Crown of Renewal(56)

“Go!” Arvid said. “I’ll try to hold them back as long as I can.”

Vol nodded, and both boys started along the ledge to the next-door roof. Arvid looked at the ledge. Not wide enough to stand and fight on. Could he wedge the door shut from outside? Would the lock catch if he shut it partway? He spanned his crossbow while thinking about it and set one of the grooved bolts ready. He could hear the men coming up the stairs—not running, but in a group.

He dragged some of the broken chairs and other debris over to the head of the ramp, forming a partial barricade, and threw everything he could grab down the ramp. Maybe they’d think a group of men were still up here from the noise.

The smoke smell intensified; the ramps were a giant chimney. Arvid coughed and realized he couldn’t make a stand there. He clambered out the low door onto the ledge and edged carefully along to the neighboring roof, then climbed to its peak and lay down on the far slope, resting the crossbow on the ridge. He hadn’t seen the children on roofs anywhere; he hoped they’d made it to the stairway several buildings away. He took in lungfuls of fresh air; he hadn’t been able to wedge the door, and smoke oozed out around the edges.

He heard yells and thumps from inside the warehouse, and then the door opened. Arvid planted a bolt in the first man onto the ledge; the man staggered and fell off into the gap between the warehouse and the old wall. Two men tried to push through the door at once, coughing violently; one shoved the other hard, and that man fell crookedly onto the ledge and rolled off. Arvid saw no reason to reward selfishness and shot the one who’d pushed when he was halfway out. One of those inside pushed the body the rest of the way out.

How many were there? The report they’d gotten said only “a gang of men” had attacked the grange. Arvid felt in his cloak pockets—he had only three bolts left. He glanced behind. Could he make it over the next roof before they got to him? Maybe.

He slithered down the slope, pushed himself up, and hopped to the next roof—with a fast glance at the one he’d just left—and went up the slope at an angle. As he neared the top, a bolt skittered on the roof slates, just missing his foot. Once over the ridge, he crawled along then back up to the ridgeline. Nothing on his roof. Nothing showing on the other … no, a head, but looking back, not toward him. He ducked, waited, dared another look. A man crawling awkwardly over the ridgeline of that roof, an unspanned crossbow in one hand. Arvid waited until the man looked up, saw him, and opened his mouth, then put a bolt in his neck. The man dropped; his hand convulsed on the crossbow but then opened, and the crossbow rattled down the slates to the gutter between the buildings.

Two more crossbows appeared, and blind-aimed bolts whizzed past Arvid. Next were three dropping shots he could avoid only by looking up and moving quickly to one side. Not safe at all.

Fire bells were ringing now, and the noise in the market square grew. Fire crews would try to save the adjoining buildings … which meant someone would be coming up to the roofs, Arvid hoped. Except—they would not expect armed enemies … would they? He pulled out his next to last bolt. It felt sticky. He looked at the tip—red, sticky blood.

Arvid laughed to himself. He’d been wounded with his own bolt—it must have been when the man hit him with the crossbow stock, and the bolt had cut a hole in its pocket, then his clothes, and … hadn’t penetrated very far. Knowing the pain wasn’t a deep wound cheered him up even as another bolt dropped onto the slates less than an armspan from his face, bounced up and then off his back. He dared a look over … Sure enough, someone was on the near side of the next roof. Arvid shot him, then quickly spanned the bow and set his last bolt in. The bolts shot at him had all rolled down the roof, and he slithered down to see if he they were still useful. Crawling along the valley, however, left him unable to watch for more trouble and in a bad position—he grabbed two bolts and scuttled up to cross the next roof.

He was almost to the ridgeline when a bolt struck the back of his thigh. He knew at once that it was deep and dangerous; the pain made him gasp, and his leg didn’t function. He dragged it upward, got his hands onto the ridge, and pulled himself over even as another bolt grazed his hip. Though he tried to hold himself to the ridge, he lost his grip and slid down to the trough between the buildings. One of the bolts lay in the gutter; he wondered if he’d have time to use it.

At least the children had gotten away. Surely by now they were safe, with adults to defend them. He hoped.

Arvid had time to question his own intelligence—he could have brought a helper along, at least as far as the roofs, and he could have brought more crossbow bolts. He lay awkwardly on his side, braced on an elbow to shoot the first one who appeared.