The courtyard smelled of wet iron, nervous horses, and the bitter sulfur of smoking torches doused in the drizzle.
Captain Thorne rode at the head of the supply train on a massive gray courser, his gilded breastplate reflecting the dull morning light like polished brass. Behind him, the six heavy wagons ground over the slick cobblestones, their iron-rimmed wheels groaning beneath the staggering weight of the silver bullion locked inside the reinforced timber beds.
"Where is the watch?" Thorne shouted, his voice echoing shrilly against the stone walls of the granary. He pulled his mount up before the silent commandant's tower, his hand resting on the jeweled pommel of his rapier. "Lucian! Rouse your dogs! We have forty leagues to cover before the western road turns to ice!"
No sentry answered from the catwalk. Only the drip of river fog from the wooden eaves met his call.
High above the courtyard, nestled in the shadows of the granary roof, Aurelia drew her twin blades.
The silver resonance within her veins hummed at a low, predatory frequency, sharpening her senses until the rustle of each lancer’s damp wool cloak sounded as loud as tearing parchment. Below her, four crossbowmen sat atop the canvas covers of the leading wagons, their quarrels resting loose across their knees as they squinted through the morning gloom.
"Something is wrong," one of the lancers muttered, drawing his broadsword from its scabbard. "The river gate is unbarred, and the portcullis—"
He never finished the sentence.
The heavy double doors of the lower armory blasted outward in a storm of shattered oak and twisted iron hinges.
Malakor stepped through the splintered frame like a god of war emerging from a burial mound. He didn't issue a challenge. He didn't speak. In two blinding strides, he closed the distance to the front line, his great sword carving a horizontal arc that took horse and rider down in a spray of scarlet.
"Ambush!" Thorne shrieked, his horse rearing wildly on the slick stones. "Form the circle! Shoot him down!"
Aurelia dropped from the roof like a falling hawk.
She hit the oiled canvas of the second wagon without a sound, sliding beneath the first crossbowman's guard before he could swivel his weapon. Her right blade drove upward through his ribs, while her left severed the bowstring of the archer beside him. She swept her leg out, sweeping the second man off the wagon bed to crack his skull against the cobblestones ten feet below.
Chaos erupted across the narrow courtyard.
The lancers scrambled to level their long pikes, but the terrain was a death trap—hemmed in by stone bastions and the massive wagons, their horses collided in blind panic.
Malakor moved through them like a butcher in an abattoir.
The sovereign fire in his blood burned along the dark steel of his great sword, setting the edge glowing with incandescent gold. Every swing was an execution. He severed a spear shaft with his left gauntlet, drove his pommel through the faceplate of a charging sergeant, and hauled a mounted knight straight out of the saddle with his bare hand, throwing the armored body into the wagon wheels to snap the axle.
Aurelia vaulted from the wagon roof, her daggers flashing like lightning through the gray mist.
She danced through the press of footmen, ducking beneath wild sword slashes and leaving severed hamstrings and opened throats in her wake. The blood-tether connected to Malakor’s core pulsed in time with her heart, feeding her a boundless, intoxicating torrent of strength. Whenever a spearman tried to flank him, she was already there, driving cold steel into the gap in their mail before they could strike.
Within three minutes, the forty lancers were broken.
The survivors dropped their weapons and scrambled over the outer palisade into the freezing waters of the river flume.
In the center of the courtyard, Thorne sat in the mud, his gilded breastplate splattered with the blood of his vanguard. His rapier lay snapped in two beneath the wheel of his lead wagon. He scrambled backward, clawing at the slick stones until his shoulders slammed against the wooden spokes.
Malakor walked toward him, the great sword dragging along the cobblestones behind him, leaving a trail of sparks and red gore in the wet gravel.
He planted his heavy boot on Thorne’s throat, pinning the captain’s head to the mud with terrifying, unyielding pressure. The breath trapped in Thorne’s chest came out in a strangled wheeze.
"The cipher," Malakor growled, his voice deep, rough, and dripping with dark finality. "Before I take your head off."
Aurelia stepped up beside him, her blades dripping crimson as she wiped the rain from her brow. She looked down at the trembling master of coin with eyes that were entirely devoid of mercy.
"Listen to him, Captain," she whispered softly, tapping the cold tip of her dagger against his temple. "He is far more patient than I am."