"There'll be no right time, masked man," she replied tartly, pointing down over the edge of the roof. "Look!"
∗ ∗ ∗
They could both see the Lord Investigator down below, pointing as he gave orders, his every movement swift and angry. He gestured up at them several times, then fell in behind the line of bloodcoats he'd sent trotting in their direction.
"Wouldn't it be easier to defend the top of the stairs, inside?" the halfling asked, sounding as irked as ever.
The Masked shook his head, without sparing a glance for her. "No protection against bolts or spears from below. I need the archway. And before you ask, no, I'm not some sword-swinging hero, nor a wizard who can hurl fire all night long. I'm a man who would have quite likely slept the night away peacefully if you hadn't goaded these bloodcoats and then led them right to me."
She made no reply, yet the heat of her gaze on his back was like a forge-fire.
Tarram closed the door and moved to stand between the two statues closest to the archway, undoing the cloak he'd had pinned tightly around his upper body all this time, wadding it up and stuffing it ready atop the folded arms of holy Torag, the dwarves' Lord of Creation. Then he undid the leather overflaps that kept rain out of the dagger-sheaths on his upper arms and the short sword scabbards on his lower legs, as well as keeping the weapons that lived in them secure while he was tumbling through warehouses and scrambling along rooftops. They were ready.
So now, so was he.
Drawing his favorite dagger from his belt behind his left hip, he waited. Better a small parrying fang at first, and an empty strong right hand to grapple with. Perhaps one of the first soldiers he faced would obligingly bring him a longer, stronger sword.
Abruptly the door was flung open. The first Molthuni came out onto the roof in a rush, charging with a leveled spear and a snarl. He was passing Tarram before he saw the man standing motionless among the statues-so it was child's play to give him a shove from behind that sent him over the edge, shouting in terror.
Tarram was already rolling back to the statues and up to his feet as the next two soldiers came through the archway in a rush, jabbing with their lowered spears. The one in the rear couldn't reach as far, which made it easy to parry the foremost spear and then yank on it, to tug its owner toward the statues-and into a trip and a fall over that second spear.
The Masked slammed his dagger hilt up hard under the man's jaw-low, more upper throat-and brought his other hand down on the man's neck and shoulder, wiping him face-first down the sharp, unyielding front of a carved god, sending him sprawling atop the hindmost soldier's spear. Which left that soldier scrabbling to get out his sword as Tarram trampled the first soldier in a hasty rush to reach the second soldier and slash him across the face.
The man shrieked as blood spurted, and The Masked politely relieved him of his sword and shoved him stumbling back into the next arrival through the archway.
Who almost spitted his fellow soldier, but managed at the last minute not to-at the expense of both his balance and a good parrying position. The Masked took advantage of that, hacking at the side of the man's head and then at the side of his knee. Helm ringing, the man fell heavily, and The Masked lunged over him, surprising the next soldier-another spearman-with a thrust that sunk home under the bottom of an armored tunic, up into the man's crotch.
The man screamed obligingly and writhed in the doorway, giving The Masked the time he needed to turn and rush back along the roof, kicking two downed and groaning soldiers over the edge and slamming his dagger hilt hard into the back of the third Molthuni neck. That man lay sprawled and still, and went on doing so.
The wounded soldier was clutching his crotch and moaning as he stumbled or was dragged back through the archway, but his fallen spear lay on the roof right in front of the door, an obstacle to the next attacking soldiers.
Watching the doorway, The Masked backed along the statues until he reached the angle he wanted, where a carved divinity shielded him from any bowshot. Then he stepped back between two gods and waited, dagger and new-won sword up and ready, his gaze fixed on the door.
"Gods bear witness," the halfling whispered from the next niche, "but you are a sword-swinging hero." Then she darted out of her shelter, snatched the helm off the fallen soldier's head and a dagger from his belt, and was back in her niche.
The Masked was in his niche watching the doorway, from which no new assailant had emerged. Had they taken out an entire patrol, or cowed the last few into not daring to advance?
A moment later, he had his answer. A soldier with only a drawn short sword came running out onto the roof at The Masked-and when Tarram left his niche to parry that sword, the Molthuni flung himself down on his face.
A crossbow cracked beyond the archway, and a crossbow bolt came thrumming out of it, laying open Tarram's thigh as he dove desperately back at his niche.
He roared his pain up into Torag's carved face and clutched at his cloak, trying to shake it out into a cloud in case there were a second bowman, but the pain …
"That should slow your running," Lord Investigator Ammarand Osturr observed with cold satisfaction, as he strode out of the archway with a cocked and loaded crossbow in his hands.
"Reload the other," he snapped over his shoulder, "but hold it ready for my use. No firing."
The Masked gave him a bitter smile. "Took you long enough to catch me, Hound."
"I have a busy schedule, Armistrade," the investigator replied, halting well out of reach. "I fear you assign yourself more importance than I do."
From behind Tarram came the faintest of sounds. The Lord Investigator heard it too.
"Show yourself!" he snapped. "Whoever you are, show yourself, or I'll put a bolt through this man's face!"
He was answered by a low, gurgling moan.
Osturr's eyes narrowed, and he leaned his head to one side to peer around the statues.
A hurled halfling-sized dagger crashed into his crossbow, sending the bolt bouncing out of its channel as the bow went off, its poisoned death thrumming off into the night to strike down an astonished bird that had been cautiously wheeling to see if matters were quiet enough to return to its roost.
Osturr was still flinching in fear when the Molthuni helmet Tantaerra had salvaged came whirling out of the night to take him right across the face.
Tarram snarled, launching himself at the man who'd hunted him for so long-a snarl that became a helpless roar of pain as his wounded leg failed him, sent him stumbling amid sickening agony to fall at the very feet of the Lord Investigator.
Who'd finished lurching backward and grimacing in pain, and was now drawing a long, slender dagger from a forearm sheath.
"I've decided to dispense with your trial," the Lord Investigator spat. His arm swept up, raising the needle-dirk on high.
Tarram rolled over, trying to get his arms up in front of his face.
Luraumadar, the mask whispered insistently, sounding almost gleeful. Luraumadar, Luraumadar …
Glittering against the stars, the dagger swept down.
Chapter Four
Tantaerra sprinted hard, knowing she'd be too late. That blade would be deep in Armistrade's throat or eye socket long before-
Something moved, lightning-swift, beside the Lord Investigator. It took her a moment to realize it was one of the god statues.
By then, it had dealt its death, stabbing as swiftly as a crossbow bolt through Osturr's neck with a long, slender sword that drove him a step nearer the roof-edge with the force of its strike. His spasmodically flung needle-dirk thunked into the roof beside Tarram's head.