Rogues Gallery (23 page)

They grappled. Jerrod slammed his foe’s knuckles into the hard stone of the fireplace again and again, dislodging the sword on the third whack. He squeezed the man’s neck with his right hand. The assassin tried to jab his dagger into Jerrod’s right side, but Jerrod had longer arms and was able to lock his elbow under the man’s upper arm. All it scored were minor flesh wounds, slicing across his outer arm.

Jerrod let go of the man’s other wrist and clamped down hard with both of his hands on his foe’s throat. His hands were large enough to encompass the full circumference of the neck. He slipped one of his big boots over the back of his knee and drove him backwards.

The assassin was stronger than his compact frame would lead one to believe, and well trained. He used Jerrod’s weight against him by grabbing his wrists and turned into Jerrod’s push. They went tumbling to the side. Jerrod kept his grip, but it loosened enough so breath was possible. He tried to head butt Jerrod, but the bigger man held his elbow against his throat and then smashed his open palm into his face.

A moment later Jerrod heard another assassin enter the cabin through the window. “Dammit! Why can’t you bastards come through the door?” It was a trap wasted. It seemed almost impossible, but less than a minute had passed since Jerrod had crashed through the window. The second assassin was shifting behind him, setting up an attack, waiting for an opening.

Staying put for a moment, it was long enough to lift the man’s head and thump it against the floorboard as hard as possible. It stunned him long enough for Jerrod to roll off and fling the man across the room towards his partner.

The other assassin was already moving forward, his sword out. He jumped to the side, and he was not hindered from hacking at Jerrod. Jerrod stepped to the side, recognizing a very aggressive stance from his foe, and clamped his elbow down on the man’s sword arm.

The man pulled back hard, raking the blade across Jerrod’s ribs, but the studded leather armor he always wore took most of the punishment. Still, it burned like fire, and as he took a deeper cut, he slammed his forehead into the man’s face. Blood spewed.

The man kept his grip on the sword tight, and with a quick, fluid bit of footwork, stepped off to the side. He tried to raise his arm high, but Jerrod kept his elbow in place and refused to give up the position. As the larger man slammed his knee into the assassin’s gut, he turned to the side, and Jerrod struck more hip bone than stomach. But even then, the man grunted in pain and doubled over. He was too tough to go down and twisted to the side to get a better angle.

Jerrod smashed his fist towards his throat, but the man blocked it with his chin. They shoved and fought. The man’s partner was recovering and turning his attention back on the fight. Jerrod had his hands full with one as it was. He twisted his current opponent and swung both of their backs towards the fireplace and crashed the man at his partner.

It did not work well for Jerrod. Both were as agile and quick as monkeys, keeping their feet and squaring up with him across the room. He was in a worse position than before, but at least neither had their short swords. They pulled small knives out of their clothes’ pockets and advanced.

Jerrod scoffed. Weapons weren’t needed to kill these fools. He could have shoved their heads up their assess just as easy.

The one he had thrown across the room was the most injured. Blood poured down his face from his smashed nose, and his foot wound gave him a slight limp. The other was more or less fit and ready, with only minor bruising on his neck and face.

Which to attack first was always a debatable question. Go after the weaker one in hopes to bring him down faster or the stronger one to eliminate the greater threat? In the scant moments, Jerrod smelled smoked from outside the window.

His smile was grim. “Guess that other fella wants to burn me out. Looks like both of you are coming along with me, huh?” They did not respond. Instead, they attacked, daggers flashing. Jerrod stood his ground and sneered. “C’mon, then, you shit! I got more to teach you.”

They split apart and made a wise decision to not attack close together but rather to hit an angle on him and limits his movements. The fire burned higher behind him. They expected him to head for the window or door, and under normal circumstances that would have been an option, but with the unreleased trap by the door and the fire building on the porch, it was not.

So they expected him
not
to do that because they thought he would and everyone knew it. So in reality they thought he would go the opposite way towards the kitchen, and then they would have trapped him there, two on one. Jerrod’s philosophy was always if forced to do what your enemy expected, then you do it better than they could handle and bugger all if they were able to stop you. Oftentimes it came down to execution. Now was one of those times.

The master assassin moved towards the cramped kitchen area, which was only a thin wooden counter separating the space from the rest of the one room cabin, and towards his precious collection of alcohol. He would miss them all, bottles bought or stolen from more merchants than was possible to remember, but sacrifices had to be made.

Something shifted outside above the din of the raging fire, and he tried to roll away, but the twang of a crossbow bolt fired first. It struck his left thigh and stayed there. He grabbed the bolt, rolled on his back in true pain, but he played it up as if additional movement were impossible.

One interior assassin charged him, thinking he was immobilized, and Jerrod let him come closer. He yanked the bolt out of his thigh with a bellow of pain, and when the man stabbed forward with his dagger, close enough where Jerrod had the advantage in reach, Jerrod slammed the bolt’s tip into his neck.

Blood shot out from the impact point, and Jerrod worked it back and forth, twisting and widening the wound, putting an extra, gory smile under the man’s chin. He grabbed the back of the corpse’s head and spit in his face.

“How’s that feel, pal? You like it?”

Jerrod grabbed the dagger from the dying man’s hands as he slumped to the floor. The other assassin, the limper, was closing in fast, but smoke obscured the interior. Jerrod tossed the dagger at him, hoping to garner a second or two of space, but the man dodged easy and came closer.

Jerrod snarled and got to his feet, bloodied hands raised. “C’mon, then you coward! I ain’t done yet.”

For the first time during this encounter, the man looked hesitant, staring at Jerrod with dawning respect, even a hint of fear. His injuries must have been coming to the fore, the initial adrenaline wearing off, but then again a lot of assassins used mixtures from the apothecaries that dulled pain. Jerrod never used them because they dulled the senses and a man’s reflexes as well.

The smoke grew more intense, and they both coughed.

“Let’s both die together,” Jerrod said. “Right here and now. Why not? What does a stinking shit like you have to live for?”

Another bolt flew overhead, and had Jerrod not been crouching he would have been impaled in the temple.

Jerrod rushed the man in front of him. Because of his smashed foot the assassin was a tad bit slow to react, and that was enough for Jerrod to crash into him. The man stabbed with his dagger, and the bigger man took the hit. A metal stud on his leather jerkin deflected it into his shoulder by lucky chance, but it still pierced flesh.

Jerrod felt no pain. “That all you got, you git?!”

Shouting loud, he grabbed the man’s shoulders and spun him around to face the window. Jerrod ducked, and the man cried out, trying to shift his body.

Too late. A quarrel pierced his back, and his eyes went wide. Jerrod tackled him to the ground. The man fought back, but Jerrod was stronger and used his superior size to climb on top and slam his head into the floorboards. A couple of solid cracks later, and he stopped struggling.

Jerrod stayed low, listening for any sounds outside. Smoke billowed. It was difficult to differentiate between natural sounds from outside, the crackling noise of the burning wood, and anything else. The cabin burned.

Jerrod put his fingers to his lips and blew a long whistle, a general signal that meant “all clear” for most communal assassin groups. There was no guarantee it would work.

Regardless, Jerrod moved towards the kitchen escape hatch near the loosened boards. He bled from several wounds. The puncture from the bolt in his left leg was a dull ache he pushed down, focusing instead on getting outside. First he stopped and grabbed some rags in the kitchen area and ripped some strips of cloth to tie around the wound. Wrapping it tight slowed the bleeding.

He scooted the pantry with all the liquor out of the way, but then shoved it down out of impatience. The furniture struck the ground, and a few bottles shattered. He realized his mistake as the fire crept closer to the alcohol on the floor.

The smoke got thicker. He stayed close to the ground where the air was cleaner. Blasted fool. People always said drink would’ve been the death of him. Jerrod pushed at the loosened log at the bottom of the wall, but it would not budge. Maybe the fire had spread to the back of the cabin. Heat came from the logs and the higher temperature must have expanded the wood to make it stick.

The heat grew more intense. Sweat dripped down his face as he coughed. Pushing hard against the wood seared his hands. A cry of agony escaped his lips and shoved harder. It moved a tiny bit. Jerrod snarled and shoved harder, pounding his palms against the lowest log until he got it moving again. It wasn’t fast enough.

Some dirt from outside impaired the movement, so when it was half a foot forward, he started scooping it away into the cabin. Smoke trickled into his mouth, and he struck with a coughing fit. This was it; he was going to die here in the cabin, dead on the floor covered in his whiskey like a wretch.

No, to the nine hells with that. He kicked the other side of the log, and it jutted forward. Then he shoved the other end with his hands, rolling it forward outside. There was a slight slope by the edge of the back of the cabin, and once it was moving, the log broke free and slid away.

Coughing and sputtering to get a good breath of air into his lungs, Jerrod scrambled outside and looked around. Fire raged as the cabin burned. He scrambled away on all fours like a wounded wolverine, his leg wound aching with deep pain.

The air was stifling. Flames licked at his body, and he rolled away from the building, thinking there might’ve been another crossbow bolt coming, but nothing came. He kept rolling, heading towards a tree line close to the cabin.

Smoke stung his eyes, and his wounded body was wracked with pain. He reached the cover of forest and glanced back at the cabin. It was engulfed in flames, and the roof collapsed. “Damn bastards burned me out,” he said. “Fuckers are gonna pay.”

The trees were far enough way to avoid being burned, but there were some close enough to give him an advantage. There was also a little surprise stowed away in one; his long sword. Jerrod limped towards them the trees and crept along the edge until he came to where his sword was.

The bundle was still intact. Jerrod crouched panting, holding his sword, getting comfortable with its grip again. It would have done him little good inside, where the tight confines were better suited to shorter weapons, hence the assassin’s short swords and daggers. But outside, Jerrod could use his superior range to good effect.

He caught his breath and waited, peering through the woods to the front of the cabin while the shell eroded and much of the structure was eaten up by the fire. The crossbow wielder had to be somewhere towards the front since all the shots came from that direction.

Jerrod closed his eyes for a few moments, trying to regain his night vision, and when he opened them, he avoided any direct view of the fire to keep it.

Then he started moving, knowing that noise discipline was paramount. Even with the crackling fire, the assassins were all trained.

There! A lone figure knelt at the edge of the tree line to the front of the cabin, holding a black cross bow, bolt strung and ready. It was difficult to see well, but the cloudless sky allowed the moon to stream its light onto the scene.

The final assassin had no problem seeing the blaze before him, and that was his second mistake. The first was agreeing to take this job because Jerrod was going to kill him. The second was directing his vision towards the fire. The man had ruined his eyesight for darkness.

The fire burned lower, but it was still sufficient to cover Jerrod’s movement and any noise he made through the undergrowth. He took his time, knowing his foe would wait for as long as possible to make sure the job was done.

Swinging around slow, he went the long way around the clearing, keeping within the forest interior. Most of his focus kept on the ground, keeping his feet on bare spots, not disturbing the bits of broken branches or anything that would make too much noise.

After a while he had better angle on the other man and saw how steady and patient the man was. Part of Delios’ crew no doubt. Well trained, well prepared, efficient. Not as good as Jerrod. No one was. Zandor might have been, but Zandor was different. He was more about political uprising, civil unrest, and stirring things up on a bigger scale. An anarchy specialist someone once told Jerrod.

But down in the dirt, no one could beat Jerrod.

Stopping, he crouched and watched the man for a moment, contemplating whether or not to kill him or try to get information on the hit. The thieves’ guild from the other town had a stick up their ass about him killing Turner. Them wanting revenge was silly. It was business.