knew that her attacker, whoever he was, was right on her heels. She willed her body to get up, to regain her feet, and it took every ounce of energy that she had.
Somehow, she managed to get to her hands and knees, just as he came into view. It was Gareth’s dog, back again. This time he wore a single leather glove, it’s knuckles covered in metal spikes.
Gwen quickly reached down to her waist and pulled out the weapon that Godfrey had given her. She pulled back the wooden sheath, revealing the blade, and lunged for him. She was quick—quicker than she imagined she could be, and aimed the blade right for his heart.
But he was even quicker than she. He swatted her wrist, and the small blade went flying, landing on the stone floor and skidding across it.
Gwen turned and watched it fly, and felt all her hopes go flying with it. Now, she was defenseless.
Gareth’s dog wound up with his fist, with the metal knuckles, and swung right for her face. It all happened too fast for her to react. She saw the knuckles, the metal spikes, coming down right for her cheek—and she knew that in just a moment they would all puncture her face, and leave her horribly, permanently, scarred. Disfigured. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the life-changing pain that would follow.
Suddenly there came a noise, and to her surprise, her attacker’s blow stopped in mid-air, just inches from her cheek. It was a clanging noise, and she looked over to see a man standing beside her, a wide man, with a hunched, twisted back, holding up a short metal staff. It was inches from her face, and the staff blocked the blow of the man’s fist.
Steffen. He had saved her from the blow. But what was he doing here?
Steffen held his staff there with a trembling hand, holding back the attacker’s fist, preventing Gwen from being injured. He then leaned forward with his metal staff and jabbed the man hard, right in the face. The blow broke his nose and sent him plunging down to the cold stone floor, on his back.
Gareth’s dog lay there, defenseless, and Steffen stood over him, holding his staff, looking down at him.
Steffen turned for a moment and looked at Gwen, concern in his eyes.
“Are you okay, my lady?” he asked.
“Look out!” Gwen yelled.
Steffen turned back, but it was too late. He had taken his eyes off of Gareth’s dog a moment too long, and being the tricky assassin that he was, reached up and swept Steffen, kicking him behind the knee and sending him flying flat on his back.
The metal staff went clanging on the stone, rolling across the corridor, as the man jumped on top of Steffen and pinned him down. He reached over, grabbed Gwen’s blade off the floor, raised it high, and in one quick motion, brought it down for Steffen’s throat.
“Meet your maker, you deformed waste of creation,” the man snarled.
But as he brought his blade down, there came a horrible groan—and it was not from Steffen. It was from Gareth’s dog.
Gwen stood there, hands trembling, hardly believing what she had just done. She hadn’t even thought about it, she had just done it—and she looked down as if she were outside of herself. When the iron staff had landed on the floor, she had grabbed it and hit Gareth’s dog in the side of the head. She hit him so hard, right before he stabbed Steffen, that she sent him onto the floor, limp. It was a fatal blow, a perfect blow.
He lay there, blood pouring from his head, and his eyes were frozen. Dead.
Gwen looked down at the iron staff in her hands, so heavy, the iron cold, and suddenly dropped it. It hit the stone with a clang. She felt like crying. Steffen had saved her life. And she had saved his.
“My lady?” came a voice.
She looked up and saw Steffen standing there, beside her, looking at her with concern.
“It was my aim to save your life,” he said. “But you have saved mine. I owe you a great debt.”
He half bowed in acknowledgment.
“I owe you my life,” she said. “If it weren’t for you, I would be dead. What are you doing here?”
Steffen looked at the ground, then back up at her. This time, he did not avoid her gaze. This time he looked right at her. He was no longer shifting, no longer evasive. He seemed like