The White Tree by Edward W. Robertson Read Free Book Online

made a rodent-like peep. He felt Blays' hand on his shoulder and then he was being pulled back into the street and his hands were shaking so hard he was sure he'd drop both knives.
    Blays lashed his sword from its sheath and raked it across the back of the trailing man. The others spun, points raised, and Dante cocked his arm and hurled the knife. It winked in the moonlight, then somehow hit and stuck in his target's shoulder. The man shouted and yanked it free, hurling it back at Dante, but he threw it like you'd throw a stone and its butt bounced from Dante's chest. The third man closed with Blays and they circled like crabs, trading exploratory strikes. Neither of the other men were exactly giants, but they were full-grown, and as Dante's opponent recovered and menaced him with his two-foot blade he saw how much each inch of reach meant in a fight. Dante pulled the dagger from his belt and waved it in front of him, wondering how it would feel when he lost his hand.
    The black mote was back in his eye. He batted at it with his left hand, narrowly avoiding putting out his eye with the point of his knife, and the man across from him laughed and swung. Dante ducked, hearing the sword whine over his head. Blays fell back under a harsh assault and bumped him in the shoulder. His man swung again and when Dante blocked it with the dagger a sting jolted up his arm so hard his eyes fogged over and he couldn't tell whether he still held his weapon. Blackness spread across Dante's eyes, rushing over his vision like ink poured on quiet waters, and he cried out, feeling no pain and not even having seen the man's killing stroke, but knowing he was dying.
    He heard cursing, then, which probably wasn't uncommon in hell, but also the oafish shuffles of men who've gone blind suddenly and without reason. Dante dropped to his knees and heard blades whiffing the air. Beneath him the earth felt solid as ever. Steel clanged into a stone wall. As he'd passed from the world of the living to this confusing netherland, Dante'd had the presence of mind to keep Blays' location fixed in the map of his head well enough to know the boots scraping a few feet in front of him weren't the boy's, and, touch returning to his shock-numbed fingers enough to know he still held his dagger, he struck out, blind but no more than everyone else, waving the short blade back and forth somewhere around knee level, stabbing out at every stutter of the man's steps.
    The first swipe missed, the second landed and glanced away, and the third dug deep into yielding flesh. He heard a shriek and screamed back as the man folded into a heap, clubbing Dante's outstretched arm with his falling body. Dante launched himself forward, arms held in front of his chest to prevent himself from being gutted if the guy had his weapon ready, but landed on the man's unguarded torso. He stabbed down with both hands, knives tearing through soft things and thudding into bone until the body's blood was sopping from his fingers and dripping down his face.
    Not six feet to his left Blays and the last man struggled and he heard the tentative squeal of their swords meeting. The man under Dante's knees was dead enough to stop worrying about. He stabbed him again, tasting bile, then flopped back on his ass. He'd lost track of who was Blays and who was the last enemy standing. Loose gravel grated under his trousers as he scooted back. His eyes grew damp, and then the darkness shimmered in a way he'd only seen light do. Two silhouettes faced each other, blades straining, and then they were whole under the moon and the stars and the torchlight trickling from the main streets. Dante planted a palm on the dirt and buried his dagger in the attacker's side. The man twisted away, flicking him across the chin with the very end of his sword. Blays leaned into his open body and swung sidelong. The sword cut into the softness of the man's side and clicked when it met his spine. The man bent his head, mouth wide. He