Then she saw it, out of the corner of her eye. Motion, darkness. A blur. It all happened so quickly.
And then she felt it.
Gwen was tackled from behind, coarse hands grabbing her around the waist, driving her down to the ground.
She hit the stone hard, tumbling down the steps flight after flight.
The world spun, was a blur, as she banged and scraped her knees, her elbows, her forearms. She instinctively covered her head as she rolled, the way her instructors had taught her when she was a child, and shielded her head from the worst of it.
After several steps, she did not know how many, she rolled onto a plateau, on one of the corridors leading off the stairwell. She lay there curled up in a ball and breathed hard, trying to catch her breath, the wind knocked out of her.
There was no time to rest. She heard footsteps, coming down, fast, too fast, big heavy footsteps, and knew that her attacker, whoever he was, was right on her heels. She willed her body to get up, to regain her feet, and it took every ounce of energy that she had.
Somehow, she managed to get to her hands and knees, just as he came into view. It was Gareth’s dog, back again. This time he wore a single leather glove, it’s knuckles covered in metal spikes.
Gwen quickly reached down to her waist and pulled out the weapon that Godfrey had given her. She pulled back the wooden sheath, revealing the blade, and lunged for him. She was quick-quicker than she imagined she could be, and aimed the blade right for his heart.
But he was even quicker than she. He swatted her wrist, and the small blade went flying, landing on the stone floor and skidding across it.
Gwen turned and watched it fly, and felt all her hopes go flying with it. Now, she was defenseless.
Gareth’s dog wound up with his fist, with the metal knuckles, and swung right for her face. It all happened too fast for her to react. She saw the knuckles, the metal spikes, coming down right for her cheek-and she knew that in just a moment they would all puncture her face, and leave her horribly, permanently, scarred. Disfigured. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the life-changing pain that would follow.
Suddenly there came a noise, and to her surprise, her attacker’s blow stopped in mid-air, just inches from her cheek. It was a clanging noise, and she looked over to see a man standing beside her, a wide man, with a hunched, twisted back, holding up a short metal staff. It was inches from her face, and the staff blocked the blow of the man’s fist.
Steffen. He had saved her from the blow. But what was he doing here?
Steffen held his staff there with a trembling hand, holding back the attacker’s fist, preventing Gwen from being injured. He then leaned forward with his metal staff and jabbed the man hard, right in the face. The blow broke his nose and sent him plunging down to the cold stone floor, on his back.
Gareth’s dog lay there, defenseless, and Steffen stood over him, holding his staff, looking down at him.
Steffen turned for a moment and looked at Gwen, concern in his eyes.
“Are you okay, my lady?” he asked.
“Look out!” Gwen yelled.
Steffen turned back, but it was too late. He had taken his eyes off of Gareth’s dog a moment too long, and being the tricky assassin that he was, reached up and swept Steffen, kicking him behind the knee and sending him flying flat on his back.
The metal staff went clanging on the stone, rolling across the corridor, as the man jumped on top of Steffen and pinned him down. He reached over, grabbed Gwen’s blade off the floor, raised it high, and in one quick motion, brought it down for Steffen’s throat.
“Meet your maker, you deformed waste of creation,” the man snarled.
But as he brought his blade down, there came a horrible groan-and it was not from Steffen. It was from Gareth’s dog.
Gwen stood there, hands trembling, hardly believing what she had just done. She hadn’t even thought about it, she had just done it-and she looked down as if she were outside of herself. When the iron staff had landed on the floor, she had grabbed it and hit Gareth’s dog in the side of the head. She hit him so hard, right before he stabbed Steffen, that she sent him onto the floor, limp. It was a fatal blow, a perfect blow.
He lay there, blood pouring from his head, and his eyes were frozen. Dead.
Gwen looked down at the iron staff in her hands, so heavy, the iron cold, and suddenly dropped it. It hit the stone with a clang. She felt like crying. Steffen had saved her life. And she had saved his.
“My lady?” came a voice.
She looked up and saw Steffen standing there, beside her, looking at her with concern.
“It was my aim to save your life,” he said. “But you have saved mine. I owe you a great debt.”
He half bowed in acknowledgment.
“I owe you my life,” she said. “If it weren’t for you, I would be dead. What are you doing here?”
Steffen looked at the ground, then back up at her. This time, he did not avoid her gaze. This time he looked right at her. He was no longer shifting, no longer evasive. He seemed like a different person.
“I sought you out to apologize,” he said. “I was lying to you. And your brother. I came to tell you the truth. About your father. I was told you were up this way, and I came here looking for you. I stumbled across your encounter with this man. I’m fortunate that I did.”
Gwen looked at Steffen with a whole new sense of gratitude and admiration. She also felt a burning curiosity to know.
She was about to ask him, but this time Steffen needed no prodding.
“A blade did indeed fall down the chute that night,” he said. “A dagger. I found it, and took it for myself. I hid it. I don’t know why. But I thought it unusual. And valuable. It is not every day something like that falls down. It was thrown into the waste, so I saw no harm in keeping it for myself.”
He cleared his throat.
“But as fate would have it, my master beat me that night. He beat me every night, from the time I began working there, for thirty years. He was a cruel, horrific man. I accepted it every night. But that night, I’d had enough. Do you see these lashes on my back?”
He turned and lifted his shirt, and Gwen flinched at the sight: he was covered in lacerations.
Steffen turned back.
“I had reached my limit. And that dagger, it was in my hands. Without thinking, I took my revenge. I defended myself.”
He pleaded with her.
“My lady, I am not a murderer. You must believe me.”
Her heart went out to him.
“I do believe you,” she said, reaching out and clasping his hands.
He looked up, eyes welling with tears of gratitude.
“You do?” he asked, like a little boy.
She nodded back.
“I did not tell you,” he added, “because I feared you would have me imprisoned for the death of my master. But you have to understand, it was self-defense. And you promised once that if I told you I would not go to jail.”
“And I still do,” Gwen said, meaning it. “You shall not go to jail. But you must help me find the owner of that dagger. I need to put my father’s killer away.”
Steffen reached into his waist, and pulled out an object wrapped in a rag. He reached out and handed it to her, placing it in her palm.
Slowly, she pulled it back, revealing the weapon he had found. As Gwen felt the weight of it in her palm, her heart pounded. She felt a chill. She was holding her father’s murder weapon. She wanted to throw it away, get as far away from it as she could.
But at the same time, she was transfixed. She saw the stains on it, saw the hilt. She gingerly turned it over every which way.
“I see no markings on it, my lady,” Steffen said. “Nothing that would indicate its owner.”