The Bloody Quarrel (The Complete Edition) by Duncan Lay Page B

“There!” he cried and skidded to a halt.
    The four of them raced down towards the bustle and light of the main road, strides lengthening as they sensed a way out of the dark maze.
    But three figures emerged out of a doorway and formed a line across the laneway, long knives in their hands.
    Fallon stopped immediately, his friends a step behind him. Unlike the cloaked ones who had obviously followed them to the Duchess’s house, these were dressed all in black, with some kind of tight-fitting black hood over their face. They did not seem particularly large, but their silence and the long, curved knives they held in each hand were menace enough.
    “Do we try to talk to them?” Devlin whispered.
    “Bugger that,” Fallon said, and raised his crossbow and sent a bolt thumping into the chest of the middle one, the sheer force of it knocking the figure back, spinning it around and sending it to its knees.
    Fallon grinned mirthlessly at the remaining two as Gallagher and Devlin brought up their crossbows.
    But his grin faded as the one he had knocked down bounced back to his feet and rejoined the others. He reached down and plucked the crossbow bolt out of his chest, tossing it away.
    “Not this shite again,” Gallagher breathed. “More of these boggers that just won’t die.”
    “What do we do?” Brendan asked.
    “Run!” Fallon cried.
    They turned and tore back down the alleyway, even Brendan putting on a respectable turn of speed.
    “Back to the Duchess’s house!” Fallon called.
    “Which way is that?” Gallagher cried as they turned down yet another identical-looking alleyway. “I can’t get my bearings!”
    Fallon glanced up but the sky was thick with cloud – no chance of seeing the afternoon sun. He looked over his shoulder to see the snatchers were chasing them. And not just chasing but gaining on them. The creatures they had destroyed in the Guildhouse had been slow-moving and shambling. These were the opposite.
    “Hurry!” he cried.
    The four of them sped up. They rounded a corner, bouncing off the opposite wall and using it to push themselves onwards, boots skidding on the rough and slippery cobbles. By contrast, the snatchers seemed to float across the ground.
    Brendan was leading the way, arms swinging in all directions and his heavy hammer going with them. They had to stay a pace behind to avoid it. But while the other three could have gone faster, the big smith was built for power, not speed. Within a hundred yards, it was obvious they could not outrun the snatchers. Brendan was gasping for breath.
    “Get out of it. I’ll hold them off,” Brendan gasped, slowing to a walk. “By the time they get past me, you’ll be clear. Just look after Nola and—”
    “Don’t be a bloody idiot,” Fallon said. “We don’t leave you for anything.”
    He hauled back on his crossbow string, reloading swiftly as the three snatchers slowed down, advancing carefully, ominously, not showing any signs of exertion, knives held out before them.
    “How can we kill them? They just keep coming!” Gallagher hissed.
    “We’ll hit them again. I’ll take the center one, Dev take left, Gall the one on the right,” Fallon ordered, snapping a quarrel into his bow.
    “Loose!”
    The three bolts streaked away. The snatchers were barely ten yards away and impossible to miss. All three bolts struck and all three went down – then bounced right back again.
    “What now?” Devlin asked.
    Fallon tossed his crossbow aside and produced one of Brendan’s throwing knives from his belt. The big smith had stripped the leather and wooden hilts away, leaving something unbalanced but pure metal.
    “Let’s see if these things work,” he said.
    He took a step forward and hurled the knife, which spun once, thudded onto the chest of the central figure and bounced away.
    “And now?” Devlin asked, his voice betraying his fear.
    Fallon pulled out his shillelagh. “We fight,” he said grimly.
    He watched the snatchers advance