“Why the hell is she here?” Nathan yelled as three men tried to wrestle him to the ground. He knocked them against the walls and tables, grunting and cursing. One got a good hit into his stomach. Hopefully that was worth losing a hand, as Nathan severed it at the wrist with his blade. The man fell to the ground screaming.

“Did she not come with you?” Arnold yelled back, fighting off his own men. Both of their magics seemed to be spent. Fortunately, none of the remaining guild members had any of their own. It was just man on man, steel on flesh.

Just like the good old days, Nathan thought as he broke a man's nose. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a length of wood whistling through the air at him. He caught it across his arm, wincing at the pain, and stabbed his blade through a gut. “Not that I ever saw. I came on my own.”

Nathan spun, fist clenched around the hilt of his blade, growling like a feral dog. Men shied away, looking to each other for courage. They found none.

Only one man seemed to have an ounce of bravery. However misplaced it was. He charged forward with a triumphant battle cry. A bolt sailed through the air, puncturing the back of his skull and punching out the front of his eye. He slumped pathetically to the ground.

“How did you find us?” Nathan yelled up to Cleo. She cranked back her crossbow, loading another bold.

“Is now really the time?” she snarled. Just then, two more guild members burst out from a door on the second level, drawing Cleo’s attention.

Fair point. Arnold turned away from the men down on the first floor and started running. Nathan followed, leaping over a smashed table. He was tired. Exhausted. If you fought this long as an assassin, you were most definitely doing something wrong. The thumping sound of heavy footfalls sounded behind him as the men gave chase.

He rushed through a doorway after Arnold, slamming it closed behind him. He was in a kitchen? A knife lay on a countertop beside him and he flung it backward as the door opened behind him. He was rewarded with a scream.

“This way!” Arnold yelled. The old man was gasping for breaths, stumbling, halfway pulling himself along counters and past walls. Compared to him, Nathan was in perfect condition.

Arnold labored through another doorway. Once Nathan passed through it, he slammed the thing closed and, with a great heave, crashed a bookshelf down in front of it. That should be able to hold them for a moment. The door rattled and banged as the men tried to force their way through.

Nathan looked around, unsure where they were. A long hallway stretched to his left and right with doors along each wall. Everything was made of dark stones and old, dusty woods. Decorative blades and ancient oil paintings hung from the walls. Low candlelight flickered from brass sconces. Arnold was bent over against the wall, gasping for air, coughing and spitting.

“Where to now?” Nathan asked.

Arnold pushed himself up with not a small amount of effort and pointed a shaky finger to the left. “Th… that way.”

Four men burst from a door, blades brandished, shouting, and started running down the hallway toward them. “Shit! Not that way!” Arnold took off away from the men, yanking Nathan’s arm as he passed.

Nathan followed after the man. A bolt screamed through the air, slicing a line across Nathan’s ear and impacting against the other side of the hallway. “Shit!” They turned around a corner and found themselves running down a set of stairs. The floorboards creaked with each footfall, descending into darkness. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Would you like to lead?” Arnold yelled over his shoulder. When Nathan said nothing, Arnold continued. “Good, now shut up and keep running!”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

They ran through the pitch darkness, stepping over crates and moving round barrels. He ducked beneath a thick wooden beam, brushing a hand across it as he ran.

Then they were running back up another set of stairs, back up toward the light. It was a labyrinth of doors, hallways, stairs, and dangerously positioned boxes and furniture that seemed to be there solely to try and trip up Nathan. His shin smacked hard against an aggressively placed potted plant as he narrowly dodged another bolt.

Two more men burst from a doorway in front of them and Arnold took a sudden and expected turn down a different hallway. “Keep running!” the old man gasped. The words sounded more like a demand to himself than instruction to Nathan. Like rats in a sinking ship, they were running out of places to run.

“Shit.” Nathan turned, chasing after Arnold. Although, now it was less chase and more encouraging follow. Every step from the tavern keep was heavy and labored, his breath heaved out like vomit, then sucked in with great big gulps. They were slowing. And fast.

He dared a peek over his shoulder and saw the men scrambling past each other, pushing through the hallways. Another bolt sailed, this one grazing his right forearm with a searing line of pain.

“This way!” Arnold slammed against a doorway, fumbled with the handle, then swung it open. Nathan ran in after and slammed the door closed behind him. Blessedly, the door had a lock. It clicked.

Nathan slumped against the wall, catching his breath. Arnold looked about to tip over from exhaustion. Looking around, they were in a wood-filled room. Boards creaked under his feet with every step, loose and weak. Dust filtered down through the stream of starlight that came from the lone window in the room. It was a small circular one, and looking out it, Nathan could tell they were on the second floor. Several large barrels and casks were in the room, stacked floor to ceiling. One of them had a tap.

He cupped a hand beneath the tap and opened it. Cool, amber liquid poured into his hands. He brought it to his mouth and drank. Ale. “Aha! Arnold, it’s–”

A click sounded over Arnold’s panting breaths. The door swung open. Of course they had a key.

Arnold hefted his ax, growling. “Stay back or I’ll split ye’ in two.” The light from the window glittered down onto him.

“I thought I told you that ain’t no way to talk to a friend.” Raff’s ugly mug pushed its way past another guild member and into the room. His arm was a bloody stump, seeping through the rough bandage job that had been done. To the man’s credit, he did a good job of hiding the pain he must be feeling.

“Told you he’d sell his brother’s soul for a sack of dirty coins.”

“Oh, no.” Raff waved a finger on his remaining hand. “I kept my end of the bargain. Your friend’s insurance was the problem. Stealing the use of my hand right out from under me.” He spat to the side. “A dirty trick.”

The thugs around him spilled into the cramped room, forcing Nathan and Arnold further back. Raff held a nasty looking obsidian ax in one hand, its tip curved and sharp. The other men held similarly wicked weapons. Sickles, daggers, some sort of chain whip. Weapons whose sole purpose looked to be inflicting the most amount of pain possible.

If it was pain they wanted, Nathan would give them pain. He eyed the men as they fanned out on the other side of the room, cutting off any hope of an exit. To his side, Arnold looked as nervous as he did furious. His hands fidgeted along the length of his ax.

The man with the sickle moved first. He dove forward, sweeping his weapon in wide swaths, as if cutting grass. Nathan spun to the side, heaving the barrel of ale with him. The sickle’s blade sunk into the barrel, holding it tight, and the weapon was wrenched from the man’s hands.

Another man leapt in from the other side, daggers flashing. Nathan moved, but too slow, and the blade caught him in the forearm. He bashed the first thug's face with the barrel, crunching bone, then pulled the sickle out with one hand and plunged it into the soft flesh of the second man. It was a mess. Wood split, metal clashed, men bled.

Something wrapped around his ankle and yanked. Chain bit into his skin. He lost his footing, slipping across the groaning wood, falling onto his back, and then threw the sickle. Someone screamed and the whip went slack. Yells and thuds echoed in the tiny attic-like room.

Nathan got back to his feet, pushing himself up with the barrel at his side. He was breathing heavy. A blade embedded itself into the top of the barrel, just barely missing Nathan. He turned, grabbed the wielder by the neck, and started to squeeze. The man tried yanking his blade free, but it was held tight. He kicked and punched at Nathan, but the blows were light. Hot, acrid breath washed over Nathan’s face as the man snarled and gasped, face turning purple.

And then he fell still, limp, fingers stopping their mad dance for some sort of weapon. Nathan looked around the room and found all was still. The only sound that of Arnold pulling his ax from Raff’s sternum.

Nathan took a quick glance at his stat screen and found that he had leveled three more times in the melee.