A Place Called Armageddon by C. C. Humphreys Page A

bolts, but she couldn’t remove it to shoot; it was too hard on the weapon, all the energy that should have launched the projectile jarring to the stock and bow, while straining the braided rope that bound them together.
    As she turned back into the square, filling with the first of the townsfolk, she shrugged. She would have another chance to catch up with this German, if Allah willed it. If not …
    ‘ Inshallah ,’ she said. Pulling the crossbow over her shoulder, covering herself and it with her cape, she headed down one of the curving alleys towards her vessel.
    Gregoras had left his skiff in a cluster of similar fishing boats, indistinguishable each from the other. But he had told its Ragusan captain to hang a red lamp from his mast, and it was this that he spotted as he burst out of the water gates and onto the docks. ‘There,’ he yelled, shoving his companion towards it. Glancing back, he saw the pursuit emerge from the gateway, halt, spot them, start running again. They had barely a hundred and fifty paces of lead. He could only hope that the considerable purse he’d given the captain had bought obedience. His order had been to keep the sails furled on the mast, oars in the rowlocks and the vessel on a single tie, ready to cast off fast.
    They reached the boat. The captain rose from behind the gunwales. In a glance, Gregoras saw that he had not been obeyed. Three ropes held the vessel to the dock. The sail lay in folds upon the deck.
    Shouts came from behind them as he and Grant scrambled aboard, the small vessel tipping with their weight and velocity. Steadying, Gregoras bellowed, ‘Cast off!’
    The man shook his head. ‘Feel that?’ He tipped his head into the breeze. ‘You know what they say: “When the bura sails, you don’t.”’
    Instead of hot anger, Gregoras felt as cold as that wind. ‘ You don’t,’ he said, and bending at the knees, he placed his hand in the other man’s chest, stood straight and launched the captain over the side of his vessel into the water. Using his falchion, he slashed the three ropes in three sharp strokes. ‘Row!’ he yelled, then leaned over to the dock, giving it a huge shove. The boat moved away, as Grant gathered the oars and dropped them into their locks.
    The first two pirates had reached the jetty and were running down it, screaming. The rest were close behind. Reaching over his shoulder, Gregoras lifted his crossbow above his head with one hand, the other delving into the quiver at his hip. Thrusting the front end onto the deck, he shoved his foot into the stirrup, pulled the string to its notch, had the weapon raised as he dropped the bolt into its channel. There was no question of aiming, no time to do so. The closer of the pirates was three paces away when he pulled the trigger.
    The bolt sent the pirate flying back, his sword arm smashing into the other’s face. Both sprawled on the dock. Grant had got one oar in, was struggling with the other. Dropping his weapon, Gregoras grabbed the second oar, leaned out and pushed it against the jetty. A big shove, and some current began to take them. There was now a patch of water between them and their pursuers.
    An arrow smacked into the mast. Dropping the other oar into its lock, Gregoras shouted, ‘Row,’ and bent again for his bow.
    Stanko had seen his dreams of Turkish gold explode in his cellar. Then they were running away from him down an alley. Now they were on a boat, drifting forever and finally beyond his reach. Unless …
    Vaulting over his prone men, he leapt into the water.
    Gregoras turned at the huge splash in time to see the pirate chief surface and, in three strong strokes, propel himself to the boat’s side. When he grabbed it, his weight tipped it, and Gregoras thought they were going to capsize. Only by throwing himself backwards was that avoided. But now he could only watch helplessly as the man used the counterweight to haul himself up over the gunwales. Gregoras saw moonlight reflect