by Jon Evans
Skorta was near the edge of the roof, slightly crouched to stabilise himself for the shot he'd missed. He raised the spent bow to fend off Stenberg as he closed on him with astonishing speed. Loft found he was moving to assist the Corporal before he knew it himself, though he couldn't hope to reach the pair before they were engaged.
Stenberg's hand lashed out, there was a flash of silvery metal, and Corporal Skorta grimaced in pain. Having injured his opponent, Stenberg pushed the crossbow up into the air with one hand and then slammed his other, still closed around the knife into the breastbone of the constable, while driving forward with his powerful legs.
There was no elegance to it, as there had been to his encounter with Gurnt. No oft-practiced wrestling throw, no flurry of blows. Stenberg's dagger punched into Skorta's breastplate with a squeal of metal. Without stopping, he let the knife go, slapped his open palm forward into his targets collarbone, and Corporal Skorta was plummeting to the cobbles below.
Stenberg was already whirling to face Loft before the unfortunate Corporal had disappeared from view. He wasn't sparing a moment to confirm his opponent was defeated, he simply span around to deal with the next enemy.
As he turned, he drew a knife with his left hand, tossing it to his right, even while he was pulling his hand back from where the Corporal's chest had been. By the time he faced Loft, he'd caught the knife, reversed so the blade pointed downward and his left hand was drawing another weapon.
To Loft's horror, Stenberg wasn't delayed in the slightest. He wasn't on the back foot and moved smoothly to attack his nearest foe.
Loft tried to use his reach to keep the vicious bastard at bay, his sword was over a foot longer than either knife, but Stenberg was impossibly fast. His blades flashing from left and right, parrying any cut from Loft that even came close.
Stenberg didn't even bother parrying Loft's thrusts, he contemptuously stepped aside, as if a child were trying to poke him with a stick.
"If this is your best, maybe I should enter your fencing competitions. Tell me, are the prizes a fat purse of gold? They would soon be mine if Northern swordplay is this slow," Stenberg taunted him.
"I thought you preferred to earn your coin murdering women and children," Loft replied, launching a quick flurry toward Stenberg's face in an attempt to back him off.
Stenberg spat, "Such is the price of betrayal. Perl knew that."
"How did he betray you? Did he hold back too much of the money from the weapons? Did he sell some behind your back?" Loft pressed.
"You found his hidden storeroom then? Good for you, at least your are not stupid as well as slow," Stenberg said as he feinted to the right, slapped Loft's sword away with the back of his left hand and exposed his chest, to the knife in his right hand.
The assassin sprang back from him as if he was just proving how easy it was to slip past Loft's defence. Stenberg was playing with him. He was in no hurry to finish him off.
Stenberg smirked as he saw the realisation of how outclassed he was, in Loft's eyes. He chattered away as if a duel to the death was barely worth concentrating on, "Perl was a thief and a liar, the son of a whore and a drunkard. Our trust in his skills as a merchant was misplaced, but he has paid for his treachery and now, you will go to the same grave."
Lunging toward Loft, Stenberg's left hand came up, as Loft's sword came down to meet him. The sword skittered along the edge of the blade Stenberg held parallel with his forearm.
Stenberg's right hand punched out, slamming into the exposed part of Loft's shoulder, hitting the muscle hard and fast. That became a backhand across the jaw and then a punch to the meat of his thigh. The same furious technique he'd used on Gurnt, a flurry of deceptively light blows to stun and disable his victim. Not once did he lose control, the blade he still held in his right hand didn't so much as nick Loft's skin as he delivered his blows.
The speed and ferocity shocked Loft, even though he'd already seen how quick this man was and been give plenty of warning about his skill by Henry.
His arm felt weak now as if Stenberg had sapped his strength. Loft managed to stagger backwards away from the killer, keeping his sword between them and his eyes on the knives.
Stenberg flipped the knife in his right hand, and as Lofts eyes followed it, he closed on him, slashing wildly with the knife in his left. Loft parried it easily, but a split second later, the knife clattered to the floor. He felt his right wrist gripped by Stenberg's left hand as if held by an iron pincer. The killer lunged forward and stabbed his knife into Loft's right thigh.
Loft screamed, good and loud and Stenberg mockingly copied the noise, shouting up at him. The knife burned through his flesh like acid and before he knew it, Stenberg was rising again, leaving the knife where it was and putting his right hand over Loft's as it gripped his sword, knuckles white with the agony of his wound.
A twist, a sharp pain in his wrist and the sword clattered to the rooftop. Loft's right arm was wrenched upward and twisted until he was forced to one knee to keep his arm from breaking.
Stenberg glared down at him, "Now, Captain Loft, you will pay for interfering with our business. Forgive me but your colleagues are climbing to the roof as we speak and my orders are to deal with you and not them. I would dearly love to stay and teach you a more personal lesson, as I did Perl but instead I shall keep this brief. Luckily for you."
"Brief? Like with the boy? He was just a child, Stenberg. How could you do it?" Loft hissed through the pain in his shoulder.
"A child? He was young but a grown man, past his rites. It is not my fault that he was soft and his father a traitor. Perl had only to return what he stole from us and accept his fate, and his death would have been merciful. He had a chance to avoid his son's death. You think I wanted to kill him? I have more important duties than keeping our quartermasters in line," Stenberg raged, "Do you think my regret at having to kill him, will save you?"
"No," Loft spat through the pain, "I think you're ranting about it like the absolute madman you so obviously are, might help though."
Stenberg snarled and started to twist his arm harder, Loft fought against it, knowing if he couldn't hold something was going to break. He could give in, but then Constable Swint wouldn't be able to get close enough with that club to deal with Stenberg.
It was just a light scuff of his boot on the surface of the roof that alerted Stenberg, but that was enough. Instantly he released Loft's arm and whirled to confront the Constable, who yelled and brought her club down hard.
Stenberg blocked with his arm, and there was a crunching sound, Loft couldn't tell if the wood was breaking against him or the bone was breaking against the truncheon. It didn't seem to slow him down either way.
He rolled his arm, brushing the truncheon out of the way and lashed out with one foot, catching Constable Swint on the thigh and bringing her to one knee. Then his foot lashed out twice more, snapping kicks into his chest and her chin. The air exploded out of Swint and with a groan she toppled backwards, unconscious. From start to finish it was a mere fraction of a second.
It was enough time for Loft to do something he knew he'd regret though, he put his left hand to the dagger, and pulled. It came cleanly out of his thigh, and since he didn't immediately see fountains of blood, perhaps he could survive this.
He knew from ghoulish conversations that Dr Gardener had a tendency to start over dinner, that the major blood vessels spurted like fountains if severed and if that happened, he'd have only seconds to live.
He rose with a scream that he couldn't repress and Stenberg turned to the threat behind him. Even Stenberg wasn't able to round on him fast enough to prevent Loft's desperate lunge. The knife slammed into Stenberg's side as Loft barrelled into him. The assassin gasped in pain and struggled to turn around, but that only let Loft keep him off balance.
Loft desperately wrenched the knife out and stuck it back in again, though he wasn't sure where and this blow wasn't nearly so deep. Still, it made Stenberg spit another curse, and that se
emed like a pretty good response for a bottom of the rankings fencer to get. Perhaps the Academy should have a back alley dirty fighting club, rather than a fencing one?
The two injured men wrestled and struggled toward the edge of the roof and Loft almost had him over it before Stenberg finally turned to face him fully and was able to brace his feet in a proper stance, pushing him back a step.
A thud, a clatter of armour and a tumbling sound behind him. Loft dimly registered that he wasn't alone on the roof anymore. "Captain, back off! I'm coming," he heard Gurnt shout.
He was trying to hold Stenberg around the collar with his weakened right hand and get the knife in again with his left, but this was proving difficult now they were facing. There was a clunk and a squeal of metal as something impacted his breastplate and he spared a glance down to see the knife in Stenberg's left-hand scrape across his armour.
Loft lashed out again with his borrowed knife scoring a cut on Stenberg's knife wielding arm that was probably little more than a scratch.
Stenberg sprang forward, dropping his shoulder into Loft's chest and driving him back several paces. Loft was off balance and had to give a little ground to prevent from toppling over.
By the time he was advancing again, he could hear Stenberg chanting something in a foreign language, that seemed strangely familiar. A faint, greenish glow was visible in his right hand. Well, that confirmed his earlier supposition, thought Loft. Bugger.
Stenberg's voice began to reach a crescendo and Loft knew he wasn't going to reach him in time to stop him. In desperation, he hurled the knife in a backhanded throw as he moved toward him. Stenberg brushed it from the air with his left arm as casually as if it were a child's ball, and continued to chant, raising his right arm.
There was a sudden flash of bright light, a look of surprise on Stenberg's face and then Loft was on him, trying to use the assassin's shoulder barging tactic against him. He hadn't expected it to work, but he found himself falling flat on his face as Stenberg staggered backwards, just as he had. Only this time, there wasn't the whole roof of the warehouse behind the man who was off balance, just a few inches to the low brick wall at the edge of the roof.
Stenberg hit the wall and tumbled backwards into the air above the alley, howling his rage all the way down. His scream was cut short by the distinct sound of snapping bone, echoing up from the alley below and his voice was immediately cut off.
Gurnt skidded to a halt by Loft. "What the fuck was that, Captain? What did I just see?" she shouted as she dropped beside him, checking him for wounds.
Loft coughed, "Magic, Gurnt. He was using magic."
She cursed. Repeatedly. Then she fished into her tunic and pulled out a suspiciously off-white length of bandage which she began to tie off around his upper thigh.
"I fucking know it was magic. I meant, what the fuck," she asked, emphasising her words by pulling the bandage tight which caused Loft to bite his lip and his vision to blur, "Was my Captain doing hurling himself from one perfectly good roof to another, on his own and try and take on that lunatic? Who turned out to be a fucking mage as well as a deadly assassin? Didn't I tell you not to be caught alone?"
Loft fell back against the roof and sighed. His vision swam, and he could hear Gurnt berating him. "Loft, don't you fucking pass out on me, Loft!"
Gulls flew above him, crossing the sun and letting out a hideous racket. It sounded like panicked people screaming. He just wished they'd shut up. If he could only get some more sleep before his exam in the morning. Bloody, University ravens, always cawing, distracting him when he needed to study. He hoped the Academy wasn't plagued with ravens.
Chapter Twenty Two
There was a parade marching behind him somewhere, the band leading them banging drums incessantly. A sergeant was shouting at him. He must be out of step. He tried to focus on what the man was saying, his stomach lurched, and there was a distinct smell of blood.
He rolled to his side and vomited, spitting bile out of his mouth while the sergeant shouted in annoyance. Someone passed him a cup of water, and he rinsed his mouth out, hitting the offered bucket this time.
Loft dropped the cup and sat up; he had to struggle to rise as if there were a great weight on his chest. Finally, the weight left and he managed to make it upright. Had he fallen over during the parade?
He felt the back of his head and found it covered in cloth. Feeling around the side and the front it seemed someone had wrapped his head in cloth. A bandage? His vision swam, and he reached for the bucket again but managed to hold it down this time.
"Loft, can you hear me?" came the sergeant's voice, not nearly as harsh now. There was a clicking of fingers just in front of his face.
"Yes, Sarge. Didn't mean to fall out of step, Sarge. Sorry," he mumbled.
"Bloody hell, he's really out of it," the sergeant mumbled.
A woman responded, "Yeah, the silly sod took a bad fall when he passed out."
"Not to mention the loss of blood from that stab wound in his thigh," the sergeant said.
"Call that a wound? It's not even five inches deep, and he barely lost a pint of blood. It's just a flesh wound. It's not like his leg's off," the woman said.
"It's over four inches deep, actually, Sergeant Gurnt and he lost more than a pint of blood, I think. He'll be fine though, and if we can keep him off his leg for a while, the scar shouldn't be too bad. The burn on his chest is more of a problem. When he's properly awake, that's going to sting," Gardener said. Gardener. The doctor? What was he doing at the parade, perhaps he'd been in the crowd, and he'd fallen over.
"How many fingers Loft? Do you know where you are?" Gardener asked
They kept at him, talking to him even though he just wanted to sleep. After about half an hour, he managed to ask for something for the pain in his head. Gardener gave him a foul smelling drink, and he choked that down as best he could. It helped with his headache, but then he started to notice the pain in his chest.
It had taken a while before he realised where he was, not at a parade but the watch house. His watch house. In the bloody autopsy room of all places. That wasn't encouraging, were they trying to save themselves the trouble later? Perhaps they should find another room for Dr Gardener to use as a hospital; they had plenty of space.
Gardener kept him awake for the rest of the day, telling him he couldn't sleep until the evening unless he didn't fancy getting up afterwards. He tried to explain why, but Loft couldn't focus properly to follow what he was going on about.
Eventually, he was allowed to move to his bed and fall asleep. When he woke, Gardener was snoring, slumped in an armchair opposite him. His head was pounding, but at least his mind felt clear now.
He rolled himself gingerly to the side of his bed. It wasn't hugely comfortable as it was more of a military cot than a proper bed. Every movement revealed a new ache or pain. As the sleep left his eyes, he was able to see that his chest was wrapped in clean, white bandages.
His thigh was similarly covered, but that had a splotch of rusty brown above the wound. Loft staggered to the latrine and relieved himself then back to the bedroom. He shook Gardener by the shoulder until he started to wake up and then, equally gingerly as he'd stood, back toward the bed and sat down again.
He touched the bandage on his chest and immediately regretted it. Whatever wound it was covering, it was extremely sensitive to pressure.
"You're awake then," Gardener stated, matter-of-factly, "That's a good sign at least. I'm afraid you may have quite severely damaged your brain though," he finished.
"It feels like it, my head is pounding," Loft replied.
"You misunderstand. I mean that Sergeant Gurnt told me what happened and I can only conclude that at some point in the last few years you sustained a serious head injury. Yesterday you were just suffering from a concussion. Since when does Edrin Loft leap from one rooftop to another like a drunken acrobat, hmm? Have you completely taken leave of your senses? I have a few colleagues who are doing wonders with
diagnosing various types of insanity you know, I could have you sent to Tablemal Hospital to receive their tender care. I'm sure that last time I saw them on one of their infamous drinking binges, they said the most recent work suggests there might be as many as seven different types of insanity. It would be fascinating to know which you're suffering from. Yours is probably something to do with an innate desire to commit suicide, though I'm no expert," Gardener droned at him.
"It was my duty to catch that man, Doctor," Loft replied with a wince, "I don't suppose you have anything to dull the pain?"
Gardener grunted and fished a small bottle of out his bag, pouring a dose into a glass and handing it to Loft who was grateful for the reprieve from the lecture, though not, as it turned out, for the taste of the medicine.
"But you didn't catch him, did you? You threw him off a roof as I understand it. Sergeant Gurnt was most upset. She said you could have thrown him off the roof after you'd captured him together if you'd really wanted to. Apparently, she wouldn't have seen a thing," Gardener said.
