Lady Of Regret (Book 2) by James A. West Read Free Book Online

spit-boy whirled, his screech spraying half-chewed flesh. Rathe ended him, a single cut splitting his skull to the hollow of his throat. Rathe kicked the jittering corpse off his blade, set his feet.
    Shock held but a moment, then all shifted into leaping, shrieking chaos.
    Loro lumbered past, sword swinging like an axe to take off a shadowkin’s raised hand. The reverse stroke cleaved the howling shadowkin from groin to sternum. The man dropped into his own splashing vitals. With a bearlike roar, Loro pivoted to deliver a flat chop into the chest of another twisted man, shredding meat and ribs, leaving him to bumble away clutching at the viscera slithering from the gaping wound. Loro swung round again, blade slicing down the side of a shadowkin’s face and into the joining of neck and shoulder, ripping through flesh and bone. The screaming man tumbled away. Where he had stood, an ear attached to a flap of cheek joined a spasming arm on the blood-slicked floor.
    Some few shadowkin continued to dare Loro and his murderous blade. The bulk of them sought Rathe, seeming to think he would make easier prey.
    He caught the greasy hair of one, sawed his sword through the man’s belly, shoved him howling away. Rathe spun, his sword a flash of silver-red death tearing through a face, a neck, bowels. More shadowkin darted close. Rathe stove in the skull of one with the pommel of his sword, then gouged the tip deep through the eye of another. Yet another he spitted to the hilt, crossguard slapping against his squalling foe’s belly.
    Powerful hands tugged at Rathe’s legs, cloak, and arms. He fought clear, once and again, face and neck running with the blood of enemies. His boots slid in the accumulating gore underfoot, and he went to one knee. Growling, he lunged up and pierced the skinny, naked cheeks of a bent-backed horror. Rathe saw only a monster that meant to devour him this night.
    The dirty creature slashed with its clawed fingers, trying to tug the steel thorn from its flesh. With its arse poked through, its legs buckled at the knees. Rathe brutally levered his sword free, giving the bent-one four cheeks.
    A handful of shadowkin landed on him at once, climbing him like blood-hungry squirrels. He slashed wildly with his sword, and lashed out with his fist. He felt mouths on him, then teeth, gnawing through the sleeves of his cloak, more at his belly, gnashing through his leather jerkin. Cloth ripped, skin ripped. Rough fingernails tore at his eyes and hair. More wrenched his sword away.
    Rathe rolled to his belly, curled into a ball to protect his neck and face, and reached for his dagger. He bit back a scream when a rude hand clutched greedily at his groin, as if at a handful of sweetmeats. Risking castration, he stabbed his dagger into the hand, and the ripping pressure eased. But only a moment. More hands followed, more claws, all seeking to tear him apart one bloody piece at a time.
    Loro roared somewhere beyond the frenzied mass piling on Rathe, and a great weight added to that of the writhing shadowkin, crushing Rathe against the tiles.
    Hot breath gusted into his face, a lapping tongue followed, swabbing his chin and lips, leaving a trail of stinking spit. Teeth snapped together where his nose had been an instant before. A hungry babbling voice filled one ear. The other was jammed against the floor, and in it his blood pounded like a kettle drum. More spittle dribbled over his cheek, into one bulging eye.
    Loro roared again, and the pile shifted, lessened just enough for Rathe to tuck his chin to his chest. Teeth flashed and nipped, and Rathe rammed his head sideways. The crunch of a breaking nose gave him joy. The ensuing patter of hot blood that washed over his face, into his mouth, and across his tongue stole that pleasure.
    Loro cut loose with another bellow, and the weight pressing Rathe down let up a bit more, enough so he could move. By inches, he dragged the dagger closer to his face, meaning to stick it into