Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

The priest was a minor annoyance. He had his back to the window and panted so loudly, he invited a throat slitting. Royce pulled out his dagger and inched forward.

A heartbeat later Hadrian blundered in behind both. A moment after that, the priest turned-and screamed.

The priest’s scream was cut short by Royce, but while it lasted, the piercing wail had been loud.

“Drop the book and run for the rope!” Royce told Hadrian. “We’re done. You’re on your own.”

Royce passed him and was out the window before Hadrian could respond, not that he had much to say, beyond, “Okay.”

Hadrian did as instructed. He withdrew Hall’s Journal and set it on the bench beside where the priest had fallen into a pool of blood. Then he climbed back out the window. Royce was nowhere to be seen. He might have run left or right, he had no idea, nor did it seem important at that moment. Hadrian ran to the right, back the way he had come.

Royce was leaving him behind. Hadrian could never hope to catch up; the man was too fast, too agile. He would already be over the side, rappelling down the tower long before Hadrian reached the rope. With the wind roaring in his face, and while still struggling to catch his breath after the climb, Hadrian reduced his run to a trot.

The wind wasn’t the only thing shouting. Men were yelling, angry voices buffeted by the gale. Ahead or behind Hadrian couldn’t tell for sure. All he knew was that Royce was gone and he was left alone on the tower to face the aftermath of the thief’s handiwork. He thought of Pickles and gritted his teeth.

Silence, wind, silence, wind. Stone merlons interrupted the gale. Gaps of stars flashed on his left, solid stone to his right. Ahead he spotted the rope and the two harnesses.

Imagine twenty tower guards with sharp swords running at you, and twenty more with crossbows shooting, their bolts pinging off the stone around you. The thing is, you don’t just have to get down before they stab, hack, or shoot you. You have to get down before they realize all they have to do is cut the rope.

Hadrian slid to a stop at the edge and picked up his harness.

How long do I have? Seconds?

“Why did I even take the thing off?” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled the harness over his legs. Then he stopped. “Why two harnesses?”

Hadrian bent over the edge. The rope dangled, drifting lazily, abandoned in the breeze. No sign of the thief. As fast as Royce was, without a harness he couldn’t possibly be at the bottom unless he had fallen. Hadrian looked at the other harness, even as he pulled the leather straps over his own shoulders. In the distance the sound of shouts continued. He felt vibrations through the wooden walkway. Men were on the parapet.

The walkway was a big circle. The window they had entered was halfway around the tower from where they had climbed up. Running in either direction after climbing out the window would eventually lead back to the rope. Hadrian had gone to the right, returning the way he had come. Royce, he realized, had gone left.

Royce determined survival was still a possibility when there were just two. Three meant certain death, and now there were five. They were all tower guards at least, homegrown footmen-no seret. Still, their swords were just as long, which gave them a three-foot advantage. Trapped on the narrow parapet, he had little room to maneuver and nowhere to hide.

Royce glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Hadrian, but then there wouldn’t be. He went the other way. They each had an even chance, and Hadrian had proved luckier. He’d gone around the tower on the side without guards and was back at the rope whizzing down the lines. In less than five minutes, his ex-partner would be back on the street heading for the horses. In fifteen, he’d be trotting away. Hadrian had done to him essentially what he had planned to do to Hadrian. Only in the fighter’s case, it was accidental.

The guards advanced and Royce backed up.

There were other doors and windows along the parapet-none he would dare enter as he imagined the inside of the crown to be a hive of men eager to kill him. Royce had one chance. He could run back, circle the tower the way Hadrian had, and reach the rope. If he was fast enough, he could get over the lip and down a few feet before they cut the line. If he could get his hand-claws on and catch hold of the stone, he might be able to climb down. Still, they would probably have him. Men would be waiting at the bottom by the time he got down, but that was still his best option.

He lingered, curious as to why the footmen were hesitating. They inched forward a short step at a time with swords out, jabbing. No serious attempt was made to wound. They resembled a pack of old wives with brooms chasing Royce as if he were a squirrel on their roof. Men of this sort weren’t usually this timid-unless they already knew him. He was missing something.

Time was not on his side. He turned to make good his gamble, but before he took a step he saw two more guards exit the tower to the parapet. They had him front and back then, and more were struggling to join the party.

So that’s what you were waiting for.

None of the men jabbing their blades had said a word. No demands to drop his dagger, to give up, to surrender. It appeared the church had strict penalties for defiling the home of their holy leader. Royce’s options were limited to just two: death by sword or death by falling. He put his back to the wall to see which side would lunge first. The guy to his right with the short beard gave him a sneer.

Royce crouched, ready to move. His best bet would be to dodge under whatever stroke came. Make a rabbit-stab to the heart or lung, then just push forward. They were clustered. He might be able to knock a couple down, stab another one or two before-

Someone screamed.

The cry was behind him.

Royce didn’t have time to look as Mr. Beard took that opportunity to lunge. The attack was a jab. Royce avoided it, then rushed in tight. Leading with his shoulder, he ran into the man as hard as he could, thrusting Alverstone up and under his armpit. The initial resistance faded the moment the blade went in, and the man fell backward with a groan. The footman directly behind went down as well, knocked over by the collision. The third was quicker than Royce had hoped. He stabbed down. Royce rolled against the inside wall and the soldier’s blade pierced the second man’s thigh, wrenching out a high-pitched squeal. Royce scrambled up the piggish guard and got his dagger into the foot of the third man, still distracted by the shock of having wounded his comrade. The pain brought the man to his senses, and he swung at Royce, who again managed to roll clear. Limping, the tower guard retreated a step as his two remaining associates pulled him out of the way.

At any moment Royce expected a blade in his back. He hadn’t had time to look and couldn’t fight in both directions. The tiny army behind him had an open target and he wondered what was taking them so long to end this. Their tardiness almost annoyed him.

Then Royce heard the clank of steel and another cry. Finally taking the chance to look behind, he saw the bodies of at least four guards, blood-soaked and clogging the walkway. Amidst the slain, a stained sword in each hand, stood Hadrian.

Like everyone else still alive on the parapet, Royce stared in shock. Too many impossibilities bartered for his thoughts. The thief was paralyzed, unable to think because the world had just flipped. At first he refused to believe it was Hadrian. It had to be someone else. Perhaps it was Novron himself, who had overheard Royce’s thought about fickle gods and had arrived to exact punishment. The guards had just been in the way. Somehow this seemed more believable to Royce than what his eyes revealed.