Between her assassin and the guards, the adventurers should have been easy prey. At least some of them should have died in jail, leaving only a few for the gnolls to finish off. It seemed, however, that nothing but error and folly had befallen her from the start. She was beginning to wonder if the tales of the staff really were true. It certainly seemed to have rattled Yauktul. He'd been useless since his return. He whimpered something about losing his finest troops to the enemy and, judging by the aim of those sniping from the roof, she was inclined to believe him.
All she wanted was the staff's value in gold. Its magic could be damned, as far as she cared. She made a mental note never to work with a wizard again.
Unwilling to peer over the parapet herself lest one of the victims recognized her, she looked over at the gnolls. Yauktul's tongue hung from the side of his snout. He even looked incompetent, Flint thought, nothing like the killer she'd sent out. At least he agreed with her on something. They had to be prepared for the unexpected once the jailbreak began, beyond just the crossbows. If he was useless in every other respect, at least the gnoll was good at agreeing.
"Hold your fire," Flint said, motioning across her neck with a hand. "Let's move into the street. You're accomplishing nothing from here."
The gnolls filed down a ladder into the building. Flint got to her knees and chanced a quick glance over the wall before joining them. She smiled as her foot hit the first rung and she disappeared into the hatch.
Flint had seen the four dark shapes moving down the street toward her targets.
19
"I've been hit," Malthooz announced in disbelief.
He groaned, feeling for the first time the full pain in his back just under his shoulder blade. The back of his tunic was stained red, a crimson patch growing slowly down his side as the blood leaked from the wound. The feathered end of a crossbow bolt stuck from his skin. The bolt was buried deep in his body, if the small tip still visible was an indication. His arm tingled and he felt himself losing sensation in his fingertips.
Malthooz had felt the impact when the bolt hit, like being punched in the shoulder, but he'd thought someone had bumped into him. It was only when he slammed his back against the hard wall and felt the shaft grind inside his shoulder that he realized the truth.
Krusk knelt down next to him and examined the wound. Malthooz howled as the barbarian probed with his finger inside the wound, feeling for the head of the missile.
"It's gone in deep, too deep to get it out here," he said.
The swarthy color was draining from Malthooz's face, and he slumped against the closed door. Krusk supported him as he slid down the wood, leaving a dark streak of blood down the rough surface.
"No, it's best to leave it," Lidda said, with an edge of fear in her voice. "It'll slow the bleeding."
"We have to find shelter quickly or we'll all be sprouting little sticks with feathers," Mialee said coldly, eyeing the street. "Maybe we can find an open building down by the wharves."
"With who knows how many gnolls firing on us the whole way?" Vadania asked, slamming the wall with her fist in frustration. "We'd be cut to shreds."
"What other choice do we have?" Lidda yelled at the druid.
"Hsst." Krusk ran a hand across his throat, pointing with the other at the black-clad figures approaching from across the street. "We're out of time. There're no choices left to make."
He let Malthooz down to the ground and propped him sitting up in the doorway. Malthooz sighed as his body came to rest on the cool stones. His eyes lost their focus and the fear on his face was replaced with a peaceful calm.
"Go," he said, "leave me here. You can't help me and I can't help you."
His head sank back against the wall and his hand slipped into the front of his shirt, where the wooden symbol of Pelor hung.
The men in the street were drawing closer, closing in across the square toward the companions. Krusk could make out four of them. Their every movement was graceful. Too skilled, Krusk thought, to be part of the city watch.
"The crossbows have stopped," Lidda said, peeking around the corner. "Too bad. Maybe they would have hit one of those killers by mistake." She moved into the street, drawing her sword.
Krusk rested his hand against Malthooz's brow. The half-orc stirred at the touch of skin. His eyes opened and he lifted his head from the wall. His lips moved as though he was about to speak, but he had nothing to say. He just smiled at Krusk and let his head fall back against the wall.
"I'll stay with him," Vadania said. She put her hand on Krusk's shoulder. "I'll do what I can. Lidda and Mialee need your help."
A grim determination settled over Krusk. His concern for Malthooz slipped away as he felt the reassurance of anger overtaking his mind. The rage that had simmered all afternoon boiled to the surface. He had been tricked, cheated, and imprisoned. His friend, a half-orc like himself, was dying before Krusk's eyes. Someone was going to pay. He raised the axe above his head and erupted into the street.
The four assassins fanned themselves out in the open street as Krusk flew past Lidda and bore down on them like a charging bull.
Each of the men wielded a different weapon. The tallest of them brandished a katana and a small, spiked shield. Behind him came another swinging a long, spiked chain that he held by two circular handles that were equally spaced from the fist-sized, spiked balls at either end of the chain. The spikes on the chain were matched by those the man wore strapped on his hands. The last two moved almost as though they were one. They were identical by all appearance, the similarity following through even to the long, curved daggers they held in each of their hands. The assassins stepped up to meet Krusk's charge as the barbarian thundered across the space between them.
Krusk's axe met the assassin's katana in a ringing of steel and a shower of sparks. Instantly the man crouched down, deflecting Krusk's weapon to the side then swinging his blade back at the barbarian as he rolled away. It was a defensive strike with little power, and Krusk simply let the blow land. He wasn't interested in defending himself, only in attacking. The katana struck his armor, sliced through the leather, and bit a shallow gash across the half-orc's ribs. Without pausing or flinching, Krusk spun to face the circling assassin.
The barbarian's heavy axe was no match for the swiftness of the man's sword, nor was Krusk half as agile. The barbarian moved in on the swordsman with his full bulk, ignoring the katana while he set up a smashing blow. The assassin held his weapon ready, backing away as the barbarian came on.
Krusk rushed in with his axe held high over his head. He knew he was leaving himself wide open to the man's attack, but he also knew that the pinprick of the sword would never stop him before his axe split the man's skull. The assassin thrust his blade as he dodged to the side, away from the sweeping axe. Krusk felt the weapon slice his thigh as he rushed past.
The cut felt like no more than a sting through Krusk's rage. He spun again and rushed back, much faster than the assassin expected. Again the man tried to dodge and slash, but Krusk had just seen that maneuver. With a slight twist, he let the katana bite into the heavy leather protecting his gut. The keen edge sliced into the armor just deep enough to draw blood, and there it lodged. Realization froze the assassin for only a split-second, but that was all Krusk wanted. His axe whistled downward, cleaving through the swordsman's right shoulder, ribs, and spine, stopping only when it struck the pelvis. The body peeled away in a butchered mess on the pavement. A quick snatch freed the shivering katana from Krusk's armor. With a sneer, the barbarian set the tip against the pavement and stomped on the blade, shattering it into slivers.