The shadows shifted, or so he thought. He tried to move his head around to discern whether or not he saw a human silhouette—
Blue eyes flashed briefly, looking like Flotsam’s eyes seen at night.
Magic! Teron lunged forward in the darkness, intent on landing the first blow, for he knew that the other, with magically augmented vision, had spotted him in the near-pitch black.
He cleared the handful of yards between him and his quarry, trailing his right hand along the wall to maintain his bearings. He hooked his left fist at the center of his foe, an unskilled blow of power and momentum rather than precision. Relying solely on sound and peripheral vision, Teron’s first blow struck wide of where he’d hoped. He felt it land a glancing blow just below the ribs. At the same time, Teron felt himself run into a partially raised blade, and the steel ripped through his tunic and across his left side, skipping along his ribs and opening skin and muscle.
Teron heard tense words, not quite shouted but filled with urgency, but he could not attend to the meaning. His concentration was consumed by his kinesthetic sense, tracking where his body was in comparison to his opponent and the walls. The wounded monk knew that the intruder had the benefit of vision, but he certainly didn’t have the same close-combat training. If he did, he wouldn’t be using a slow and awkward weapon like a longsword for interior fighting.
Teron sensed the sword rising, so he spun in close and low, his back to his foe’s chest. The right arm came down, and as the arm hit Teron’s shoulder, he hooked his right arm around the enemy’s sword arm, immobilizing it. A strike with the open left hand sent the sword clattering down the hall. He smashed the back of his head into his opponent’s nose, then stomped his left heel on the other’s foot and was rewarded by the sound of breaking bones.
Teron turned to finish the enemy off, but his speed and strength were hampered by his exhaustion, and the enemy managed to pull away from him with a howl of unbridled agony. Teron shoved him out of the way; satisfied that he was out of the combat. As he turned to face the next threat (or at least his best guess as to where the next threat would come from), he staggered slightly as his muscles protested the exertion.
He heard a voice, and then the universe turned white.
Despite his training in fighting blind, the sudden transition from pitch dark to piercing daylight had a disorienting effect on Teron. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was a glaring red afterimage. He gave ground, spinning his arms in a defensive ring, until he backed into the stone wall of the corridor. He tried to force his aching eyes back open and glimpsed a glowing object fly past him and down the hallway. There was a shadow ahead of him, lit from behind.
Then he felt an impact in his abdomen, and a burning sensation that was all too familiar—he’d been impaled. He grimaced in pain, his eyes squinting against the light. One hand ran to his side and clutched the end of a quarrel embedded in his gut. Blood welled out from the wound and soaked into his tunic and the waistband of his pants.
“We gotta go!” said a dusky voice. “Now!”
“Where’s Rander?” someone asked, half-whispering, “Rander! Where are you?”
“I’ll bet he knows,” replied a light female voice.
Teron blinked several times, and through the haze of his tortured eyesight, he saw a shadow drawing closer to him, brandishing a crossbow.
“Where’s Rander, monk?” said the shadow. “Which way did you throw him?”
“Careful, Grameste,” warned the first voice, “that monk might still be dangerous.”
Teron said nothing. He leaned against the wall, panting. He didn’t have to feign his fatigue or his pain. He tightened his grip on the quarrel that seemed to devour his side.
Grameste moved closer, then she turned her head and paused as he spied Rander and the effect of Teron’s handiwork. “Oh my—” she began, stretching her neck forward to see better.
With one smooth motion, Teron drew the quarrel from his side and speared the end of the bolt into Grameste’s head, piercing the weak spot of the skull just behind the ear. She jerked, but Teron kept his grip and followed it up by striking the pointed end of the quarrel with his other hand, driving it fully into the woman’s brain, killing her instantly. The only noise she made was a slight squeak—then a long, slow exhale as she slumped to the floor.
For a moment, stunned silence reigned.
“Sovereign bitch!” said one of the intruders, a tremor of fear in her voice.
Teron’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he stood. He saw three people left. One was a spellcaster of some sort, probably female, holding a staff aglow with magical light. The second figure he could see only partially, as it held a bulls-eye lantern focused directly at the wounded monk. The third was a male, judging by his silhouetted build.
Teron ignored the trembling in his legs, the burning sensation in his side, and the trickle of blood that worked a red trail down his trousers. He flexed his shoulders to pop a few vertebrae in his upper back, then settled into combat stance and began to advance upon the strangers. His calf tried to cramp, so he paused in his approach to stretch it out. He concealed his momentary weakness by shifting to viper stance.
The male stepped forward. He exhaled slowly, belying his tension. “I’ll take care of this wretch,” he said. “Oargesha, you and Fox take the back way out of here, just to be safe.”
“Just buy us some time, Roon, and then follow,” said the wizard. A woman. Her voice betrayed her sex.
“A few moments will be enough for us,” said the third, the one with the dusky voice, “but perhaps too much for you. I’ve heard monks can be fast. Bleed him some more, hobble him, or strike his eyes before you follow.”
“Be careful,” said the wizard.
“Aye, Oargesha,” said the rearguard.
The shadow with the lantern set it on the floor, still facing Teron, then the two intruders turned to leave, with only Roon watching their back. Unfortunately, Teron knew Roon would be enough. His exhaustion, the two wounds, the cramp that threatened to return, and the fact that they knew these catacombs gave his opponents the edge they needed.
Since he could not beat the three of them, Teron let the two go. There was no point in fighting a battle that could not be won. Instead, Teron focused his whole being on ensuring that Roon died. Narrowing his focus in this manner brought Teron a pure, almost joyous clarity. He had a purpose, it was readily attainable, and nothing else mattered.
Roon stepped closer, drawing two short swords. The left blade he held inverted, with the blade extending down his forearm, while the right he dangled behind his back.
The two faced each other for several long breaths, the only sound an occasional flick or pop from the lantern’s untrimmed wick.
He’s trained, thought Teron, as he studied Roon’s stance. Lead blade ready to block any strike and wound me in return, rear blade hidden so I won’t see a change in grip. Good stance, but not relaxed. Tense breathing. He’s trained but not experienced enough to be a master of his techniques.
Teron took a deep breath and clenched his teeth as a wave of dizziness swept over him. With time, he mused, I could find his weakness, find the slow move, but time is not a luxury I have, not bleeding the way I am.
Roon flashed forth, thrusting straight from the hip with his rear blade. Silhouetted as Roon was, the blade never entered the lamp’s light, and it took Teron a split second to see what was happening. Teron twisted his arm in a rolling block to guide the deadly point away from his vitals, but he was a little too slow and the point sheared into his arm below the shoulder. Roon followed the strike with a forehand slash, trying to draw the blade of his inverted sword across Teron’s body. Teron ducked the strike, and Roon’s fist glanced off the top of his head. Roon pulled back, and Teron felt the inner edge of the blade draw a line across his shoulder—whether by accident or design he did not know.