The Eschaton’s building itself was smooth stone, but not the one next to it. That was well worn and cracked with many handholds. Climbing up to the roof, he turned and leapt the gap, rolling to absorb the impact of his landing. It wasn’t that he feared injuring his legs; he knew they could endure the blow. He just didn’t want to alert anyone inside to his presence. There was no direct entrance from the roof, but the second floor had a window, and that would be enough for him. Hanging upside down, he looked through it.
The glass was surprisingly clean, and he guessed it was because of the woman who slept beneath the window, red-haired and buried under blankets. The priestess, he figured. The muscles in his legs flexing to keep himself steady, he brushed his fingers against the glass, testing whether or not the window opened. It didn’t.
He swung back onto the roof and debated. If he broke in through the front door, his surprise would be less, and he wouldn’t have immediate access to one of their members. He could try coming back later, but if they slept through the day, they’d probably be out with the other mercenaries come nightfall. Again, no good. It’d have to be now. He put his back to the ledge, then crouched down so he could clutch it with his hands. The window would be a tight fit, but if he stretched out enough, he could squeeze through.
His feet kicked, shifting him into a pivot. He smashed feet first through the window, showering the woman’s bed with glass. He let go of the ledge and held his arms high above his head. His momentum carried him through, and he landed on top of her, with him on his back. Before she could scream, he rolled over and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Shush now,” he said, ramming an open palm against the side of her head, knocking her out cold. Knowing time was short, he pushed off the bed and made for the door.
“Del?” he heard someone ask from the other side. His voice was nervous, but not yet worried. A broken window could be many things, most likely a stone, least likely a dangerous man built like a mountain. The door opened inward. Before it was a third of the way open, he rammed it closed with his knee, then grabbed it with one hand and flung it wide. A man was falling on the other side, his balance broken by the sudden hit from the door. It was Tarlak, based on his outfit.
Bill was right. What is that, piss-yellow?
Ghost rammed a meaty fist into his mouth, just to make sure no spells got out. He had no intention of showing up at Bill’s later as a toad. The punch split the wizard’s lip, and blood flecked across Ghost’s knuckles. Ghost followed it up with a punch to the stomach, doubling him over. He dropped him with both his fists together, bashing the back of his head. Tarlak crumpled, easily unconscious. Neither he nor the girl would be out long, maybe a few minutes, but Ghost felt it enough time. When they came to, they’d be bound, and the wizard most likely gagged.
There was one other room up top, its door open. Deciding it was Tarlak’s, he hurried to the stairs. If the other two were awake, they’d be rushing up them. Sure enough, he heard hollering, and a short man with muscular arms and a beard met him halfway.
“What the bloody-?”
Ghost snapped a fist into his face, cutting the sentence off short. A knee to his groin sent him rolling back down. Again Bill’s information rang true. The guy wasn’t much use, was he?
He followed Brug’s roll down the stairs, kicking him at the bottom to convince him to stay down. One left, the one called Stern. His eyes swept the lower floor. Two doors were in the back, plus an exit to outside. One was open, Brug’s he assumed. The other…
The door blasted open as he reached for its handle. He spun immediately in the direction of the door, using it as a shield. A flanged mace cut through the air where he’d been. Ghost bounced off the wall, drawing both his swords. He shoved the mace aside, then slashed blind behind the door. The other sword hit something hard, and then they were both in view of each other. The man, Stern no doubt, glared back at him, a mace in each hand. Their weapons pressed against each other, testing strength. Stern, while stronger than he looked, was still no contest.
This didn’t seem to surprise him, though, and when Ghost tried to push him back, Stern parried both swords to the side and tried to leap past. He wanted the open area, Ghost realized, hoping his speed might win out. Ghost couldn’t stop him, but he could make life more difficult. He kicked a foot as he rotated his body, taking out one of Stern’s knees. Stern didn’t even try to keep his balance, instead rolling forward, around an old wooden chair, and up to his feet before the door. He lifted his maces and grinned.
“Clearly skilled,” he said. “So what person with money did we piss off this time?”
“Don’t matter,” Ghost said. He feinted a charge, then kicked the chair at him. Stern blocked it with his heel, but it was enough of a stall. Double-slashing, Ghost gave him no choice but to block, and block he did. His arms jarred, though nothing broke like he’d hoped. Sometimes, if he swung just right, he could pop a collarbone or wreck the joints in an elbow.
Ghost looped his swords around for an attack from both sides. That left the only opening straight ahead, toward his chest. He wanted this Stern character to try it, to hold his own instead of bouncing about. Maddeningly, he didn’t take it. Stern dropped to one knee, blocking the lower slash from his left and letting the right sail over his head. Immediately after blocking he rolled to the side. Ghost chased, but each slash smashed only floor. Time was no longer on his side. The others would be up soon, groggy and heads full of fog, perhaps, but still up.
How much concentration did it take to turn someone into a toad, Ghost wondered.
Stern at last had nowhere to run. His back was to the wall. To his left were the stairs, and the right, the main door. His eyes flicked from both, deciding. Ghost gave him no time, rushing in while keeping his swords close. He would block a retreat with his own body, and let his blades do the work. Stern had no chance matching strength, and without retreat, dying would be his only option left.
It seemed Stern knew this as well. His eyes widened, and he appeared pressed to the very edge of his control by adrenaline and fear. The look of a cornered animal. Ghost knew Stern would not roll onto his back and hope for mercy. He’d lunge, mad, vicious. And that’s just what he did. Ghost feared those first few seconds as the maces came crashing in, slamming into his swords with shocking impact. He felt kicks strike his body, at one point an elbow, and still the maces looped and struck. But they were fighting Ghost’s fight now, close up and animalistic. He blocked a swipe from the side, then savagely struck its length with his other blade, knocking it from Stern’s hand. Stern’s other weapon came around, straight for his head. Instead of ducking, he stepped closer, chest to chest. The side of Stern’s arm hit his face, but that was far better than the sharp edges of the mace.
One sword slashed his arm, making him drop his weapon. The other thrust into his belly and twisted.
“Shit,” Stern grunted, clutching Ghost’s wrist with both hands. His whole body shook, and his face rapidly paled. Ghost pulled his weapon free, breaking Stern’s grip as if it were that of a child. The man slid along the wall, blood pouring across his hands and down his legs. He held the wound with his palms, slowing the bleeding.
“Should have surrendered,” Ghost said. “Though I respect your defense of your friends, this was all unnecessary.”
He left him there, stepped over Brug, and climbed the stairs. The short fighter was moaning still, conscious but only just. He was no threat. Ghost found the wizard first, glad to see him still out. Unwrapping the rope he’d looped about his waist, he cut a length of it and bound Tarlak’s hands. Thinking for a moment, he cut a smaller length, wedged a piece of the wizard’s own robe into his mouth, and then tied it into a gag. Hefting him onto his shoulder, he carried him back down the stairs and deposited him in a chair. Stern watched him with glazed eyes from where he lay.