Page 38 of ColdIron
The dynamic had been established before I ever set foot in here.
They didn’t trust me. Fine. I wasn’t the one who’d be slitting throats in the dark. That would be them, if I let my guard down.
Footsteps approached. Hostility pressed against my closed eyelids.
Young, untested soldiers ran on stupid, dangerous emotions. Like junkies chasing a high.
I should’ve asked Nikolai if they’d found my dagger and requested it back. The crude blade I’d forged in the mine, infused with iron, Stormglass, and Coldiron. It had been taken from me when they’d first brought me to the fortress. Without it, I was down to fists and feet.
“Fucking warlock.” “Enemy spy.” The words fired around me.
Should I defend my honor? Let the hate run its course? Maybe I should yell back that I was none of those things but worse—I had a demon in me.
Very funny, Max!The creature chuckled.
Well. I’d walked into that one.
At least it would watch my back while I slept, so I wouldn’t end up with a knife in my eye socket.
Incoming,the demon sang.
I shot upright just as a group of cadets marched right for me, their faces set with the righteous fury of men who’d convinced themselves they were doing the right thing.
One of them—two raised scars across his left cheek—carried a bucket. Dirty water sloshed inside it.
Shit.
I ducked as he heaved the contents at my face. They’d planned to drench me in my sleep. Hadn’t expected me awake, let alone fast. Still, cold water caught my left thigh, soaking through my pants. The rest hit my pillow with a wet slap.
“You don’t fucking belong here, warlock spy!”
Another stepped forward. Flat, blunt face. Small eyes set too close together. And he was thick through the shoulders and neck.
He had two stripes on his sleeve, stitched in steel blue. As a second-year cadet sergeant, he outranked every first-year in this barracks. No wonder he carried himself with the swagger of someone who’d claimed dominance here long before I arrived.
A dozen or so cadets flanked him, forming a half ring, glaring, backing me toward the wall.
They were all several inches shorter than me. I bet they hated that.
Despite my height, I was still bony. Underfed muscle stretched over a frame that hadn’t finished filling out. On the other hand, these cadets were trained. Months of drills had molded them closer to killers. And they had the numbers.
My heart slamming against my ribs, I dropped into a fighting stance, fists up, weight on the balls of my feet, ready to swing at whoever made the first move. Scenarios raced through my head. Cut off the head of the snake. Lunge at the ringleader and kick him in the groin. But even if I could disable him, which I doubted, the rest wouldn’t fall in line. They’d swarm me. With my Coldiron dagger, I might stand a chance. Yet I had nothing but a soaked pillow and my fists.
My jaw clenched. My eyes went hard. I could not let them pin me down. If they did, it was over.
“Take him down!” the ringleader bellowed. “Rid us of the filth!”
Two of them charged. My leg lashed out, a miner’s kick, nothing fancy, all power, and my bare foot connected with the first one’s face. Bone cracked.
Fast,the demon approved.And I expect no less.
“The fucking bastard broke my nose!” The cadet staggered back, blood streaming between his fingers.
“Get him on the ground!” someone shouted. “Don’t let the rat set his feet!”
“Hold his arms! He hits like a fucking mule!”
I swung my fist into the jaw of the second one. He’d tried to grab instead of strike first. Mistake. His head rocked sideways. Another crack.
