a


Cassilda licked her lips, the familiar taste of blood and the stink of dying men filled the room like an oily fume. She cocked a slender eyebrow at the elf before transferring her gaze to Kayden.
 
“Something you forgot to mention to us before we started captain?” she asked acidly. Like most mercenaries she didn’t like surprises, they tended to go hand in hand with sudden and violent death.
 
Further discussion was forestalled by a noise from the top of the stone steps. Silently, she slid her blade from its sheath and climbed the steps. The stairs opened onto a large room, perhaps a guardhouse in former times but an indistinguishable space heaped with refuge and cobwebs now. A half dozen men were coming into the room from another set of stairs. Light streamed down from above, suggesting the surface was not far away.
 
With a sharp intake of breath she shoved herself back into the shadows created by one of the structural pillars, its granite bulk sheltering her from sight.
 
“Better hurry s,” she whispered urgently, hoping her companions at the bottom could still hear her.
 
“Corbin!”  one of the bandits called, his tone guileless. He sounded bored and irritated.
 
“Corbin quit screwing around, Graf wants you up top,” he called again. The men seemed to tense, the lack of response worrying them.
 
“Probably just drunk,” one of his companions muttered, “like we bloody well should be.”
 
The bandits were more cautious now, crossing the room to the top of the stairs with nervous glances. Cassilda wished she could sheathe her sword and draw a knife but she dared not move, even to get a better weapon. They came through the archway, close enough to touch. She held her breath but they expected danger from below, not from the side.
 
The last man stepped through the arch and turned his head slightly, catching her in his peripheral vision, his muscles tensed. Cassilda lunged, driving her sword point into his belly. The boy screamed like a gelded hog and a great gout of blood fountained from his lips. His companions started to turn but rather than try and recover the sword she threw herself at the dying man, knocking him from his feet and sending him careening down the stairway into his cursing companions. Several of them were swept from their feet, but an older warrior in rusted chainmail managed to sidestep the mess.
 
Cassilda snatched for a knife but the man gave her no time to use it. A heavy boot connected with her knee, sweeping her legs out from under her. She landed hard on her back, the breath exploding from her lungs in a huff. Her assailant lunged at her with a knife of his own but she twisted aside, the steel ringing on the flag stones. Men were shouting now, screaming and cursing. So much for the element of surprise. She snatched her own knife from her belt and drove it at the mans throat. He blocked the slash with his mailed forearm and steel clanging uselessly against steel. He made a clumsy thrust at her but the tight quarters meant he couldn’t get enough force to punch through her leather breastplate. A meaty hand grabbed her throat, thick fingers trying to close her windpipe.  She drove her own knife into his exposed wrist, her attacker let go with a curse. He was on top of her, too heavy for her to overpower with brute force. With an inarticulate shriek she twisted her body hard, kicking off the wall with all her strength. Suddenly they were tumbling down the stairs, each cobblestone smashing into her like a hammer.