It was a long drop, longer than the side Xaphira had ascended, but that did not stop her. Swiftly, the mercenary officer swung herself out over the edge, just as another shot was fired at her, whistling past her head and into the night. Holding firmly to the parapet top, she dropped out of sight and hung there, stopping her momentum for a heartbeat. Then she let go and dropped the rest of the way down to the soft ground below, using her hands and feet against the wall to slow her fall a bit.
The woman was on her feet and running almost instantly after touching down, looking back only once to spot soldiers converge on the point where she had eluded them.
Xaphira had thought that, once she had escaped the confines of the Generon, she would have been able to disappear into the city. But it was not the case. Somehow, the patrols all throughout Arrabar knew to look for her, and the easy stroll she had expected turned into a desperate flight. She had at first thought to return to the Matrell estate, to perhaps gather a few things before vanishing, but it quickly became apparent to the woman that she would be lucky to reach the docks unscathed.
About two streets from the quay, that luck ran out. Xaphira was half walking, half jogging along one of the streets toward the docks, ducking from shadow to shadow, when a patrol appeared suddenly from around a corner just ahead of her. The four soldiers were surprised for a heartbeat longer than she, which gave her the chance to react.
Spinning on one foot, she lashed out with her other boot at the closest soldier, raking her heel across the side of his jaw and snapping his face sharply to the side. At the same time, Xaphira reached out and grabbed the soldier's weapon arm, which was just bringing a slender short sword up and into play. Using her own torque from the kick and levering her hip underneath the soldier's, the mercenary officer drew the young watchman forward, between herself and the other soldiers. The move prevented two other guards from attacking, as they had leaped forward to cut at her with their own blades, pulling up short at the last possible moment to avoid striking at their mate. Xaphira continued the throw, flipping her off-balance soldier completely around and away, but before she released him, she yanked his blade free of his grasp and sent it flying across the street with a clatter. The watchman tumbled to the street several feet away, grunting in pain. She ignored him and pivoted back around to face the other three adversaries.
The fourth member of the group, who had not yet engaged Xaphira, fired a crossbow at her from perhaps ten paces away. She shifted her weight reflexively and slashed out with her hand, slapping the bolt aside just enough to redirect it past her hip. The remaining two watchmen who had been forced to pull their attacks short before fanned out and dropped into defensive crouches, waiting to see what she would do. Xaphira did not hesitate, for she wanted to flee, not fight. Before the soldiers could maneuver around to surround her, the mercenary officer feinted a punch at one then spun and kicked low toward a second foe.
The first target flinched back, but the second one, thinking his quarry was turning her back on him, stepped in too confidently. He barely managed to hop over her kick when she suddenly shifted her weight over and brought her other foot up and back around toward him. The heel of her boot raked inches from his nose and he stumbled back, scowling. With him out of range, the woman darted in close to the last of the four, making several quick jabs and kicks designed to drive him back a step or two, while at the same time she rotated her position around him, placing him between herself and the last remaining threat. Then she darted in quickly, striking at the flat of his weapon with her palm open and snapping his blade free of his hand. At the same moment, Xaphira went low with a sweeping kick and hooked his heel, tripping him.
With a second soldier down, Xaphira ran forward, leaping high over his prone form and at the crossbow- man standing a bit farther back, who had just reloaded and was about to fire again. Before he could get the weapon up and aimed properly, Xaphira planted her right foot squarely into his chest and kicked off of him, sending him skidding backward several feet and reversing her own direction in the process. The woman used her momentum to spin and kick at the only soldier still standing, snapping the instep of her left foot into his ribs. He flinched sideways and crumpled to the ground, moaning.
Xaphira landed on her feet and turned quickly in place, noting that all four of the soldiers were prone but not seriously hurt. She turned to jog off, leaving them to recover on their own, when a crossbow bolt whistled out of nowhere and plunged into her thigh. The mercenary officer gasped in pain and went down to her good knee, swearing. Her hidden opponent had fired from a rooftop across the street, and she could see the silhouette of a figure crouched there, reloading. At the same time, a shrill whistle erupted from nearby.
Xaphira turned to see the first of the four soldiers she had downed up on his knees, holding a whistle in his mouth. She shook her head in frustration. Reacting quickly, the woman mouthed a quick prayer to Waukeen while making a slight undulating gesture with both hands to either side of her body. A thick, damp mist rose up from the cobblestones, thicker than the light fog that had risen up naturally from the cool night air. In a couple of breaths, the mist had completely enveloped Xaphira.
Not waiting to see what the crossbowman on the roof would do, she turned and limped away, fleeing down the closest alley, then along another street and into a second alley. From there, Xaphira sought a place to hide, ducking down behind the barrels near the net mender's shack.
Thinking quickly, Xaphira grabbed one of the bolts from the quiver hanging from her shoulder and considered it carefully. It would do, she decided, and wedged the thick wooden shaft of that bolt between her teeth.
Biting down hard on the wood, Xaphira prepared to jerk the bolt from her leg. She closed her eyes and placed both hands on it, gripping the end of the missile firmly. She took one, two, three deep breaths and, before she could think about what she was doing, withdrew the shaft from her flesh.
The motion was like burning steel sliding through her, and she gave a deep-throated howl of agony, biting down hard into the wood of the bolt in her mouth. She had to bury her face in her shoulder to stifle the cry. A single shudder passed through her body as she trembled from the pain, breathing hoarsely. Finally, the initial nauseating waves of torment subsided enough that she was able to refocus.
Grabbing at the medallion that hung from a small chain down inside her shirt and between her breasts, Xaphira kissed the image of the Merchant's Friend and softly muttered a second prayer to the goddess of trade. Then she pressed both of her hands palms down against the freely bleeding wound and held them there for several moments. As she felt the slight tingle of healing course through her leg, Xaphira breathed a sigh of relief. When she removed her palms, all that remained was the torn and bloodied breeches and a pink, puckered scar on her flesh.
Xaphira examined the bloody bolt that had wounded her. As she gazed at it, her eyes narrowed and she gritted her teeth in anger. She tucked the missile away for safekeeping and prepared to flee the city. Peeking up over the top of the barrels, she saw that the alley was clear. Rising slowly, she tested her leg, putting weight on it gradually. It felt a bit weak, but she could stand on it.
Cautiously, the mercenary moved out from behind the wall of barrels and prowled toward the end of the alley. She peered around the corner into the street itself and saw no one. Carefully, fearful that she was being watched from some unseen place, she took the first cautious step out into the open. Then another. She slowly worked her way to the end of the street, down to the docks. When she got there, she slipped into the water and swam toward a ship that sat at anchor a few yards off the pier. Carefully and quietly, she climbed up the side of the ship and slipped over the side onto the deck.
By dawn the next morning, the ship and Xaphira were well gone from the port of Arrabar.
CHAPTER ONE
10 Tarsakh, 1373 DR
Only the glow of the waxing moon shining through vine-covered trellises shielding the balcony where Emriana crouched let her see her surroundings. Even with such muted light, she could clearly make out the grounds of the estate far below her. She spotted three house guards wandering along one of the paths that meandered through the hedges and trees of the gardens. There to keep unwanted guests from gaining the grounds, they were usually easy to elude when coming from the other direction, from inside the house. The panthers were another matter. She knew that they would catch wind of her if she got too close.
The breeze carried the smell of bougainvillea and passion vine blossoms, of wandering hearts and orchids.
