lying on the rooftop of the building behind the inn. He was about to tell Jazhara what he had seen when he heard a muffled cry.
A large man had grabbed her from behind, clamping a meaty hand over her mouth and dragging her out of the room.
‘Jazhara!’ William spun to aid the magician. As he turned the corner into the hall, a heavily gauntleted glove slammed into his cheek, nearly cracking it, causing him to bounce off the splintered door jamb back into the room. He staggered, tripping over a fallen chair, as his attacker came into the room, a lethal-looking dirk at the ready.
William grabbed the side of the broken window to halt his backwards progress then stabbed out with his sword. He had no hope of impaling the man, but it did cause his attacker to back away.
William righted himself and crouched. He was a soldier, and while brawling was occasionally an off-duty pastime, he was conditioned to the discipline of being part of a unit of men. His opponent, on the other hand, was much more versed in one-on-one combat, as a thug, brawler, assassin, or whatever he was. The man measured the distance separating them, feinted to his left, then charged.
William tried to recover and stepped back a half-step, avoiding the bull rush and dirk point, but the assassin drove his shoulder into William’s stomach, carrying them both to the window and then through it, with William’s left arm wrapped around his attacker’s neck. Wood splinters flew as the two heavy bodies smashed through the already-broken window, and William hung on for dear life. In such circumstances his sword was useless; but the other man’s dagger was an impaling weapon designed for in-close fighting. One thrust and William would be dead or mortally wounded.
With a grunt of exertion, William attempted to keep his opponent off-balance as they flew through the air before crashing into the roof tiles of the building behind the inn. A terrible cracking sound rang through the night as they slammed into the roof hard enough to crash through both the tiles and the wooden sheeting beneath.
William felt shock go through his entire body from the impact and fought to stay conscious. Beneath him, the assassin went limp. A broken neck hadn’t been William’s intent, but this wasn’t a fencing match with rules: this was life and death.
William found himself partially held in place by the splintered wood below the tiles. He moved gingerly, trying to find a way to get out without causing more damage to his back and buttocks, even though he was frantic about what was happening to Jazhara. And at any moment another assailant might be coming though that window.
He forced himself up and out of the depression, ignoring the howls of fear and outrage coming from the inhabitants of the room below.
He rolled over and got to his knees, catching his breath as he examined the dead man. The assassin was not a Nighthawk, for he did not wear the traditional garb, nor carry the pendant. He did, though, have a small coin purse in which William found twenty golden Keshian imperials, about the value of fifty Kingdom sovereigns, a handsome sum for a street tough. William thought it was probably the price of tonight’s attack.
Whoever had orchestrated this abduction didn’t want Jazhara dead, or they wouldn’t have hauled her away, but rather would have dispatched her on the spot. The man who had grabbed her from behind could, just as easily and rather more safely, have cut her throat.
William rose, looking down on the burly man with the bent neck. And whoever hired this motherless dog didn’t care if he killed William or was killed by William. His sole duty was to distract him long enough for Jazhara to be carried off.
William caught his breath, picked up his sword and looked around. The shouting from the room below had ceased after he had stopped moving on the rooftop. He saw the box under the window James had placed there to facilitate entry and made it from one roof to the next.
A large man had grabbed her from behind, clamping a meaty hand over her mouth and dragging her out of the room.
‘Jazhara!’ William spun to aid the magician. As he turned the corner into the hall, a heavily gauntleted glove slammed into his cheek, nearly cracking it, causing him to bounce off the splintered door jamb back into the room. He staggered, tripping over a fallen chair, as his attacker came into the room, a lethal-looking dirk at the ready.
William grabbed the side of the broken window to halt his backwards progress then stabbed out with his sword. He had no hope of impaling the man, but it did cause his attacker to back away.
William righted himself and crouched. He was a soldier, and while brawling was occasionally an off-duty pastime, he was conditioned to the discipline of being part of a unit of men. His opponent, on the other hand, was much more versed in one-on-one combat, as a thug, brawler, assassin, or whatever he was. The man measured the distance separating them, feinted to his left, then charged.
William tried to recover and stepped back a half-step, avoiding the bull rush and dirk point, but the assassin drove his shoulder into William’s stomach, carrying them both to the window and then through it, with William’s left arm wrapped around his attacker’s neck. Wood splinters flew as the two heavy bodies smashed through the already-broken window, and William hung on for dear life. In such circumstances his sword was useless; but the other man’s dagger was an impaling weapon designed for in-close fighting. One thrust and William would be dead or mortally wounded.
With a grunt of exertion, William attempted to keep his opponent off-balance as they flew through the air before crashing into the roof tiles of the building behind the inn. A terrible cracking sound rang through the night as they slammed into the roof hard enough to crash through both the tiles and the wooden sheeting beneath.
William felt shock go through his entire body from the impact and fought to stay conscious. Beneath him, the assassin went limp. A broken neck hadn’t been William’s intent, but this wasn’t a fencing match with rules: this was life and death.
William found himself partially held in place by the splintered wood below the tiles. He moved gingerly, trying to find a way to get out without causing more damage to his back and buttocks, even though he was frantic about what was happening to Jazhara. And at any moment another assailant might be coming though that window.
He forced himself up and out of the depression, ignoring the howls of fear and outrage coming from the inhabitants of the room below.
He rolled over and got to his knees, catching his breath as he examined the dead man. The assassin was not a Nighthawk, for he did not wear the traditional garb, nor carry the pendant. He did, though, have a small coin purse in which William found twenty golden Keshian imperials, about the value of fifty Kingdom sovereigns, a handsome sum for a street tough. William thought it was probably the price of tonight’s attack.
Whoever had orchestrated this abduction didn’t want Jazhara dead, or they wouldn’t have hauled her away, but rather would have dispatched her on the spot. The man who had grabbed her from behind could, just as easily and rather more safely, have cut her throat.
William rose, looking down on the burly man with the bent neck. And whoever hired this motherless dog didn’t care if he killed William or was killed by William. His sole duty was to distract him long enough for Jazhara to be carried off.
William caught his breath, picked up his sword and looked around. The shouting from the room below had ceased after he had stopped moving on the rooftop. He saw the box under the window James had placed there to facilitate entry and made it from one roof to the next.
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