attacked.
Just before reaching the bottom of the barrier, Kron twirled the grappling hook on its rope and slung it for the top of the wall between two low towers. The rope caught on a merlon, twirled around it and the hook latched into stone. Kron didn’t stop running. He pulled the cord taught and walked up the outside of the battlements. He was thankful the sun was still an hour or two away and the soldiers below and above were busy.
At the top of the wall, Kron lifted his legs and pulled himself between two merlons to land on a wooden walkway. The nearest soldiers were a group of three a dozen yards away; their attention was focused on the scramblings of their brethren below.
Kron reeled in his rope and grapnel and returned them to his waist.
That was when the three noticed him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Kron flung a dagger, the short blade sinking into a man’s throat and dropping him.
The other two drew swords. Kron drew his. The three met in the center of the walkway. Blood flowed and two men died. Kron walked away, returning his bloody sword to its scabbard while yanking his bow and an arrow from the quiver on his back.
His first arrow caught a soldier standing guard at the front gate below. The shaft hit him in his left shoulder, causing him to scream out. Scores of men looked up in surprise.
“Kill him!”
“Archers, he’s on the wall!”
“Pikers, hold your ground!”
Kron loosed another bolt, catching a Kobalan in the forehead.
Then the enemy returned the attack. A half dozen crossbow arrows arced through the air. The man in black could not block the missiles, so he avoided them altogether. He dropped off the edge of the walkway, falling a dozen feet to dirt below, arrows slicing air over his head. He rolled when he hit, and came up with an arrow of his own nocked to his bow.
A dozen men with long pikes charged.
Kron loosed the arrow, the shaft catching a soldier in the stomach.
Then it was time to run. Kron could not stand against a line of heavy pikers. He dashed behind a small, nearby building, a smithy from the smells of burning and metal, and found himself in a cul de sac ending with stacks of wooden crates and barrels.
Knowing he had little time to act, Kron jumped onto the nearest box and rushed up the rest as easy as if he were taking stairs.
Shouts from behind told him his foes were close.
At the top of the pile of crates, Kron saw it was a short jump to the roof of the building. He could see other rooftops beyond, many with narrow alleys between, stretching across the city.
The jump was his only chance. Kron glanced back, saw the pikers were already climbing after him, then he leapt.
Halfway to the roof fear stirred as Kron realized the distance had been further than he had thought. An arrow sailed in front of him as he flew through the air, only luck saving him from the shot. He landed with a grunt and rolled again, turning as he tumbled to come up on one knee with an arrow aimed in the direction he had come.
He waited.
Several seconds later the moonlight revealed the helmeted head of a Kobalan at the top of the crates. Kron put an arrow into one of the helmet’s eye holes.
The Kobalan fell with a scream.
Kron spun and moved on. Movement was the key to staying alive. He would fall eventually, he knew, but until then he would kill as many as he could for what they had done to Adara.
He trotted across the roof. An alleyway brought him up short, but not for long.
Kron jogged back from the ledge, then ran forward with his legs pumping. He took to the air again, his body sailing above the gap to land hard on the next rooftop. Again he rolled as his feet touched, and again he came up with an arrow notched.
Behind him, the pikers had reached the last rooftop. They were stumbling around, apparently surprised at not catching their prey.
Kron launched an arrow into their midst to let them know he wasn’t finished.
Then the man in black turned and ran some more. Soon there was
Just before reaching the bottom of the barrier, Kron twirled the grappling hook on its rope and slung it for the top of the wall between two low towers. The rope caught on a merlon, twirled around it and the hook latched into stone. Kron didn’t stop running. He pulled the cord taught and walked up the outside of the battlements. He was thankful the sun was still an hour or two away and the soldiers below and above were busy.
At the top of the wall, Kron lifted his legs and pulled himself between two merlons to land on a wooden walkway. The nearest soldiers were a group of three a dozen yards away; their attention was focused on the scramblings of their brethren below.
Kron reeled in his rope and grapnel and returned them to his waist.
That was when the three noticed him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Kron flung a dagger, the short blade sinking into a man’s throat and dropping him.
The other two drew swords. Kron drew his. The three met in the center of the walkway. Blood flowed and two men died. Kron walked away, returning his bloody sword to its scabbard while yanking his bow and an arrow from the quiver on his back.
His first arrow caught a soldier standing guard at the front gate below. The shaft hit him in his left shoulder, causing him to scream out. Scores of men looked up in surprise.
“Kill him!”
“Archers, he’s on the wall!”
“Pikers, hold your ground!”
Kron loosed another bolt, catching a Kobalan in the forehead.
Then the enemy returned the attack. A half dozen crossbow arrows arced through the air. The man in black could not block the missiles, so he avoided them altogether. He dropped off the edge of the walkway, falling a dozen feet to dirt below, arrows slicing air over his head. He rolled when he hit, and came up with an arrow of his own nocked to his bow.
A dozen men with long pikes charged.
Kron loosed the arrow, the shaft catching a soldier in the stomach.
Then it was time to run. Kron could not stand against a line of heavy pikers. He dashed behind a small, nearby building, a smithy from the smells of burning and metal, and found himself in a cul de sac ending with stacks of wooden crates and barrels.
Knowing he had little time to act, Kron jumped onto the nearest box and rushed up the rest as easy as if he were taking stairs.
Shouts from behind told him his foes were close.
At the top of the pile of crates, Kron saw it was a short jump to the roof of the building. He could see other rooftops beyond, many with narrow alleys between, stretching across the city.
The jump was his only chance. Kron glanced back, saw the pikers were already climbing after him, then he leapt.
Halfway to the roof fear stirred as Kron realized the distance had been further than he had thought. An arrow sailed in front of him as he flew through the air, only luck saving him from the shot. He landed with a grunt and rolled again, turning as he tumbled to come up on one knee with an arrow aimed in the direction he had come.
He waited.
Several seconds later the moonlight revealed the helmeted head of a Kobalan at the top of the crates. Kron put an arrow into one of the helmet’s eye holes.
The Kobalan fell with a scream.
Kron spun and moved on. Movement was the key to staying alive. He would fall eventually, he knew, but until then he would kill as many as he could for what they had done to Adara.
He trotted across the roof. An alleyway brought him up short, but not for long.
Kron jogged back from the ledge, then ran forward with his legs pumping. He took to the air again, his body sailing above the gap to land hard on the next rooftop. Again he rolled as his feet touched, and again he came up with an arrow notched.
Behind him, the pikers had reached the last rooftop. They were stumbling around, apparently surprised at not catching their prey.
Kron launched an arrow into their midst to let them know he wasn’t finished.
Then the man in black turned and ran some more. Soon there was
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