by Ben Cassidy
“How’s the face?”
Queltin touched his cheek gingerly. “It hurts like Void fire, but I can fight.”
“Good,” said Montrose. He turned to the window, staring across at the shape of the inn that continued to defy him.
Regvar ran his thumb absently down the blade of his basket-hilt rapier. “So, what’s the plan, boss?”
Montrose gave a low growl, his eyes fixed on the inn. “I’m thinking.”
Queltin dabbed at his stitched-up wound with a handkerchief. “The one with the pistols is trouble. I don’t know who he is, or what his business with her is, but he’s a demon with those swords of his. I’m not sure I could take him on again one-on-one…”
Their leader grunted. “I know.” He cleared his throat. “So we don’t try. No matter how good he may be, there’s only one of him, and he bleeds like the rest of us.” He turned from the window. “There’s another one, too. I took a shot at him back in there. I’m not sure if I got him or not. But the important thing is that she’s still there.”
Regvar scratched his head. “So how many are there?”
“At least two. Maybe three. And her.”
“So what do we do?” asked Queltin impatiently. He squirmed as he pressed the cloth against his face once more. “Another assault? It didn’t work too well last time.”
Montrose rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “No,” he said. “I think I have a better idea.”