in her mouth. Unslinging her hunting bow from her back, she put her foot in the stirrup, bent, breathed deep and with three fingers smoothly drew the string up till it notched. She took the bolt, moistened her lips, drew the feathers over the wetness, evening the flights, then lifted the crossbow and laid the bolt in its groove. A near-full moon gave her light enough to see. And since the bura was blowing on the other side of the island, wind did not affect the straight street. The men’s jerking movements did, the way they blended together and suddenly flew apart. She had to be careful. She did not wish to shoot her man of destiny.
She saw the German fall again, heard the pirates whoop as they ran faster, closer. She believed that Gregoras would survive, because she had seen him in that dream, in her charts. The other, the engineer that Mehmet feared would thwart his conquest, she had no mystical thoughts about. She only knew that to aid that conquest, and all that it would bring her, he must die.
It was in Allah’s hands, as ever. As the men below merged into a mass, then separated out again, she breathed out on one word – ‘ Inshallah ’ – and shot.
Gregoras snatched at the German or Englishman or whatever the hell he was, who was falling again, with two of their pursuers less than twenty paces off. Another group of five, including the shouting Stanko, were the same distance behind.
Thinking briefly that he’d had better odds in that other alley in Ragusa, cross-handed he drew his dagger and falchion – the short, heavy-bladed weapon ideal, for the ulica was narrow. The two pirates skittered, slowing, curved swords appearing from beneath folds of cloak. He braced himself, wondering which of them he should take first.
A hand closed over his dagger hand. ‘Gie me one of them,’ John Grant cried. ‘I’ll show ’em, murderin’ bastards.’ As he fumbled for Gregoras’s dagger, he raised his leather satchel high like a shield and cried, ‘Craigelachie.’
‘Let me go.’ Gregoras wrenched free of the other man’s grip, and turned – too late to do more than lift his blade against the one that fell. Steel clashed on steel with a force that sent pain shooting through his arm. The second man arrived a second after the first, his sword about to fall too. Gregoras threw up his dagger blade square across his head, though he was sure the scimitar would snap it.
The curved blade never fell. Something opened in the assailant’s throat like a second mouth, spewing forth steel. A crossbow bolt, barely hindered by neck gristle, slammed into Grant’s still-raised satchel, knocking him over.
The other man stepped back, giving himself room to swing. Closing, Gregoras punched him with the falchion’s curved finger guard, straight and hard on the nose. The man went down, wrapped in his dying companion. Beyond them, the other pirates had caught up. Yet their eagerness had increased their speed. Trying to stop before their fallen, writhing comrades, the first two lost their feet, slammed onto the ground, slid into what became a mound of bodies. Those behind them, Stanko leading, fared no better.
A flesh wall blocked the alley. It was a chance. ‘Go,’ Gregoras yelled, lifting and turning the stunned Scot, pushing him from stumble to run.
Leilah had just raised the crossbow, loaded again and brought it to sight, when the two figures disappeared round the corner. She lowered the weapon, watched the pile of pirates finally separate, rise, run, leaving the man she’d killed by mistake on the cobbles. She considered pursuing, taking another shot. But Korcula’s citizens were stirring, roused by the mayhem. Doors were opening, voices screaming for the night watch. She would find it hard to explain her armed self, once they discovered she was a she. It was time to vanish.
As the yelling pirates rounded the corner, Leilah aimed into the sky, pulled the trigger. It was a waste of one of her beautifully fashioned
She saw the German fall again, heard the pirates whoop as they ran faster, closer. She believed that Gregoras would survive, because she had seen him in that dream, in her charts. The other, the engineer that Mehmet feared would thwart his conquest, she had no mystical thoughts about. She only knew that to aid that conquest, and all that it would bring her, he must die.
It was in Allah’s hands, as ever. As the men below merged into a mass, then separated out again, she breathed out on one word – ‘ Inshallah ’ – and shot.
Gregoras snatched at the German or Englishman or whatever the hell he was, who was falling again, with two of their pursuers less than twenty paces off. Another group of five, including the shouting Stanko, were the same distance behind.
Thinking briefly that he’d had better odds in that other alley in Ragusa, cross-handed he drew his dagger and falchion – the short, heavy-bladed weapon ideal, for the ulica was narrow. The two pirates skittered, slowing, curved swords appearing from beneath folds of cloak. He braced himself, wondering which of them he should take first.
A hand closed over his dagger hand. ‘Gie me one of them,’ John Grant cried. ‘I’ll show ’em, murderin’ bastards.’ As he fumbled for Gregoras’s dagger, he raised his leather satchel high like a shield and cried, ‘Craigelachie.’
‘Let me go.’ Gregoras wrenched free of the other man’s grip, and turned – too late to do more than lift his blade against the one that fell. Steel clashed on steel with a force that sent pain shooting through his arm. The second man arrived a second after the first, his sword about to fall too. Gregoras threw up his dagger blade square across his head, though he was sure the scimitar would snap it.
The curved blade never fell. Something opened in the assailant’s throat like a second mouth, spewing forth steel. A crossbow bolt, barely hindered by neck gristle, slammed into Grant’s still-raised satchel, knocking him over.
The other man stepped back, giving himself room to swing. Closing, Gregoras punched him with the falchion’s curved finger guard, straight and hard on the nose. The man went down, wrapped in his dying companion. Beyond them, the other pirates had caught up. Yet their eagerness had increased their speed. Trying to stop before their fallen, writhing comrades, the first two lost their feet, slammed onto the ground, slid into what became a mound of bodies. Those behind them, Stanko leading, fared no better.
A flesh wall blocked the alley. It was a chance. ‘Go,’ Gregoras yelled, lifting and turning the stunned Scot, pushing him from stumble to run.
Leilah had just raised the crossbow, loaded again and brought it to sight, when the two figures disappeared round the corner. She lowered the weapon, watched the pile of pirates finally separate, rise, run, leaving the man she’d killed by mistake on the cobbles. She considered pursuing, taking another shot. But Korcula’s citizens were stirring, roused by the mayhem. Doors were opening, voices screaming for the night watch. She would find it hard to explain her armed self, once they discovered she was a she. It was time to vanish.
As the yelling pirates rounded the corner, Leilah aimed into the sky, pulled the trigger. It was a waste of one of her beautifully fashioned
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