clothes. Two hold cudgels and two have knives. The fifth man has a sword at his side.
“What do you want?” I say.
“The heart of that dog,” says the central man, pointing his blade at Halim.
He throws himself at the prince, and I don’t realize what has happened until he sinks to the ground, clutching his stomach. His knife rattles on the stone as blood gurgles through his clasped fingers. Halim’s blade is bloody and his eyes are wild. “Run!” he shouts, shoving me aside.
I stumble as the men advance. Halim backs off in a crouch, moving towards the steps of the church, his blade turned over so it lies against the inside of his wrist. I hardly think before snatching at the hilt of the sword in the attacker’s scabbard and drawing it out.
“Hey!” he shouts, spinning around.
I level the blade. “Get away from him!” I warn.
Though he looks gobsmacked, one of his companions—the leader who spoke before—merely grins and raises his club. “Don’t make me smash your skull, woman,” he says. The other men have paused, suddenly unsure.
“Don’t, Laura!” says Halim.
I watch the man with the cudgel moving around to my left, but I keep my sword trained on the fellow in front. “Unless you want me to run your friend through,” I say, “I’d lower your weapon.”
The club-wielder scoffs. “You overestimate my loyalty,” he says.
He lunges to strike, but suddenly stops and clutches his throat, where a gold hilt protrudes. His legs give way and he collapses. Halim’s arm is still extended from the throw and he snatches up his first victim’s fallen dagger.
“Three against two,” he says to the remaining men. “Do you fancy yourselves our match?”
The leader of the attackers has breathed his last at my feet. Blood runs in rivulets between the paving slabs.
The remaining thugs look at each other but the fight has left their eyes. They’re scared. One makes a sudden break, heading for an alley.
“The odds get better,” I say.
“Who ordered you here?” Halim asks. “Tell me and you can keep your paltry lives.”
The two men are silent, so Halim tosses the blade over in his hand, ready to throw again. I press the point of the sword firmly into the ribs of my man and he gasps in pain. “Tell us!” I say.
“I can’t!” says the man. “Please, don’t kill me. I have children.” He throws his cudgel to the ground and then his companion lets go of his own dagger. “We’re unarmed.”
Running footsteps sound from the alley, and four more men rush into view. Reinforcements. Halim’s eyes meet mine. No point fighting now. I nod and we run.
“Catch them!” comes a shout.
We dart around the side of the church and into a small alley that twists and forks. The pounding feet of our pursuers never seem far behind. I grab Halim’s arm and we switch back around a deserted sculptor’s yard. Half-finishedblocks of marble, faces emerging from stone, watch us impassively.
“There!” I hiss, and we run towards a pile of swollen wooden barrels, their metal rings red with rust. We duck behind them, kneeling in piles of dried leaves and cobwebs.
I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, my sides hurting from the constraints of my corset. We peer through spy holes from behind the barrels and wait. Halim pants beside me, his skin slick with sweat. The heat from his body seeps through my gown.
Shouts echo, but in the distance. No one else approaches the yard. Our breathing slows, and after a few long moments, Halim grunts.
“We’ve lost them,” I say.
He stands and pulls me to my feet, my joints stiff. I realize I’m still holding the sword, which he pries gently from my fingers. “No need for that, now,” he says, dropping it to the ground. I see his hand and wrist are covered in blood.
“You’re hurt,” I say, touching his arm lightly.
“It’s not mine.”
Neither of us says what we both must be thinking: We could easily be dead right now .
There’s a sound of
“What do you want?” I say.
“The heart of that dog,” says the central man, pointing his blade at Halim.
He throws himself at the prince, and I don’t realize what has happened until he sinks to the ground, clutching his stomach. His knife rattles on the stone as blood gurgles through his clasped fingers. Halim’s blade is bloody and his eyes are wild. “Run!” he shouts, shoving me aside.
I stumble as the men advance. Halim backs off in a crouch, moving towards the steps of the church, his blade turned over so it lies against the inside of his wrist. I hardly think before snatching at the hilt of the sword in the attacker’s scabbard and drawing it out.
“Hey!” he shouts, spinning around.
I level the blade. “Get away from him!” I warn.
Though he looks gobsmacked, one of his companions—the leader who spoke before—merely grins and raises his club. “Don’t make me smash your skull, woman,” he says. The other men have paused, suddenly unsure.
“Don’t, Laura!” says Halim.
I watch the man with the cudgel moving around to my left, but I keep my sword trained on the fellow in front. “Unless you want me to run your friend through,” I say, “I’d lower your weapon.”
The club-wielder scoffs. “You overestimate my loyalty,” he says.
He lunges to strike, but suddenly stops and clutches his throat, where a gold hilt protrudes. His legs give way and he collapses. Halim’s arm is still extended from the throw and he snatches up his first victim’s fallen dagger.
“Three against two,” he says to the remaining men. “Do you fancy yourselves our match?”
The leader of the attackers has breathed his last at my feet. Blood runs in rivulets between the paving slabs.
The remaining thugs look at each other but the fight has left their eyes. They’re scared. One makes a sudden break, heading for an alley.
“The odds get better,” I say.
“Who ordered you here?” Halim asks. “Tell me and you can keep your paltry lives.”
The two men are silent, so Halim tosses the blade over in his hand, ready to throw again. I press the point of the sword firmly into the ribs of my man and he gasps in pain. “Tell us!” I say.
“I can’t!” says the man. “Please, don’t kill me. I have children.” He throws his cudgel to the ground and then his companion lets go of his own dagger. “We’re unarmed.”
Running footsteps sound from the alley, and four more men rush into view. Reinforcements. Halim’s eyes meet mine. No point fighting now. I nod and we run.
“Catch them!” comes a shout.
We dart around the side of the church and into a small alley that twists and forks. The pounding feet of our pursuers never seem far behind. I grab Halim’s arm and we switch back around a deserted sculptor’s yard. Half-finishedblocks of marble, faces emerging from stone, watch us impassively.
“There!” I hiss, and we run towards a pile of swollen wooden barrels, their metal rings red with rust. We duck behind them, kneeling in piles of dried leaves and cobwebs.
I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, my sides hurting from the constraints of my corset. We peer through spy holes from behind the barrels and wait. Halim pants beside me, his skin slick with sweat. The heat from his body seeps through my gown.
Shouts echo, but in the distance. No one else approaches the yard. Our breathing slows, and after a few long moments, Halim grunts.
“We’ve lost them,” I say.
He stands and pulls me to my feet, my joints stiff. I realize I’m still holding the sword, which he pries gently from my fingers. “No need for that, now,” he says, dropping it to the ground. I see his hand and wrist are covered in blood.
“You’re hurt,” I say, touching his arm lightly.
“It’s not mine.”
Neither of us says what we both must be thinking: We could easily be dead right now .
There’s a sound of
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