A kludder sat moaning and scratching its belly between the buttresses of the Church of the Holy Spirit. Flying drakes, alarmed by his presence, rustled and fluttered their wings on the tracery, pinnacles and turrets of the church. Just beyond the spital, the Wallcreeper saw a shining pool of fresh blood on the stones. Led by curiosity—although the matter didn’t especially interest him—he used a spell to intensify his eyesight and peered into the gloom. A kalkabra crouching over a blood-soaked body and disconcerted by the spell bared its two-inch fangs and its fur stuck up on its head like a silver crown. The Wallcreeper shrugged and speeded up. As previously, it turned out it was still perilous to walk around Wrocław by night.

He crossed Market Street and entered a small square by a well. And then they fell on him. From all sides. Dressed in a way that made them almost invisible. They were remarkably fast. For men.

Only a lightning-fast dodge saved his life—at the last moment he caught the pale gleam of a blade coming for him. He seized the assailant by the front of his jerkin, spun him around and pushed him into the path of the next attacker, straight onto his sword blade. He spun away and felt steel brush his hair. He jumped clear and saw the sword of another assassin strike sparks against the iron grating. He grabbed the hand holding the sword, tugged it, unbalanced the assailant, flung him to his knees and with a swift movement of both hands immediately broke his neck. Another man lunged and thrust, but the Wallcreeper dodged the blade with a subtle half-turn, caught him by the elbow and wrist and jerked the sword out of his now limp arm. The attacker howled. Using him like a shield, the Wallcreeper thrust the sword into the next attacker’s belly and leaped towards the others without waiting for him to drop. When they retreated, he turned back and with a short movement slit the throat of the man with the broken arm.

Three men were on the ground, three still on their feet.

The skull-like moon emerged from behind a cloud and the Wallcreeper attacked.

They ran behind the well, but it didn’t save them. He was on them without them seeing. The first slumped to his knees, stabbed in the groin; before he managed to utter a scream, his throat was already slashed open. The second leaped to his aid, attacking in a classic swordsman’s stance. The Wallcreeper let him approach to the standard distance, parried his jab and thrust, hard and sure, into his face, between his eye and nose. The man tensed up and trembled, his arms shaking spasmodically. And then slid off the blade, as limp as a rag doll.