Teague's men looked like hungry wolves as they drew their blades, and half their eyes were fixed on Domenec's white beard.
Saltmourn had one law, as far as Mervyn had ever heard. No blood on the quays. Settle your quarrels at sea.
Teague's men didn't seem to care. Not when faced with one of the greatest prizes a pirate could hope to claim.
They came across the frozen square in a ragged rush, nine against nine, and Mervyn met the first of them with a roar that echoed off the walls. His cutlass took the man's blade high, forcing the man to put all of his strength into resisting Mervyn's press. Then, half a heartbeat later, his fighting knife went in low, and the pirate folded around it with a grunt.
Hot red blood spilled from the wound, soaking into the fur trim of Mervyn's sealskin gloves, and the lord of Stormwarden gave his knife a sharp twist, tearing through the pirate's innards as he wrenched his blade free.
Then the square was chaos.
