The first blow did not come from a sword. It came from an iron bar that caught a Valmont shield with a deafening clang. That sound was the final warning. The hesitation that had held the dock in a state of fake peace disappeared in an instant, replaced by the frantic shouting of men who knew they were cornered.
Jeric did not wait. He did not call for a parley. He stepped forward with a efficiency that was terrifying to behold. He caught the first lunging thug in the shoulder, a precise, disabling strike that sent the man spinning into the spilled grain.
"Form a wedge!" Jeric roared.
His twelve men moved as one. They were a wall of silver and steel, shields locked, pushing the disorganized workers back toward the ship's gangplank. Cassia was shoved backward by the sergeant's hand, relegated to the safety of a stone pillar.
She watched, her breath coming in shallow gasps, as the world she thought she could mediate turned into a slaughterhouse.
