking award?"

"I'd prefer an admission of fault and a written apology," she shot back.

"Just shut up and keep running. Head for the south gate. We'll lose them in the woods."

"We'd be better off going over the wall," she argued. "The gates are likely blocked, if they're not closed."

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

As they drew closer to said gate, more guards joined the chase. They seemed to emerge from the shadows, pouring out of the side streets in droves — and they were not alone. The town sprang to life around her, windows illuminated as curious townsfolk pulled their curtains aside. Doors opened, children pushing past their startled caretakers.

There would be no getting out of it this time. With half the town bearing witness to her mad dash through the streets, her bloody footprints staining the cobblestone, any tale Windmore spun would stick. If the people didn't believe she killed Mayor Ashburn before, they would now.

The gate was within sight now, the doors sealed as she feared. Ahead of them, a swarm of guards rounded the corner, their weapons drawn. More gathered behind them, boxing them in. Above their demands that she surrender, she heard Windmore no longer screaming for her arrest, but her demise.

"No quarter! Do not let them escape! Kill them!"

Everna swore.

"You won't like this," Wil warned, seizing her by the hand once more.

The weightlessness returned as the town shifted into a monochrome blur before her eyes. This time, she felt the lack of physical form, the gut-wrenching intangibility that came with dissolving into shadow. It was more than floating.

It was as if she faded out of existence entirely.

When her vision returned moments later, it came with a bout of nausea so overwhelming that even breathing made her sick to her stomach. Bile again burned the back of her throat, and it was all she could do to keep it from spilling from her lips. The stars wheeled overhead, an ever-shifting blur of lights streaking through the night sky.

Wil leaned over her. "You passed out."

"How long?"

"Thirty, maybe forty seconds."

"Put me back. The world's still tilting."

Wil snorted.

It was only after the stars stilled she discovered the tilting of the world wasn't the effects of his magic. They were above the town, resting on the sloping roof of a row house. Below, the Guard scattered like rats, scrambling about in frantic search. The townspeople had joined them, men and women in their nightclothes armed with whatever tools they could find.

There really was an angry mob after her now.

"The Guard's compromised," Wil said, watching the commotion with narrowed eyes. "You can't stay here."

"You think!?" Everna sat up, her head heavy as a lead weight. "If you had just listened to me, we could've avoided this! I could've gotten into the post in the morning!"

Wil pulled his hood over his head once more. "No, it was the best thing you could've done."