David Chandler - Den of thieves

They would encircle him and bind him in a forest of wooden poles, he realized. He could only fight a few of them at a time. No matter how good he was, he couldn’t hold off every guard in the castle. In time they would whittle him down, get him with near misses and grazing cuts. If he bled enough he would die, no matter how many men fell with him.

There was a part of him that thought it good. That dying like this, in Cythera’s name, was worthy. Had he been a younger man, he might have given in to that death wish, that dream of honor and glory.

But he was older now. He knew what was truly important. If he died here, Cythera would remain a slave forever. As easily as that the bloodlust fled from his veins.

He waited until a polearm came down just before him, its blade cutting deep into one of the soft shale flagstones. Then he put one boot down hard on the polished wooden haft. Swinging Ghostcutter behind him to deflect an attack, he jumped forward and got his other foot on the shoulder of the guardsman before him. The man grunted in pain as Croy levered himself up and over the circle of attackers, jumping free of their ring of death. He came down hard on the pile of broken stone and rolled, tucking his swords in so they wouldn’t fly loose from his hands.

Rolling to his feet, he looked around, breath heaving in and out of his lungs. He saw guardsmen everywhere-and more, watchmen streaming in through the gates to aid in the attack. Dozens of men, all of them armed, all wearing coats of mail beneath their tunics and cloaks. Croy had no armor at all.

Someone jabbed at him with the curved blade of a billhook. Croy deflected the blow easily with his shortsword with barely a glance. Guards were starting to scramble up the pile of stones to get at him, though. He needed to move.

Ahead of him, at the main gate leading down into Market Square, the guards were lowering the portcullis. The points were halfway to the ground already as they heaved at the winch. If he was going to live through this, he needed to get through there before it closed. Unfortunately there were half a dozen guards in the way.

Croy roared like a lion and charged forward, smacking one man in the face with the flat of Ghostcutter, knocking another off his feet by hitting him in the stomach with the shortsword’s pommel. A spear came straight at him, point first, and would have skewered him had he not danced to the side and into the path of another man. The fellow looked terrified as he realized that Croy was inside his reach, his long polearm now a liability instead of an advantage. Croy headbutted him and ducked under the arm of yet another attacker. The point of a halberd dug into his back, but he barely felt it.

The portcullis was right before him then, with no man in the way. It was only a foot and a half from the ground. Croy threw himself forward and rolled underneath, the iron points tearing at his clothes. On the far side he climbed to his feet and stared back through the open grate. More men than he could count were racing toward him, shouting for the gate guards to raise the portcullis again so they could get at him.

He laughed, though not harshly. Then he sheathed his swords and turned to go.

And promptly slipped and fell on his own blood.

He reached behind him and felt the wound on his back. It had felt like nothing-but then, in the heat of battle a man’s sense of pain was often skewed. Whether it was a mortal wound or not, he could not tell, but he could tell it was bad.

He had no time to stanch it, however. In a moment the gate would be reopened and all those men would be on his heels. He had to take what little advantage he had, and run while the going was good.

First, though, he had to stand up.

Croy sheathed his swords and got his hands underneath him. The muscles in his back quivered and a faint echo of pain cut through the numbness of battle. His body obeyed his commands, however, and he was able to get his feet beneath him. The oily blood on the cobblestones at his feet nearly made him slip again, but he slid forward and scraped the worst of it off his boots.

Behind him the portcullis groaned as it started to rise again. High above, atop the wall of Castle Hill, guards began to shout, raising the hue and cry. Theoretically that call would summon every able-bodied man into the streets, to help with apprehending Croy. He knew from past experience, however, that most citizens would simply shutter their windows and bar their doors. He had chased down his own share of criminals, in more civic-minded places than the Free City of Ness.

He bolted for Market Square just as archers appeared atop the wall. As he dodged between a row of produce stalls, an arrow flashed past his cheek and buried itself in a side of beef. Croy ducked low around the front of the butcher’s stall as more arrows peppered its tarred wooden roof.

Not even a trained swordsman like Croy could fight off a rain of arrows. Using the stalls as cover, he made a short line for the side of the square, where the custom house and a granary pressed close together. Between them a narrow alley ran down to Prosper Street, a broad avenue full of horses and carts. Squeezing out of the alley, he stared wildly down the street, hoping desperately it would be clear of watchmen. He saw none and dashed downhill. Men screamed and pressed up close to the shops on either side of the street when they saw his wound. It must be grisly indeed.

“Stop him!” someone shouted from behind Croy. He did not pause to look and see who it was. Just before him a cart full of boxes of fresh fish was headed down into the Golden Slope. Croy launched himself into the air and landed hard on his shoulder in a pile of smelts and sardines.

“Who-what…?” The driver of the cart stared at Croy with wide eyes and gaping mouth. As Croy pulled himself up on the side of the cart and tried to think of what to say to the man, the driver shouted in fear and jumped off his bench and into the street. He hit the cobblestones wrong and went rolling away, even as the horses pulled their cart ever onward, leaving him far behind.

“Blast,” Croy cursed. He got one leg onto the bench and tried to grab for the reins. The pair of horses must have smelled the blood on him, however, for they whinnied in fear and bolted downhill. He fell tumbling back into the fish, which were flying out the back of the cart and leaving a silver trail on the street behind.

The cart jumped and bounced-it had never been meant to travel at such speed. Croy found it barely possible to get to his feet and climb up onto the bench. The reins were dragging in the street, hanging down between the traces where he couldn’t reach them. The horses’ hooves were thundering on the cobbles, their iron shoes clanging so loud he could hardly hear himself think.

A boy-an apprentice in some trade, judging by his leather smock-barely jumped away in time before he was trampled. A wagon full of hay blocked half the road ahead, and Croy was certain he would smash against it, but the horses pulling the cart were not so made as to run headlong into that obstacle. They turned at the last possible moment, throwing the cart up on one wheel. Croy fell sideways as the seat under him shifted and nearly fell out of the cart, only holding on with one hand to its side, his feet bouncing and dragging on the cobblestones. He considered just letting go-he would hit the street hard and roll for a ways, but then at least he would be off the runaway vehicle.

But no-that he could not do. Without him on board, the cart would be totally out of control. The horses would run roughshod over anyone who stood in their way. He couldn’t live with the notion of someone being hurt because he had to get away from the castle in a hurry. Fighting the pain of his wound and the red haze that filmed his eyes, Croy dragged himself back up onto the cart as both wheels crashed back onto the pavement. Heaving and grunting, he pulled himself into the seat, and looked forward to see where he was headed.