Croy stood to his position, his shortsword pointed at the ground but held away from his body so if he needed to bring it up he would be ready to sweep it in a broad arc. As the captain approached, he breathed deeply and readied himself to move.

“Your beast is strong,” the captain said, “but he has no belly for a fight. He hasn’t so much as scratched one of us. I think you may have picked the wrong partner.”

Croy nodded at the man in way of salute. “He’s served his purpose. Half your men are disarmed, or carrying pieces of kindling that used to be weapons.”

“But half of them are not. And we have plenty of spare weapons inside the fence. You look like you’re ready to take us all on by yourself, Sir Croy. I’d know why, before I order your death.”

The wound in Croy’s back pulsed angrily. His body didn’t like being held so immobile. “I’ve come for the Burgrave’s crown. Thieves hid it here. If your master will give it up, I will leave you in peace. I’m not here to kill anyone, if I don’t have to.”

“I’d prefer to avoid it myself. The city watch will be here soon, I have no doubt. Half the city must have heard us fighting down here. When they do arrive, I don’t want to have to explain what a dead ogre—and a dead knight—are doing on my lawn. I don’t know anything about a crown. But if you leave right now, I’ll let you take your pet away with you. This can just . . . stop.” The captain stared in frustration at Croy. He knew very well it wouldn’t end that way. “Surely, Sir Croy, this is the best you can hope for!”

“I won’t leave without the crown,” Croy insisted.

The captain raised his hands in disgust. Then he turned on his heel and threw a hand gesture toward the archer.

The bowstring twanged, and the arrow shot through the air too quickly for human eyes to follow. It was headed straight at Gurrh’s uninjured eye. Simultaneously, the four guards around Croy stepped forward in perfectly drilled unison and lunged with their halberds and glaives.

Gurrh snatched the arrow out of the air a split fraction of a second before it pierced his eye. He snapped it in half between his fingers.

Even Croy’s senses, heightened by the thrill of combat and the onrushing specter of his own demise, could not follow everything that happened next. Luckily, he didn’t need to see or hear everything. He had run through this exact scenario a thousand times, back when he was training to become an Ancient Blade. His fencing master—Bikker—had known this day would come, when he was trapped in an unwinnable contest. He had trained Croy to be ready for it.