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Brendan’s response came too low to hear, but a flick of his fingers and the closest man went down in a heap of twitching limbs, eyes rolling in his head, a horrible gargling moan the only sound as he writhed upon the ground.
“Battle magic!” shouted one.
The two still on their feet rushed Brendan, causing him to spin out of the way, his concentration broken. One raised his arm, the night shattered by the crack of a gunshot.
Brendan went stiff before slumping, a hand clamped to his right shoulder.
Elisabeth opened her mouth to scream, but the best she managed was a strangled whimper. Her limbs went dead. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t cry. She could only stare, mesmerized, at the blood seeping slow and black from the ugly hole in Brendan’s shoulder. Her stomach slammed into her throat, cold washing through her as if she’d been plunged into ice water. “They shot you,” she gasped. “Brendan, they shot you.”
“Did they?” he grunted through clenched teeth. “Hadn’t noticed.”
Then they were there. Rough hands grabbing her. Hateful words whispered in her ear.
Brendan spun at the final moment, his knife a flash of silver. A scarlet bib splashed across the shirtfront of one attacker as he dropped to his knees.
Still gripping her hard by the shoulder, the last man knocked the knife away. Slammed his fist into Brendan’s jaw. Hammered a knee into his stomach. Punched his wounded shoulder.
Brendan toppled to the mud. Groans from a tight jaw, eyes squeezed shut.
“Damned bastard,” the man snarled. “That’s fer Keg and Perry.” He kicked Brendan hard in the ribs. “Think ye be hurtin’ now. Wait ’til the Great One’s gotten his hands on ye.”
The rattle of harness and a low whistle startled them all alert.
Around the bend, a canvas-covered wagon bumped and rattled, a pair of bony, short-backed ponies in the shafts, a tall, leggy chestnut tied at the back. Elisabeth recognized the tavern’s harper at the traces.
“Here now, ladies,” he spoke quietly to the ponies. “Looks as if we’ve stumbled on what you might call a gang of Mohocks bent on mischief.” He pulled up, staring at the gruesome scene before him, his eyes seeming to glow in his thin face. “Let the girl go now, friend.”
“Fuck yerself, old man,” the man snarled.
Rogan merely chuckled, laying his whip across his knees, a strange, focused expression upon his face. “I don’t think that’s humanly possible.” He motioned toward Elisabeth. “Let her go, and be off with you. The sergeant and his men will be here soon.” His voice came slow and even. No trace of fear or anxiety, just a rich endless sea of sound. “You don’t want to explain yourself to them, do you?”
The man spit on the ground, his face drawn in stark lines, mouth a thin angry slit. “I’ve my orders.”
“So you do,” Rogan conceded, still in the melodious, fluid tones that warmed Elisabeth’s whole body, relaxed muscles, and slowed her galloping heart. She wanted to wrap herself in his voice, where she would be protected and the fear wouldn’t touch her. “But your orders didn’t say anything about getting arrested by a Duinedon soldier and spending the next few nights in jail. Move along. Let them be.”
The gentle persuasion seemed to be having the same effect on her captor. His grip loosened bef
ore falling away completely. His gaze confused as if he didn’t understand why he was agreeing, but couldn’t stop himself.
“Climb up, miss.” The harper held out a hand. “Easy now. No sudden moves or you’ll rouse him. The magic of the leveryas will bend him to our will, but its hold is fragile and easily shattered by a strong mind.”
Her gaze fell upon Brendan’s huddled, battered form. One pale hand flung out, the fingers long and beautiful. A musician’s fingers. She remembered them upon her skin, the heady, quivery heat bubbling up through her at his touch. And the strength in them as he’d shoved her behind him, shielding her with his own body.
“I can’t leave. Not without Brendan.”
“Nor will you,” Rogan agreed.
Just then, a streak of bristling, snarling fur and teeth broke from the trees. Tore across the road, needle fangs sinking into the villain’s ankle.
He roared, eyes wide and round, face twisted in rage.
“Killer!” Elisabeth shouted. “Stop it!”
But the little dog hung on, his jaw clamped viciously upon the man’s leg. Cursing, he drew his pistol.
“No!” Elisabeth leapt to grab his arm, but she was caught back by the harper.
Brendan took that moment to lurch forward, gather his lost blade, roll onto his feet, momentum carrying the knife up and into the man’s throat.
