Wulf ran to the nearest staircase. He mounted the steps three at a time. At the top, he risked a glance back. Optuss stood immediately behind him, impassive as a rock, his breathing steady and slow.
Below, in the quadrangle, Metrotis advanced fearfully towards the old man engaged in battle, his dagger held before him like a shield. The assassins had not seen him but it was likely that, when they did, he would be killed quickly.
There is no shame to die like a warrior, with a weapon in your hand. Perhaps Metrotis would die with honour after all and be welcomed into the halls of Alarus.
Wulf quickly turned away and moved along the upper balcony towards the sounds of struggle that emanated from an open door.
He rushed inside. Two men wrestled with a girl who shouted and kicked viciously in a vain effort to push them away. Another, older woman, lay motionless on a bed, a trickle of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth.
Two boys stood, swords raised, facing off against a pair of assassins who feinted and retreated, looking for a weakness in the boys’ defence. One lad had a wicked gash in his left forearm that bled freely, his blood trickling to the floor.
Wulf let out a great shout and rushed at the men attacking the girl. He slashed through the neck of one as the man turned — a shocked expression on his face — and cannoned into the other, sending him sprawling to the floor; a sickening crunch followed as the second man’s head smacked into the wall.
Two down.
He turned quickly. More grey-clad men rushed into the room and fanned out.
The newcomers paused as they spotted him.
Optuss, who must have followed him into the room, stood next to the girl. She knelt on the floor, her hair hanging around her face, gasping for breath.
He glared at Optuss. Support would be usefuclass="underline" there were too many to defeat alone, he would not be able to fend off all of their blows. He would not be able to stop them from overwhelming him through weight of numbers. Optuss’s expression had not changed; he held his sword loosely at his side and appeared blissfully unaware of the danger, not even facing the enemy.
The newcomers, appearing to judge Wulf and Optuss the greatest threat, ignored the others, who continued to harry the boys, and rushed forward.
Alarus, Wulf prayed in preparation for death. He stepped towards the attackers, his little sword ready. There would be no return to the people for him, but at least he would be with his ancestors, feasting in the halls of the great god for eternity.
The first man lunged. Wulf grabbed his sword arm and pulled him off balance, then butted him in the face, and swept his own sword in a tight arc as the man stumbled back. He missed the man’s throat but sliced up through his chin. The sword mashed into the attacker’s palate and stuck fast.
Wulf yanked the blade hard to withdraw it but the man came with it, and fell into him. His right foot slipped in blood and he stumbled back and fell, slamming into the floor. The attacker twitched as his weight fell on the sword buried in his face, driving it into his brain.
Wulf tried to push the corpse away but slipped again, his feet unable to find purchase. His head cracked back into the wooden planks of the floor. As if in a dream, he caught sight of Optuss moving away, fast.
Somewhere in the distance, angry shouts of alarm sounded.
He twisted and scrambled but the floor, coated in blood, had become like ice.
A hooded man loomed over him, arm raised back, sword ready to strike the killing blow.
Wulf rolled instinctively, his arms scrabbled for purchase. He tensed for the killing blow that was sure to come.
Do not let me die with my back to the enemy, do not let me die without a weapon in my hand.
He gained traction and tried to rise and turn, determined not to die a coward’s death.
A concussive thump sounded behind him.
He felt a blow to his shoulder and wondered why the assassin had not aimed for his head… for the certain kill.
There was no pain, but he knew that it would come — fierce blazing pain would come — if he lived long enough to feel it.
Something fell to his left, caressing his arm as it passed.
He looked down into the open eyes of an assassin, whose lips moved with no sound whilst his eyes blinked rapidly. Below the man’s chin was a clean cut — it was as if a butcher had removed the head — the spine glinted white through the exposed meat of the neck, then blood seeped out and dyed it red.
“Secure the room!” A man bellowed commandingly. “Andiss, through the window. Get to the street. Alert the militia. No. Wait. Get to the Third; tell Father Conlan we are in need of his assistance. He is to come with a cohort at once. Then alert the militia. Go, now.”
“Yes, General,” said another, breathing heavily.
Wulf looked around, a man stood over him, the old man with black eyes, a white pommelled sword grasped in his hand.
Another man ran to the back wall, opened the window and lowered himself out, his hands releasing the frame as he dropped to whatever lay below.
Metrotis sat on the floor just inside the door. He clutched the dagger Wulf had given him in his right hand. His left hand pressed against a gash in his leg that oozed thick, dark, blood. Two other men stood facing the door, swords drawn and ready.
The man they called General looked down at Wulf briefly. He inclined his head in recognition, his dark eyes shone in the candlelight. Then he moved quickly to the woman lying prone on the bed. “Ella,” he cried, his voice breaking, “Ellasand!”
He shook her gently, then held his ear to her chest before withdrawing, a grim look on his face. “Metrotis,” he said, his voice calmer than before, and perhaps more commanding for it. “If you can walk, your aunt needs your attention.”
Wulf shook his head, still in a daze. Two more bodies lay at the foot of the bed. Optuss stood over them, he held his sword loosely at his side, blood dripped slowly from its tip.
The two boys stood in front of Optuss. Twins, Wulf realised. They looked shocked and exhausted but defiant. Their chests heaved with the aftermath of their exertion.
The black-eyed man called ‘General’ turned to face him “You are called Wulf?” he said, one eyebrow raised.
Wulf stood slowly. Blood dripped from a wound in his shoulder. Stinging pain surfaced in his consciousness and he welcomed it. Pain meant life. “I am Wulf.”
The man paused, seeming to consider something carefully. “I am Martius,” he said. “You saved my family. I am in your debt.”
Wulf gazed around. The room was as bloody as a charnel house. His eyes came to rest on the decapitated head at his feet. It blinked its eyes slowly as if to confirm his thoughts.
You are in a dream, his subconscious concluded. This is the shadow land that follows death.
But it couldn’t be true. It felt too real. The pain in his shoulder flared as if to confirm it. He looked at Martius. The man’s eyes bored into him as if they sought his soul. “I owe you life also, Martius.”