Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella by David Dalglish Read Free Book Online Page B

from the front, distracting the Wolves from their descent. Except the wagon was almost directly beneath them, and still Jorry had not stepped out from the side alley, signaling the start of the ambush.
    “Jorry must think it’s a trap,” Thren said.
    “As if it’d matter,” Grayson said, finally whispering given the wagon’s proximity. “He think we can’t handle a few Wolves?”
    Down the road, out stepped Jorry, his body shrouded in a deep-gray cloak, his face hidden in the darkness of the starless night. Seeing him, Thren shook his head.
    “About bloody time.”
    He grabbed the rope and tossed it off the side of the wall. Looping it twice around his wrist, he leaped off, descending at a reckless speed. The wagon was beneath him, the rope hanging several feet above the driver’s head. Into the cart’s center Thren fell, his feet landing hard atop one of the crates. Before the driver could even let out a word, Thren was in the front seat, his short swords drawn, their tips pressed against the driver’s throat.
    “Now’s not a time to make noise,” Thren told him as Grayson dropped into the wagon with a thud. The lone donkey pulling the cart came to a stop as the driver pulled on the reins.
    “I got nothing you’d be interested in,” said the driver. He was a young man with hardly any meat hanging on his bones. “Just some flour that needs delivering before the ovens fire up in the morning.”
    “Flour, eh?” Grayson asked from behind him. “Care if I open up one of these to take a look?”
    The driver started to look back, then stopped at Thren’s glare.
    “Go ahead,” he said. “That flour ain’t worth my life.”
    As Grayson bent down, Thren dared a look up the alley. Jorry was nowhere to be found. It put a rock into Thren’s stomach, a certainty that things moved beyond his understanding, and he didn’t like it. Before Grayson could get one of the crates open, a call sounded from the direction in which the wagon had come. The driver tensed, and Thren spared another look.
    Running down the road, their armor rattling, were a half dozen armed mercenaries.
    The driver’s eyes were wide with terror when he saw Thren’s glare.
    “I didn’t—” he started to say, but Thren struck the side of the man’s head with the pommel of his sword, knocking him out. As the body collapsed, Thren shoved him out of the driver’s seat and reached for the reins.
    “No time,” Grayson said, hopping out of the wagon with his two short swords drawn. “Get your ass over here, Thren.”
    Thren swore, then drew his own two blades. As the six men came running, Thren spared a glance, only to confirm to himself that Jorry had left them to die.
    You idiot , thought Thren. You’re about to be sorely disappointed.
    With just two against six, the mercenaries clearly were not expecting a fight.
    “Stay where you are,” one of them commanded as the others drew their swords. Thren stood beside Grayson, each settling into a combat stance, letting their gray cloaks fall across their bodies to hide the positioning of their arms and legs.
    “This business does not concern you,” Thren said, taking a small step to his left to give Grayson more room to maneuver when the fight began. “Go on back to whoever pays for the privilege to hold your leash.”
    “By the authority of Lord Leon Connington, we demand you turn over that wagon for inspection,” said the mercenaries’ leader, seemingly unbothered by Thren’s comment.
    “Is that so?” asked Grayson. “And if we don’t?”
    The man opened his mouth, no doubt to issue a threat, but he had no chance to give it. Thren lunged, extending his arm to the fullest. The tip of his short sword slipped into the flesh of the man’s throat, not far, just enough to leave a slender gap when Thren pulled back. Just enough to leave him gagging on his own blood.
    Grayson exploded into motion so that when Thren fell back, the giant man was assaulting the right side of their group,