Temple Hill - Drew Karpyshyn [38]
A bolt of pain shot through the length of Corin's amputated arm as the assassin plunged the knife into his shoulder. Corin twisted away, dislodging the blade from the wound. He threw himself onto his back, bringing his feet up and kicking them out into the chest of his opponent before the killer could bring his blade to bear a second time.
The man stumbled back and crashed into the wall, but bounced off and leaped forward again. Corin rolled out of the way as the assassin's blade sank into the floorboards mere inches from his head, sending splinters flying. Before the Mask could recover and strike a second time, Corin scrambled to his feet and across the mattress, out of range.
Corin seized the hilt of the dagger embedded in the wall and wrenched it free, then turned to meet the expected charge, driving the blade forward to impale his foe, but his enemy wasn't there. The assassin stood in front of the door, his blade once again carving the tight little circles in the air before him.
"I can see you now. Your death is assured," he said in a harsh whisper.
Corin knew it wasn't an idle threat. Now that his enemy's eyes had adjusted, Corin was overmatched. If he tried to throw the knife the Mask would see it coming and easily step aside. In hand to hand combat Corin wouldn't stand a chance. Bleeding heavily from his wounded shoulder, he was already feeling woozy. He still wasn't even sure of the proper way to hold the dagger in his hand, whereas the man across from him was obviously an expert with the weapon.
"Tell me where Lhasha is and I'll try to make your death merciful and quick."
Corin hesitated. The next words he spoke would likely be his last, he didn't want to waste them.
Every warrior knows the margin between victory and defeat is no thicker than an archer's bowstring. The element of surprise, opponents whose eyes haven't yet adjusted to the darkness, a foe unfamiliar with the weapon he wields, such are the little things that can turn a battle. Even something as insignificant as the sound of a key at the door.
An assassin is always wary of discovery. In their profession they must be constantly aware of unexpected intrusions. Creaking floorboards, squeaking hinges, the click of a turning lock-these are the warning signs of discovery, and the assassin's attention is instinctively drawn to them.
The warrior's survival demands complete focus on the enemy before him. Every action of his foe must be accounted for and countered if the warrior is to survive.
As Lhasha turned the key to unlock her room the assassin's attention was drawn, for the briefest of moments, to the door. Corin's wasn't. He saw his enemy's distraction, and he took advantage. By the time assassin's gaze had shifted back to Corin it was too late to evade the knife hurtling through the air. The assassin realized the extent of his mistake as the blade buried itself in his throat; the last conscious thought he'd ever have.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lhasha let out a short yelp of surprise as she pushed open the door to her chambers. The light from the hall clearly illuminated the figure of a man just inside the door as he clutched feebly at a dagger protruding from his neck. Another man lay dead at his feet. The far end of the room was thick with shadows, but with her ability to see in the infrared spectrum of light-a by-product of her elf heritage-she could make out the form of someone standing on the far side of the bed, clutching his arm. She nearly bolted, then noticed that the person still standing had only one hand.
"I told you you needed a bodyguard in your room," Corin