The portcullis was right before him then, with no man in the way. It was only a foot and a half from the ground. Croy threw himself forward and rolled underneath, the iron points tearing at his clothes. On the far side he climbed to his feet and stared back through the open grate. More men than he could count were racing toward him, shouting for the gate guards to raise the portcullis again so they could get at him.

He laughed, though not harshly. Then he sheathed his swords and turned to go.

And promptly slipped and fell on his own blood.

He reached behind him and felt the wound on his back. It had felt like nothing—but then, in the heat of battle a man’s sense of pain was often skewed. Whether it was a mortal wound or not, he could not tell, but he could tell it was bad.

He had no time to stanch it, however. In a moment the gate would be reopened and all those men would be on his heels. He had to take what little advantage he had, and run while the going was good.

First, though, he had to stand up.

Croy sheathed his swords and got his hands underneath him. The muscles in his back quivered and a faint echo of pain cut through the numbness of battle. His body obeyed his commands, however, and he was able to get his feet beneath him. The oily blood on the cobblestones at his feet nearly made him slip again, but he slid forward and scraped the worst of it off his boots.

Behind him the portcullis groaned as it started to rise again. High above, atop the wall of Castle Hill, guards began to shout, raising the hue and cry. Theoretically that call would summon every able-bodied man into the streets, to help with apprehending Croy. He knew from past experience, however, that most citizens would simply shutter their windows and bar their doors. He had chased down his own share of criminals, in more civic-minded places than the Free City of Ness.

He bolted for Market Square just as archers appeared atop the wall. As he dodged between a row of produce stalls, an arrow flashed past his cheek and buried itself in a side of beef. Croy ducked low around the front of the butcher’s stall as more arrows peppered its tarred wooden roof.