Garin swallowed and nodded, not quite understanding, but knowing that the minutes were dragging them ever closer to the blue moon's arrival.
Releasing him, Tal turned to the balcony and leaned over. Then, with a swiftness that stole Garin's breath, he vaulted over the marble railing and disappeared.
Garin hurried to the bannister only to find Tal striding toward the fountain in the middle of the courtyard. He stared below him, disbelieving. The drop was at least twelve feet, enough to break a man's legs. How had Tal managed it unharmed?
Then he saw the gargoyle, mounted halfway down the column, and grinned. To most, it wouldn't look like a foothold. But, even though he wasn't in his prime anymore, Tal was light on his feet. He shook his head, wondering if he'd ever be half as daring as him.
From how his legs shook at imagining what was coming for them, he severely doubted it.
Tal drew his sword slowly. As an honored guest of the King, he'd been allowed the privilege of keeping it, though he'd not exercised the right on a daily basis. A fop might wear a sword to impress, but Tal needed no help appearing dangerous. A full goblet in hand and a drunken swagger had better served his purposes.
But now, as the blade flashed mirror-bright in the darkness, he whispered its name like a lover's to the moons: "Velori. You have dark work tonight if you're lucky, and I'm not."
The runes on the sword glowed a faint blue, brighter with each moment they remained under the gaze of the Sorrowful Lady.
Looking up, he took in the lay of the courtyard. Fountain in the center; stone benches in a square around it; doors on two sides, but likely watched by guards; the balconies rising above, twenty-five, thirty feet to either side of him. Not much room for fleeing.
Glancing up, he saw the Sorrowful Lady just inching into the square of the night sky above. When the ghouls first appeared, if they appeared at all, they wouldn't be at their most potent. Well and good for him — he was out of practice and stiff after weeks of self-imposed leisure.
Tal rolled his shoulders, shuffled his feet, and waited, mentally checking the items he and Falcon had secured for the event. The flask of "holy" water from the Solemn Shrine, infused with power through a full cycle under the yellow moon's light; a euphoric for humans and liquid fire for ghouls. The Seeker's silver-threaded cloak about his shoulders, woven by goblins and imbued with protective enchantments against the Night. The cursed mirror from the King's chamber. The silver knife for Garin.
Everything was as much in place as it could be.
"Tal Harrenfel, nervous about ghouls," he muttered to himself. "How the mighty have fallen."
He glanced up at the balcony and smiled reassuringly at Garin, but the lad had a wild-eyed look and was pointing urgently behind him.
Spinning, Tal saw he pointed at the fountain. He edged closer, Velori gripped in one hand, the handmirror coming to the other. He saw them now, the pale green glow of the Nightglyphs as they danced beneath the water's surface. As always occurred around magic, the blood in his veins grew hot, and sweat began to bead his brow.
He ignored his discomfort and held up the handmirror. The glyphs reflected on the glass, burning bright and clear and as legible as if written on paper.
"Seven rounds," he muttered as he read them. "Is that all?"
But his cursory reading swiftly came to an end. As the glow brightened to the point of being painful on his eyes, Tal secreted away the mirror, backed up, and raised his sword.
They burst from the fountain in a foaming spray.
Ghouls were among the ugliest of the Nightkin. Pale-skinned and vaguely human-shaped, with rotten flesh peeling from their bodies and releasing a foul perfume into the air around them, they possessed an inhuman strength and speed and needed no more weapons than their sharp teeth and long, yellowed nails. Their eyes were like pits of charcoal, and thin, black hair hung lankly from their scalp like seaweed.
His blood now boiling, Tal held his sword up by his shoulder, ready to swing. An axe would have served him better here — rather than relying on strategy, ghouls counted on numbers and fury to overwhelm their opponents. And with speed and strength on their side, the method often worked on the hapless adventurer.
Five of them emerged from the fountain, leaping like puppies taken off their chains. As they hit the stone, they shook off the water and took a moment to orient themselves. Each of those coal-dark eyes found him, their pale, wax-melted faces twisting with rage, and they charged him, galloping along the ground like demonic apes.
Tal swung and spun out of the way as the first leaped at him. A shock ran up his arms as the sword cut through the flesh and splintered the bone beneath, and the ghoul fell away in two large parts, its screech fading to a wet gurgle.
The second and third leaped together, tangling midair, and Tal dodged the one and hacked at the legs of the other as they slid past.
The last two approached from different angles, but with the same reckless abandon. Kicking into a forward roll, he heard them collide behind him; then he sprang up, twisted backward, and cut with an upward swing. One head, its mouth spitting with rage, went spinning to splat against the ground, while the other scrabbled with the body like it was still fighting with it.
But even as those remaining from the first round of ghouls regrouped, a fresh round of five emerged. Tal gritted his teeth and backed away, the balcony's shadow falling over him.
The seven remaining ghouls raced toward him, each seeking to be the first to tear out his throat. As they leaped forward, Tal twisted and cut and dodged, and ghoul limbs and bodies went flying around him.
But even for mindless opponents, they were too many. As the last three charged as one, he managed to cut down two of them in a single, shoulder-numbing stroke. But the third jumped onto his back, nails scratching at the cloak for a moment before it released him with a screech. Tal smiled and wasted no time in spinning and cutting off the ghoul's head. The Seeker's cloak had done its work.
Even as he dispatched the second round, a third emerged from the fountain. Tal raised his sword with aching arms, breath hissing in his throat.
As the third wave rushed at him, he knew he wouldn't be allowed a reprieve any time soon.
Garin watched, barely able to breathe, as the man he'd once believed a chicken herder cut down the pale monsters like weeds in a fallow field.
Over forty autumns he might have, but Tal moved more lithely and gracefully than Garin could ever dream of doing. Weaving in and out of the ghouls' reach, he severed heads, limbs, and even torsos as the ghouls threw themselves at him again and again. He was every bit the legend the songs made him out to be.
But even so, Garin wasn't sure it'd be enough.
Twenty ghouls had spawned from the fountain so far, but just as Garin was hoping there'd be no more, another five sprang from the water. Tal finished the last of the monsters from the previous round, then uncorked a flask and held it in one hand, waiting for the oncoming charge, swaying where he stood. Even Tal Harrenfel couldn't last much longer.
Garin clenched his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. He couldn't just watch Tal be torn apart. He had to do something. But what? All he had was a silver knife and barely over a month of combat training. He doubted he could even kill one.
Then an idea sprang to mind that sent shivers running through his body.