“Turn and hit me hard as.”
Eh?
Cleavers then winked with his one eye, so Hugh followed through to smash a fist to his jaw.
He toppled to the cobbles, lay motionless.
Hugh twis–
A forearm clamped his throat and a knife waved before him, nicked his ear. “Yer dirty bloody cur,” spat the thickset cove. “Yer kick like a donkey.”
Hugh grappled the arm, to heave him aside, to the gutter, to scrabble for his own knife, but Darnell charged, thudded into Hugh’s gut and they all crashed into the brick wall and tumbled to the pavement.
Fists piled to his stomach, blade scoring skin.
He pummelled back with all he had, endeavouring to smash at eyes or throat, to reach his own knife, but then his arms were pinned. Darnell rose and crashed a fist down; blood cloaked Hugh’s gaze, couldn’t see for crimson…
Couldn’t rise…
Another fist to his jaw.
He kicked out in vain.
Blackness swam.
His hand clawed at his boot, his knife…couldn’t reach…
Amelia swallowed,braced in her stance and steadied her arm at the roiling pitch of bodies.
Then raised her aim a fraction.
And pulled the trigger on her Duck Gun.
The cacophony and recoil juddered her backwards, eyes blinded by the flash, the blast deafening, as lead shot sliced through the air in all directions, brick shrapnel from the wall showering the street in front. Her boots stumbled but she kept to her feet.
What it lacked in accuracy, it certainly made up for in spectacle as with its four barrels, it sounded like Wellington and his battalion had arrived.
She plunged the smoking gun to her crone’s greatcoat and looked up as one of the men dragged himself to his feet, turned tail and fled into the night, but the other lifted his head, swivelled, locked eyes on hers and roared as he charged.
Rough hands grabbed the collar of her coat, shaking her like a rat. “Ye little bitch!”
She dangled from his grip, the coat strangling her, scrabbled at her buttons, blood from his fist smearing her jaw.
Knife, she had to reach her garter knife, fumbled, but her boots met the cobbles as one of his hands left her, the other grabbed her throat and that fist pulled back…
Amelia slammed her eyes shut, knew this was going to hurt.
A rush of air.
The fist never came.
She opened one eye to find the man being dragged backwards, an arm locked around his neck, before a formidable blond warrior spun his foe, pinned him to the wall, roared and smashed a first fist to his gut.
The man stood not a chance against such fervent anger, blows cascading without mercy, their bodies obscured and lit in strange contortions by the streetlamp.
Her warrior then planted such a punch that his foe was hurled to the side, slumping down the wall and crumpling into a mound.
No sooner had she taken breath when another broad figure lifted from the dark cobbles and Amelia bent low, felt for her garter knife and thrust it forth.
