Panic swam down on Nightfall. He tried to back-kick but found Makai’s legs too close to allow momentum. The worst he could do was bruise the bouncer’s shins. Twisting was gaining him nothing. Within moments, his arms had grown numb, and spots and squiggles scored his vision. Desperate, he swung his head. The back of his skull caught Makai squarely in the forehead, yet it was Nightfall who paid for the maneuver. A white flash like lightning blazed through his sight. Nausea racked him, and he felt his consciousness slipping, replaced by a constant, dull throb in his skull.
Makai’s voice sounded distant and graveled. “And now, you little shit, I’m going to break you like a twig."
A gust of air over wet flesh revived Nightfall enough to think. He felt Makai begin to settle his weight backward to snap Nightfall’s spine. In the instant Makai prepared, Nightfall hurled himself over backward, mentally trebling his weight as he did so.
Though he did not have far to fall, Nightfall came down hard, cushioned by Makai. Bone snapped, soft and sickening. Makai screamed. Twisting free, Nightfall lowered his weight to normal, pausing only to slam the dagger’s hilt into the bouncer’s throat before scrambling toward the back door. I ’m free.
Nightfall had scarcely reached the knob, when the memory of the breeze of an opening door returned. Since the back exit was still closed, it could only have come from the front. The oath-bond screamed a warning, its language pain. Hating the moments it cost him, Nightfall glanced over his shoulder.
The front door stood open. Gray evening back-lit Edward Nargol in the doorway, clutching a spade. Between them, Nightfall counted seven men, an assortment of bodyguards, thrill-seekers, and butchers. To the prince’s left, a man slunk off into the shadows, looking vaguely familiar, though Nightfall did not waste time searching memory for the man’s identity. He seemed to mean the prince no harm. But a strong-arm man at Edward’s back drew and cut for the prince’s neck. And Edward seemed wholly oblivious.
"No!” Nightfall whirled, hurling his dagger. The blade spun past Edward’s cheek and buried in the assassin’s throat. Clawing at his neck, the man behind Edward collapsed.
The expression on Edward’s features mixed horror with rage and betrayal. “Sudi-" he started. Then the thunk of the fallen corpse must have registered, and two men with swords sprang for Edward simultaneously.
Nightfall rushed to Edward’s aid, far too aware of the five men between them and with little hope that either he or the prince would come through this alive. Even as he took the first step, Edward’s spade cleaved air. It crashed against an attacker’s skull, dropping him instantly. Edward reversed the direction of his strike, using the longer pole to ward off his other opponent. Despite certain death, Nightfall could not help feeling impressed. I’ll be twice damned. He did find a use for the spade.
On the catwalk, the sound of bolts clicking into place jerked Nightfall’s attention from the fight. He glanced up. Above him, three men rested crossbows against the catwalk’s railing, every quarrel aimed for Edward.
The prince seemed to be holding his own against the swordsmen for now, so Nightfall turned his attention to the bowmen. Two running steps gained him the momentum to leap. He sprang for the catwalk, a sudden drop in weight sending him airborne. He caught the bars of the railing.
"What-?" one began.
Before the men on the catwalk could move, Nightfall used a thought to treble his mass again. A crack echoed through the confines. Nightfall’s support disappeared, as the railing pulled free. Then, the certainty of death surged through him, and he plummeted, willing down his weight as he fell. A prolonged scream told him that at least one of the crossbowmen had fallen with him.
Nightfall hit the floor feet first, then dropped into a roll. Even as he moved, the boards shuddered twice as other men landed nearby. But, where Nightfall had tumbled feet first, the others had flipped over the rail. The screams changed to pained moans. All three crossbows clattered to the ground, and the railing shattered, driving a fist-sized stake of wood into Nightfall’s thigh.
Nearly incapacitated by pain, Nightfall lurched to his feet. Ruthless and unceasing, the oath-bond stung like a hive of bees. Driven to action, Nightfall concentrated on the magic to help him bull through the agony in his leg. He looked toward the door, afraid of what he might see.
Edward had dropped the spade for his sword. He stood in the doorway, exchanging thrust and parry with a murderer and a gambler. Three corpses littered the barroom floor at his feet. The last crossbowman on the catwalk was staring down at the carnage, his eyes wide. Grittmon and Tadd the Mouth stood behind the bar. The informer seemed uncertain of his next action. Grittmon held a familiar brace of jeweled throwing knives.
Even as Nightfall recognized the danger, the first knife sailed toward him. He danced aside, and the steel struck the stone of the wall, raising sparks. One of Edward’s opponents stumbled backward, clutching his abdomen.
Grittmon slung another dagger. Nightfall sidestepped toward the battle in the doorway, the abruptness of the movement slashing pain through his injured thigh. The knife embedded in the floor where he had stood. Grittmon’s gaze whipped toward Prince Edward, and a slight smile played over his lips. He reached for the next knife.
He’s going for Ned! The oath-bond speared through Nightfall, nearly crippling him even from its own duty. The agony of his leg seemed insignificant compared with the need to place himself between the prince and Grittmon’s dagger. He wove between the flashing steel of exchanged sword blows. A blade opened his sleeve to the shoulder, though he did not stop to wonder whether the killer’s blade or Edward’s had made the cut.
"Sudian! Watch out!" Edward pulled a stroke that would have cleaved Nightfall in half, changing it to a high sweep that whipped over his squire’s head.
Grittmon pitched the blade for Edward. Still not quite in position, Nightfall dove for the flying steel. His fingers closed over the blade instead of the hilt, slamming it to the ground. Razor-honed, the edge caused no pain at first. Only the warm course of blood warned Nightfall he had damaged his hand.
Prince Edward’s sword hammered against his opponent’s head. The murderer sprawled as Grittmon heaved another dagger. The pain of Nightfall’s wounds merged into a red muddle of rage. As the knife sped toward him, he caught the hilt in his uninjured hand, instantly turning the attack back on its wielder in a razor rebound that would have staggered even Dyfrin. The blade embedded itself in Grittmon’s left chest, above the rib cage. Nightfall doubted the wound would prove fatal, but impact and shock stole consciousness from the proprietor. He fell backward, sweeping a row of tankards and bottles to the floor. Metal and glass clanged across the boards, spraying shards and splashing wine the color of blood.
Nightfall glanced at his hand. Blood obscured the palm, but tendons gaped through a gash across each finger. The sight brought the pain in a rush. Nausea exploded through him, and he dropped to his knees, half-blinded by pain and dizziness. Only one thought remained intact. We have to get out of here. Fast. He half-stumbled, half-crawled through the doorway. Tearing his mangled sleeve free, he wrapped it tightly around his hand to staunch the bleeding. "Master, to the horses. We have to go."
Edward paused to retrieve the spade before following Nightfall into the growing darkness. "Sudian, wait. There’re men dead in there. We have to talk to their families. The town guard…"
Nightfall staggered to his aching leg, more concerned with the men left alive in the tavern. It would not take long for Tadd to gather more criminals. Now that the immediate danger had passed, Nightfall’s mind had brought forward a buried problem. When Prince Edward had arrived, Nightfall had seen another man in the doorway, one he had dismissed for more urgent matters. Now, he dredged the description from memory. It was the man who helped me in the streets when I lost my balance, the one I think is a sorcerer. And he saw me use my talent against Makai. Dread colored the raw mixture of emotion already coursing through him. "Master, the horses. We have to run."