There could be no disguising a sudden rush to the estate gate by a dozen black-clad assassins. As five figures appeared from an alley mouth directly opposite Scorch and Left, three others, perched on the rooftop of the civic building to the right of the alley, sent quarrels hissing towards the two lone guards. The remaining four, two to a side, sprinted in from the flanks.
The facing attack had made itself known a moment too soon, and both Scorch and Leff had begun moving by the time the quarrels arrived. This lack of coordi-nation could be viewed as inevitable given the scant training these assassins pos-sessed, since this group was, in fact, little more than a diversion, and thus comprised the least capable individuals among the attackers.
One quarrel glanced off Leff’s helm. Another was deflected by Scorch’s chain hauberk, although the blow, impacting his left shoulder blade, sent him stumbling.
The sky to the west lit up momentarily, and the cobbles shook as Leff reached his crossbow, managed a skidding turn and loosed the quarrel into the crowd of killers fast closing.
A bellow of pain and one figure tumbled, weapons skittering.
Scorch scrabbled for his own crossbow, but it looked to Leff as if he would not ready it in time, and so with a shout he drew his shortsword and leapt into the path of the five attackers.
Scorch surprised him, as a quarrel sped past to thud deep into a man’s chest, punching him hack and fouling up the assassin behind him. Left shifted direction and went in on that side, slashing with his sword at the tangled figure-a thick, heavyset woman-and feeling the edge bite flesh and then bone.
Shapes darted in on his left-but all at once Scorch was there.
Things got a bit hot then.
Torvald Nom was looking for a way down when the tiles beneath his boots trem-bled to the sounds of running feet. He spun round to find four figures charging to-wards him. Clearly, they had not been expecting to find anyone up here, since none carried crossbows. In the moment before they reached him, he saw in their hands knives, knotted clubs and braided saps.
The nearest one wobbled suddenly-a bolt was buried deep in his right temple-and then fell in a sprawl.
Torvald threw himself to one side and rolled-straight over the roof edge. Not quite what he had planned, and he desperately twisted as he fell, knowing that it wouldn’t help in the least.
He had tucked into his belt two Blue Moranth sharpers.
Torvald could only close his eyes as he pounded hard on to the pavestones. The impact threw him back upward on a rising wave of stunning pain, but the motion seemed strangely slow, and he opened his eyes-amazed that he still lived-only to find that the world had turned into swirling green and blue clouds, thick, wet.
No, not clouds. He was inside a bulging, sloshing sphere of water. Hanging suspended now, as it rolled, taking him with it, out into the courtyard.
From the rooftop, which he was able to look up at as the misshapen globe tum-bled him over and over, he saw an assassin pitch over the edge in a black spray of blood-and then he was looking at Madrun and Lazan Door, wielding two curved swords each, cutting through a mob that even now scattered in panic.
At that moment sorcery ignited the courtyard, rolling in a spitting, raging wave that swept up the main building’s front steps and collided with the door, shattering it and the lintel above. Clouds of dust tumbled out, and three vague shapes rushed in, disappearing inside the house. A fourth one skidded to a halt at the base of the cracked steps, spun round and raised gloved hands. More magic,; shrieking as it darted straight for the two unmasked Seguleh and those few assassins still standing. The impact sent bodies flying.
Torvald Nom, witnessing all this through murky water and discovering a sudden need to breathe, lost sight of everything as the globe heaved over one last time, even as he heard water draining, splashing down out to the sides, and watched the blurred pavestones beneath him draw closer.
All at once he found himself lying on the courtyard, drenched, gasping for air. He rolled over on to his back, saw a spark-lit, fiery black cloud tumble through the sky directly overhead-and that was curious, wasn’t it?
Detonations from within the estate. A sudden scream, cut bloodily short. He looked over to where Lazan Door and Madrun had been. Bodies crowded up against the inside wall, like a handful of black knuckles, and their bouncing, skid-ding journey was at an end, every knuckle settled and motinless,
Someone was approaching. Slow, steady steps, coming to a rest beside him.
blinking, Torvald Nom looked up. ‘Cousin! Listen! I’m sorry, all right? I never meant it, honest!’
‘What in Hood’s name are you going on about, Tor?’ Rallick Nom was wiping blood from his tjaluk knives. ‘I’d swear you were scared of me or something.’