“Where?” Rhone’s harsh question was punctuated by another slice of his knife, followed immediately by another scream.
“Market Square,” the rebel gasped.
Carver’s blood turned to ice.Market Square. The place they’d just left behind. The square where his wife, his sister, and his best friend currently were.
“What sort of attack?” Rhone asked, his voice cutting through Carver’s sudden panic. “How will it happen? How many of you are there?”
The rebel coughed, his eyes squeezing shut. “Too late,” he breathed. “You’re too late.”
Rhone raised his knife again, but it was no use. The rebel’s hands slipped off his sliced gut as his strength drained out of him, his body slumping in death.
Rhone shoved to his feet, blood-streaked dagger clutched in his hand. He met Carver’s stare, the same silent questions flashing in his eyes. All thoughts of Tam were gone.
A massacre.
Market Square was close and the attack was imminent. But they had no idea how the attack would be executed, or how many rebels were involved.
Carver spun on his heel, eyes slicing over the dead bodies around him. He needed a clue. Anything. Then he realized he was staring right at it.The crossbow.
Rhone followed his gaze. Cursed as he reached the same conclusion. “They’re going to fire into the crowd.” Shock and horror colored his voice, and it was perfectly matched to what Carver felt.
“The rooftops,” he said. “They’ll go to the high ground.”
They would be far above the crowd, which would make the rebels difficult to stop. Carver didn’t know why the other dead rebels didn’t have crossbows. Maybe they had another mission, or they were supposed to protect the shooter. But Carver and Rhone couldn’t stop this attack on their own. They needed reinforcements. Immediately.
But the nearest city guard station was streets away. And Amryn was in dangernow.
“You’re too late.”
No. Carver refused to be too late.
He grabbed the crossbow and found a small satchel filled with spare bolts. He was better with a sword, but he’d trained with a crossbow. He could take out some of the shooters, at least.
Without a word, he and Rhone fell into step as they ran down the alleyway, weaving their way back toward the square.
Carver’s heart pounded, tension coiling every muscle in his body. The growing sound of laughter, of music, of life, was in harsh juxtaposition to the threat hanging over the square.
They reached the mouth of the alley and Rhone swore.
Carver followed the knight’s gaze and easily spotted the man on the red-tiled rooftop high above them, creeping toward the edge, a crossbow balanced in his hands. The crowded square was oblivious. No one was looking up.
Rhone cursed again. “They’re on every rooftop.”
Carver’s eyes darted across the roofs lining the square, his pulse skipping as he caught sight of dozens of men. Some already had loaded crossbows in hand and were in position to fire. The square was completely surrounded. Everyone in the milling crowd was at risk—and they had no idea. The music played on. Sellers hawked their wares. Laughing conversations rolled through the air. People ate and drank, oblivious to the danger they were in.
“We need to evacuate as many people as possible,” Rhone said, his voice tight.
And yet, they couldn’t shout an alarm—that would only cause panic, making the evacuation harder. And if the shooters spied a commotion, they might start firing sooner. Saints only knew what signal they were waiting for.
Carver grit his teeth. “We need the city guard—”
Rhone moved without warning, snatching hold of a boy passing by them. He nearly jerked the lad—who couldn’t be more than twelve—off his feet. “Look at my uniform,” Rhone commanded, his voice low and fierce.
The boy did as ordered, his eyes flying wide with fear and alarm.
That was all the recognition Rhone waited for. “Find a member of the city guard. Inform them a threat is imminent in Market Square. Rebel shooters are on the roofs.”
Blood drained from the boy’s face. His eyes darted to the rooftops and he sucked in a breath. “I—”
