The toothless heavy saw him coming and squared himself. Then he cawed out a laugh, and whooped. “Look here, lads! We’ve got one who thinks he ca—”
But he never finished his sentence. Because then Gregor used Whip.
Gregor had made sure that when he’d had Whip commissioned, all of its sigils were carefully concealed, so no one who looked at it would know it was altered in any way. With the sole exception of the straps for buckling it to your wrist, it mostly looked like an ordinary truncheon — with a shaft of about three and a half feet, and a ridged, four-pound steel head at the end — but in truth, it was much more than that.
For when Gregor pressed a button on Whip and snapped it forward, the four-pound head would detach and fly forward, connected to the shaft of the truncheon by a thin but strong metal cable. The truncheon’s head had been scrived to believe that, when it was detached from the shaft, it was actually falling straight down toward the earth, and so was simply obeying gravity — unaware that it was actually flying in whatever direction Gregor had tossed it. It would smash into anything in its path before Gregor clicked a small lever on the side of Whip’s handle, at which point Whip’s head would remember how gravity actually worked, the cable would start rapidly retracting, and the head would come zipping back to the shaft with tremendous speed.
This is what Gregor did as he approached the taverna. He was so familiar with Whip that he almost didn’t have to think while he was doing it: he just made the motion, and then the toothless heavy was lying on the ground, screaming through a bloody, ravaged mouth.
He hit the lever, and the straps tugged against his forearm as Whip’s head came hurtling back to Gregor with a soft, rabid zzzzip. His arm shook as it connected with the shaft, but his attention was fixed on the thug on his right, a short, pockmarked man with a black-bladed machete, who looked down at his fallen comrade, looked up at Gregor, and screamed and sprinted at him.
Gregor, still marching down the alley, flicked Whip forward again, aiming for the man’s legs. The head of the truncheon connected soundly with his kneecap, and the man fell to the ground, howling in pain. Gregor retracted Whip, and as he passed him he brought the truncheon down sharply on the man’s forearm, either bruising or breaking his radius or ulna, which made him howl quite a bit louder.
There were two left, one on each side of the taverna door. One had the espringal, though he looked shocked when he pulled the trigger and nothing happened — ignorant, of course, that he’d prepared it wrong. Before he could do anything else, Gregor hurled Whip forward, and the dense, heavy head of the weapon went crashing into the guard’s right hand, smashing his fingers. He dropped the weapon, cursing and screaming.
This left the fourth and final guard, who had picked up a battered steel shield and a small spear. The guard crouched low and advanced on Gregor down the alley, hiding almost all of his body behind the shield.
Served in the wars, Gregor thought. He’d had training, certainly. But not enough.
Gregor flicked Whip out again, and the head of the truncheon sailed over the guard’s head, landing behind him, and brought the metal cable down with it. The cable fell over the top of the guard’s shield, which made the man pause — until Gregor pressed the lever to retract it.
The head of the truncheon hurtled back with its usual enthusiastic zzzip!, cracking into the guard’s shoulder along the way, which sent him tumbling forward, sprawling facedown in the alley. He groaned as he looked up at Gregor, who walked up and kicked the guard in the face.
Gregor Dandolo picked up the shield. The guard with the espringal tossed away his weapon and pulled out a stiletto with his good hand. He assumed a fighting position, crouching low. Then he seemed to reconsider his position, and turned and ran away.
Gregor watched him go. Then, with the air of someone on a quick errand, Gregor walked up the stairs of the taverna, lifted his shield, brushed aside the drape, and waged war on the Perch and Lark.
It helped that there were only five guards. It helped more that they hadn’t moved since he’d left, so he knew exactly where they would be. It helped even more that it was dark and loud, and Whip’s attack was fairly quiet, so Gregor took down two of his opponents before anyone in the room even understood what was happening.
When the second guard hit the floor, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, the whole taverna erupted into chaos. Gregor lowered his shield, which made him an obvious target, and skirted the edges of the screaming, drunken crowd until he came up on the flank of a guard with a spear. The guard saw him at the last minute, eyes widening. He thrust his spear forward, but Gregor had already raised his shield, deflecting the blow. Then he thrust Whip forward, smashing in the man’s jaw. The man crumpled to the ground.
Two left. The guard with the Daulo ax and one with an espringal — and this latter one, he could tell, had been trained properly with the weapon. Which was bad.
Gregor raised the shield and sought cover behind a table just as a bolt slammed into his shield. The point of the bolt actually pierced the damn thing, penetrating three inches through — any more and it would have almost certainly punched through Gregor’s neck. Muttering discontentedly, Gregor strafed to the right and flung Whip forward. He missed his target, but the head of the truncheon smashed through the wall just over the guard’s shoulder, which sent the man diving for cover behind the bar.
The two of them stayed low, waiting for the screaming crowd to evacuate. Gregor glanced up and saw a shelf of bottles above the bar, and, above that, a flickering oil lamp. He estimated the distance, and flicked Whip forward twice: once to smash the bottles of alcohol, and again to shatter the oil lamp.
Hot, burning oil rained down, which quickly set the pools of alcohol alight. There was a shriek, and the guard with the espringal came sprinting out from behind the bar, slapping at his smoking clothes. He never even saw Whip hurtling toward his face.
Once the man was down, Gregor crouched low and looked around. Antonin was still there, cowering in the back, but the guard with the Daulo ax was nowhere to be seen…
Gregor felt footsteps through the floorboards on his right. Without thinking, he turned and raised his shield.
There was a loud scream, and then his shield arm lit up with pain. It had been a long time since he’d been hit with a Daulo ax, and he found he didn’t enjoy it any more now than he had back during the wars.
Gregor rolled out from the bar and raised his shield again, just in time to catch another blow from the guard with the ax. His whole arm went numb with the strike, and he heard a snap—but it turned out to be the wooden slats under his feet, which could hardly bear the pressure.
Which gave Gregor an idea.
Keeping his shield up, he backed away. The guard with the ax charged at him — but before he could bring the ax down, Gregor flicked Whip at the slats at his feet.
The head of the truncheon punched through the wooden slats like they were water reeds. Before the guard could even realize what had happened, he’d put his foot in the gaping hole that Whip had created. Then he slipped, crashed down, and as he did, the entire floor collapsed underneath him.
Gregor leapt back as the wooden slats gave way. When the creaking stopped, he retracted Whip and peeked over the edge of the hole, wrinkling his nose. He couldn’t see the guard in the muddy darkness below — but he knew that the taverna latrines emptied into the filthy space under the building.
Gregor took stock of the situation. The taverna was now mostly empty except for the moaning guards — and the large, fat man trying to hide behind a chair.