To Marry a Dragon

12. Chivalry in the Back Alley

Elvira's odds against the new attackers were horrendous: the courtyard Sigvart picked to make his escape was starting to look like a rallying point for the Deadfisher's men being pushed out of Antikapey's central district. Cerne was a green... meaning an inexperienced street fighter. Her troublesome betrothed was running away from her by the rooftops. Unlike him, she didn't have a magic rope to spirit her away from the mess she walked in.

She counted at least a dozen shadowy figures amassing on the opposite corner from her. It would only take one spark to set them against her. And she didn't have to wait long for that to happen.

"That harridan is with Sigvart!" someone hollered—the half-naiad's voice. So much for showing mercy. Gnashing her teeth, Elvira let her chains sing, instead of useless words.

Cerne sighed about there being so little for her to work with in this terrible city. Despite her dispirited mutterings, a few mud traps opened up in the beaten dirt, ready for the unwary feet.

The rogues charged all at once, in a wave of limbs and sharp objects. Elvira felt more unnerved by a twang of a bowstring. The first arrow went wide, but where there was one, there were more.

"Stay in the light. Do not waylay those who mean you no harm." Beautiful words, but had they ever worked?

Furious shouts responded to her instead, when the traps did their job. After that Elvira didn't have time for worrying about anything but deflecting the closest blade swinging at her.

Cerne produced a couple of weak vines that snapped like spider webs, barely slowing the attackers. Exhausted, she piped in, "Sorry!" and disappeared back into her acorn.

Irrationally, Elvira felt betrayed, even though her mind told her that she was better off without defending the fragile dryad. She also didn't need the guilt, if Cerne suffered a wound or, worse, fell in the fighting.

Her grip on the chains didn't weaken—odds or not, betrayal or not, the fight wasn't over while her eyes beheld the light. And the light and shadow was all she could see. The attackers were a blur of dangers to turn away. She did, she did. A blade, an arrow point, another blade.

Something slipped under her defence, piercing her shoulder. The shouting drowned out her shout of pain, but then a more important sound emerged from the noise.

The brassy note of the war horn. The clip-clopping of hooves. And a hoarse voice that yelled, "Stay in the light! Do not—"

"Do not waylay those who mean you no harm!" Elvira shouted back on top of her lungs.

Elvira's attackers turned to the unknown threat. Between their bodies, she saw glimpses of the most beautiful sight in the world: a score of the mounted knights of the Order of Verity. Their horses circled in place, the swords flashing bravely, and the red flower blazed in the strengthening light in the eastern sky.

Somehow, she survived to see the dawn!

The thought poured quicksilver into Elvira's veins, almost enough to fly after Sigvart. Alas, almost didn't count, so she hacked at the backs of her attackers with renewed fury.

Her rescuers' warhorses trampled the rogues into dirt, sturdy arms cutting the others down... it was beautiful and fast, and she survived. Just like a righteous fight should be!

"Thank you and well met!" she cried out to the mounted knights.

"Well met." Their leader rode over and lifted his visor. "Allow me to tend your wounds, Dame."

The heat of the battle cleared her head. Thousand scrapes and bruises bit into her, beyond the exhaustion in her limbs. Nothing life-threatening, but she was about to chase a nimble rogue over the rooftops. "I would be most grateful, Sir."