Entering the tavern from the rear with Dobby, Connor stiffly introduced Thomas to William. She purposely only used the Templar's first name, as there was no need to create an even more awkward situation. Or have her comrades attempt to kill him. She'd have plenty of time to let them know of how the two became bound together later. Preferably, after they rid themselves of the Hessian and she banished Hickey from her sight upon the natural conclusion of their Faustian alliance.
William breezily greeted Dobby with a gentlemanly press of his lips to her fingertips. She smirked in turn, giving him a warm slap of "hello" on the shoulder. He then graced Thomas with a low bow of regard in his typical, florid fashion. "A pleasure to meet you, good sir," he blithely introduced himself. Pressing one hand over his heart, he held the other outstretched in welcome. His French-accented English melodious and charming, he smoothly added, "Any friend of Connor's is a friend of mine."
"We are not friends," Connor immediately clarified, crossing her arms and giving Thomas an expression of warning. It caused him to snort back a guffaw. At the same time, Dobby arched a brow. Silently leaning back against the banister of the stairs leading up to the second floor behind them, the older assassin rolled her shoulders and shoved her hands into her trouser pockets. Barely able to bite back a chuckle at watching the scene unfold in front of her, Dobby settled for a brittle grin. "It is an alliance born of pure necessity," Connor insisted next to her, "For we are both tracking the same quarry, who in turn, is aiming to kill you."
"How diplomatic of ya," Thomas sarcastically replied, dropping William's handshake.
"Yet, do I lie?" Connor dismissively retorted.
"Sin 'o omission, darlin'-"
"Come now, I'm sure that nothing is so simple," William smiled to relieve the obvious tension between the other two. Fixing Thomas with a murderous glare that seemed to last a lifetime, Connor finally huffed in agreement. In return, Thomas raised a hand of interruption as William pointedly continued, "But considering there is little time for an explanation-"
"Actually, I could go fer one right now," Dobby brightly declared in supposed innocence.
"Or perhaps you would rather not?" Connor sharply replied out the side of her mouth.
"I'm just sayin' that you seem all wound up 'bout something-"
"Oh, so ya be seein' it too, then?" Thomas gaily interrupted Dobby while throwing his hands up in surrender. "Told ya so," he triumphantly tilted his head in Connor's direction.
"Excuse me?!" she balked, taking what most would call a threatening step forward.
"…I will settle for a full explanation at a more convenient time," William authoritatively settled the conversation while shooting Connor a look of sympathy.
"At least one of us has not lost their senses," she muttered, briskly waving for them to follow her out the back of the tavern.
As William attended church earlier that morning, the trio retraced their steps back to it. Heading to its stables, they found William's coachman, McGuire, and the coach boy, Harris, waiting for them. Harris gave a quick bow to William as he nimbly dropped down from inside the coach. Around thirteen or so, his warm, ochre skin, wide nose and big brown eyes appeared in youthful contrast to his maturing, sinewy limbs. Patting down his tightly curled, nearly black hair, he reaffixed his midnight blue cap back on his head. He then wound his thickly knit, white scarf about his neck and flexed his hands in his fingerless gloves before clasping up the gold buttons on his heavy, matching blue servant's uniform coat. Since he'd ride standing along the outside seat at the back of coach, protection against the cold was necessary.
Recognizing Connor, he smiled, "Ma'am!" while dipping his head. Yanking open the door, he also tipped his cap to Dobby as she hopped into the ornate, navy blue carriage trimmed in gold. Settling into her seat inside, she winked as she flipped him a coin of thanks from out the window. Deftly catching it and stuffing it his pocket, he gazed up at Connor, saying, "It be a while since I last seen ya!"
"Thank you, Harris," she graced him with a fleeting grin. Thomas practically crashed into her from behind, gawking at her shockingly pleasant demeanor. Clasping her hands behind her back, she asked, "How is your schooling?"
"He be a bright child, miss," McGuire tipped his tricorne to her from where he sat in the seat front. Despite his slightly stooped shoulders, white hair and whiskered chin, he spryly tightened the reins around his pale knuckles. Clucking his tongue, he murmured a bit at the duo of speckled grey geldings shuffling forward and tugging at their bits. "Boy just needs to go deciding where he'll go to be apprenticed in a few month's time."
"Apprenticed?" Connor questioned.
"I wish to go printin' 'n binding books, miss," Harris gleefully said. "Maybe one day go workin' in a great library, too! Like at one them new colleges they've gone 'n built."
"You certainly don't lack for the intellect to do so," William assured him with a light pat to his shoulder, "And as you know, I shall gladly sponsor you in such."
Smiling and rocking back and forth on his heels, the boy waited for the rest of the party to board. However, Connor and William both stopped Thomas from following Dobby in. William subtly pulled up short, quietly directing Harris to head to his usual seat at the back. At the same time, Connor whipped out an arm in front of the Templar. A tick more force, and it would be considered a solid smack right across his chest.
"A blindfold?!" Thomas grunted in disbelief. Staring at how Connor held up a black silk scarf William produced from his inner coat pocket, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Are ya bein' serious, love? Or just pullin' me leg?"
"I assume you ask if I make a jest?" Connor flatly replied. Thomas rolled his eyes as she pulled the scarf tautly between two hands. "I assure you that I do not," she nodded in disagreement. Folding the slip of silk over on itself, she added, "It is better for everyone that you are not aware of where we are headed."
"What, ya don't be trustin' me, sweetheart?" he cooed. It caused both William and Dobby to exchange looks of confusion over Connor's shoulder. Especially as the Native narrowed her eyes and wrapped each end of the scarf in her hands over her knuckles. Almost as though preparing to use to it as a garrote. Thankfully, she quickly released it, even as he added in a mockingly sweet voice, "After all we been goin' through ov'er these last few days to boot? A pity that be."
"There are alternative ways to ensure your silence," she curled her lip with derision.
"Such as?"
"Rendering you unconscious," she tilted her head in appraisal. "It would save me further trouble for at least a few hours-"
"…and the blindfold it is then," Thomas uncomfortably chuckled.
The carriage slightly shook with their combined weight as they all made their way inside. Connor sat next to William, Thomas across from her and Dobby next to him. William immediately drew the white curtains closed, shielding them from prying eyes. Such wouldn't be seen as unusual, considering the crisp cold that threatened more snow at any moment. Meanwhile, Connor ignored how Thomas' eyes lingered on her chest as he purposely leaned forward to let her blindfold him. Firmly pushing him back by the shoulder to sit, she kept her legs and feet as far away from him as possible. All in spite of how he utterly owned the space between them. Sprawled haphazardly across the seat, he attempted to throw an arm around Dobby's shoulders. However, she put an instant stop to that, gingerly picking up his hand and dropping it in his lap.
"Nice try, mate," she merrily replied, "Except I be doubtin' you want me to go accidently stabbing ya, eh?"
"Quite so, lass," Thomas snickered.
He then heard William call out in French for them to be off. The sound of the two mares clip-clopping along the stone road then filled his ears, followed by the recognizable lurch of the carriage. The ride was jerky, as expected. At the same time, their transport was expensive, the standard jostling kept to a bare minimum. The heavily stuffed, black velvet pillows lining their seats also went far in alleviating most of it. All in all, it was obvious that the carriage cost a small fortune. He sure in the hell had no complaints. That was until he heard Connor and William whispering back and forth. Since it was in French, he could only pick up a few phrases here and there. But despite his inability to see their faces behind his blindfold, the strain in both their voices signaled the news wasn't good.
"Oi there, mates!" he called out, "Wot do ya two be all furtive 'bout?"
"You will have to excuse Mr. Hi…Thomas," he heard Connor casually retort. Regardless of the slow pace of her words, the malice dancing at the edges of her voice was unmistakable.
"Ah, pardon?" Saint-Prix asked across from him, his tone ringing with his usual amusement.
"Unfortunately, he was, how do you colonists say it?" she replied. Thomas easily pictured her brow furrowing as she searched for the apparent translation. Along with the sneer contorting her face. "Oh yes, I believe it is quite obvious he was raised in a barn."
Thomas chortled, shooting a smile in her direction. "Interesting that," he shrugged, "Considering a barn ain't that much different from one of them longhouses your people be lovin' so much."
He could only hear the hasty shift of body weight and the rustle of clothes. Suddenly feeling the air flutter in front of him, he laughed even more. So it was no surprise that it was summarily met by her solid kick to his shin. It admittedly sent him cursing and swatting a hand in her direction. Nonetheless, from the abrupt creak of the carriage seats, Dobby's quick sigh and Saint-Prix's muttering in his own language, they likely had to physically restrain her.
It was utterly worth the snap of pain ringing though his leg. Particularly as he snickered, "And I rest my case, ladies and gents." Her accompanying snarl had him guffawing even more.
After a long while of hearing Connor brusquely continuing to mutter in French with William, Thomas felt Dobby her sink back down into the seat next to him. "We should be there in a trice," she said at his left. Connor paused only long enough to grunt in reply, William acknowledging it also.
They rode through town for roughly a half-turn or so. Despite feeling the cab sway back and forth around various corners, Thomas counted the turns to himself. It would be the best way to retrace his steps when he was released. Unless of course, the motley crew counted on him to do so and were purposely traveling in circles. While Connor might not necessarily contain such foresight, no doubt the other two were familiar with that sort of subterfuge. Yet after a long while, their transport didn't bump quite so much beneath his ass. It left Thomas had to assume they were either on a dirt road or the smoother streets of the upper-class districts that lay far from Boston's center squares. Likely the latter, as he couldn't imagine a man of William's wealth living anywhere else. Plus, the sounds of civilization still carried on outside. In all likelihood, they couldn't have left the city fortifications…
Without warning, the harsh crick-crack of gunfire exploded in the air, sending all four ducking in their seats at the same time as someone squealed out a shout. Followed by a painful gurgle, the carriage shuddered, jolted and then lurched at a near ninety degree angle to the side. Swinging up on two wheels, it hurtled forward for some feet before slamming back down onto the road.
Heaved into Thomas' side, Dobby's head smacked against his chin. It sent his teeth rattling so much that he nearly bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Wincing, his arms instinctively flew out. Mercifully, he caught her flailing form before her full weight slammed down onto his groin. At the same time, William was hurled on top of Connor, who'd pitched to the floor with a sharp thud. Followed by the panicked neigh of the horses, their transport staggered forward again before it crashed to a stop.
Shaking her head and cursing, Dobby frowned, "That was a solid bevy 'o pistol shots, though they be far off." Pulling herself out of Thomas' grasp, she grit, "An ambush, no doubt."
"Aye," he darkly retorted. Dropping his hands from her, he yanked off his blindfold. At his feet, William gracefully rolled off of Connor and popped back up into his seat. She took his offered hand, using it to haul herself into her seat as well.
"McGuire and Harris!" William insisted, locking eyes with Connor, "I must secure them!"
"You should stay inside, considering you are the target," she tersely nodded, "I will take care of their safety." Tightening her bracers, she didn't catch Thomas peeking out the window from behind a curtain.
They sat on the pastoral edges of Back Bay. Just west of Shawmut Peninsula, it lay on the far side of the city's harbor. Which likely meant that they were on their way to the neighboring, wealthy neighborhood of Beacon Hill before they were so rudely interrupted. The smell of seawater and wet wood from the harbor proved especially strong. Helped along by the damp chill of the early afternoon air, the scent was carried downwind from the rich fops up on their hill. "We've gone 'n got tossed inna tree right 'long the edge of Back Bay marshland," he sniffed. "Someone sure be pickin' a solid spot to go puttin' us down."
"Hopefully no one coming to your rescue?" Connor asked, face clouded with suspicion as she leaned back on her hands in the seat. Beginning to fiercely kick at the door on the side of the coach that'd hit the tree, she steadily knocked it off its hinges; it'd been forced out of its frame, trapping them on one side.
"Who would I tell?" Thomas snapped. Hastily loading his second pistol, he rebuckled his baldric. "Even then, all them twists 'n turns y'all took wouldn't go makin' it easy. Hell, they might 'ave followed you out here."
"Doubtful," Connor huffed.
"And she got the nerve to be accusin' me 'o bein' the cocky one," Thomas inhaled in exasperation. Holstering the rest of his weapons, he continued, "Between the mud 'n the tide going in 'n out from the Bay, the ground be soggy as shit. It'll be fuckin' hard to fight on."
"Ain't no redcoats about to go putting a stop to murder either," Dobby narrowed her eyes. She swiftly pulled her hewing ax from her back. The handle carved of dark maple, its curved, triangular head made its balance perfect for a small hand to wield. "Plus," she added almost as an afterthought, "They'd take a solid ten minutes or so to show up if anyone goes sendin' word."
"No matter," William flexed his fingers. "I pray Mcguire and Harris fare well."
A loud splintering of wood followed by a shuddering thump indicated that Connor finally sent the door flying open. Righting herself and running her fingers along the pouches on her belt, she felt reassured to find her supplies mostly full. She had less than handful of arrows on her. But the rope darts, throwing knives and dual, loaded pistols would serve as effective projectiles.
Palming a couple of smoke bombs, Dobby cast them a predatory smile. "To cover our exit, yeah?" she swirled the glinting silver spheres in her hand. "I mean, unless ya folks are lookin' to get ya brains splattered as soon as we step out?"
"I will not argue that," Connor nodded.
"Connor will usher Mcguire and Harris into the protection of the cabin," William ordered, "While Dobby and Thomas take on our foes." Dexterously twirling his dagger along his fingers before clutching it in reverse grip, he continued, "From there, we cut through whoever stands in our path."
"No doubt they be havin' horses we can go poachin' to go makin' an escape," Thomas replied. "Together," he pointedly added as Connor fixed him with dark expression over her shoulder. She remained silent, save flicking out her bracer blade and spinning it into its hinge while balancing her pistol in her other hand.
"Should the carriage be beyond repair?" William shrugged, "Oui." He braced his other fist over the grip of his double hookblade. The razor-sharp metal glinting in the light, Thomas winced at how much he'd hate to be on the wrong end of it. Even one half-assed strike from that, and your guts would go splattering at your feet.
"Once we be gettin' enough clearance, I'll go taking Mcguire's place in drivin' it then," Dobby squared her shoulders.
"Should you end up outside, have a care with yourself," Connor briskly warned William, "This could easily be a feint to separate you from the group. We are still unsure if they wish you dead or plan to use you for information."
"I will make do," William tilted his chin upwards in challenge. Smoothing down his neatly trimmed goatee, he thoughtfully added, "Overall, it is a rough plan."
"Like we ain't had to ever deal with worse," Dobby grinned.
"I take it you will not wander off?" Connor flatly demanded of Thomas.
"Calm ya tits, she-wolf," he jerked his head at her. Cocking back the hammer of his flintlock and inspecting the barrel, he ignored her look of consternation and smirked, "We still be in alliance, girl."
"Shall we?" William lightly declared.
"Gentlemen," Dobby lobbed the smoke bombs out of the window, "And lady, 'o course," she jestingly saluted Connor.
The smoke bombs exploding in a cloud of grey and white upon impact, Dobby and Thomas sprang from the cab on one side. Met by a swarming circle of poorly clad but well equipped mercenaries racing towards them, they began slicing through their ranks. That they were outnumbered five to one meant little. Meanwhile, Connor went out the opposite way. Grabbing a stunned but thankfully uninjured Harris by the scruff of his coat from where he'd climbed under the carriage to hide, she hauled him back inside of it. Ordering him to remain on the floor next to William, she leapt back outside. The lithe climb up to the driver's seat had her precariously balanced out in the open. Shooting down a mercenary attempting to pull McGuire from his seat, a pool of blood dripping down to the floorboards met her, staining her hands when she heaved herself up. Along with McGuire slumped forward over the reins. Biting her lip, Connor called out for him as she maneuvered his weight to the edge of their transport.
He finally groaned at her third, light smack to his face. "Forgive me," she murmured at his blue eyes sluggishly snapping open and taking her in, "We must get you inside."
"Got a bullet in me gut," his breath hitched before he took a shuddering gasp. But he was alert enough to clutch at her shoulders when she pulled him to the ground. Doubling over, he groaned, "Ain't hurt t-this bad since I got shot those few times in the French Indian War...all them years ago."
"We will soon get you to a surgeon." Connor insisted, dragging him to the carriage door, "You have my word."
"D-don't ya go worryin' yourself, miss," McGuire whispered.
"I always do for a friend," she swore.
Despite her warning, William met them outside. Removing the dark scarf from around his neck, he tightly wound it about McGuire's stomach. "To stop the bleeding, my good man," he iterated before helping Connor pull him into the coach to lie on the floor. However, William did not get back inside. "I know you are a brave boy, Harris," he dropped both hands to the child's shaking shoulders, "But remain within here. We will be back shortly." Backing away and examining his weapons one last time, he calmly continued, "However, if we are not, I want you to run to the other side do the marsh and go find some redcoats. Remember the lessons I have taught you? About climbing and hiding and how a boy as keen as you can outsmart someone when you put your mind to it?"
"I-I do, sir," Harris frantically shook his head from his seat on the floor of the coach. McGuire's head in his lap, he used his handkerchief to wipe the old man's sallow brow.
"Do that, use the hillier parts for cover, and you will easily make it. When you do get to the redcoats, tell them what happened and bring them back here, oui?"
"Y-yes sir," Harris stammered.
"Just run, Harris, do not look back," Connor commanded.
"A-aye, miss."
Overlooking the melee from the ridge some yards in front of them, Eleanor Mallow wiped at her fading black eye and tightened the bandage wrapped around her sprained right wrist. Due to her bruised ribs from their last encounter, only a day had passed since she could finally breathe without wincing. She didn't bother holding back a vicious hiss at the sight of her hired help slowly crumbling in the group's path. No matter, for there would be no escape for the assassin. Not for the turncoat and their conniving little allies either.
No, certainly not this time.
One…two…three…and four.
A scream. A howl. A grunt. And then a fall.
Blood. Muscle. Sinew. And bone.
One…two…three…and four.
They staccato of her heartbeat. The flow of air through her lungs. The dance of her steps as she hacked and slashed her way through the ambush. The only cadence Connor ever swore by. No matter how the odds were stacked against her, it proved her constant. It thrummed through the dances and songs of her people. She slowed its pulse to concentrate when shooting game in the forests of her adolescence. Achilles pounded its rhythm into the floorboards with his cane as he took her through her daily training for hours on end.
One…two…three…and four.
Connor exhaled as she threw extra effort into extracting her tomahawk from between the ribs of the man she'd hacked. Blood spattering along her coat sleeves, she was forced to plant a foot on his thigh to yank the weapon out of his corpse. Lucky for him, he was dead before he hit the ground. To be expected, considering she'd driven her hidden blade through his heart from behind mere seconds ago. As his body dropped to the snow-dusted, sodden wetland with a thud, Connor blinked and took in the chaotic scene.
A few yards behind her, William and Dobby fought next to the carriage, protecting McGuire and Harris huddled inside. Surrounded by five men, they cut a vicious swath into their midst. William fluidly lashed out with sword and double hooked blade, his movements elegantly lethal. Dobby, a brutally unyielding brawler, struck and deflected using her ax and hidden blade while occasionally utilizing throwing knives for distance. Far off in front of the duo and near the edge of the steep dip at the middle of the glade, Thomas whirled and landed a punch to another mercenary's gut. As he the other man let out a hoarse grunt and toppled over, he brought a knee up to his head. The crunch of his broken jaw snapping in the air, his scream instantly ceased when Thomas followed up by running him through with his sword.
The bodies were quickly beginning to pile up. Meaning they all had only a few minutes left to finish before word spread of the disturbance and triggered a patrol of redcoats. They'd either arrest or kill them outright. It'd probably be the latter, considering the bloodshed. Despite that, Connor needed a mercenary alive to question. She suspected who sent them, but the boldness of the ambush was disconcerting. Only a madman or an imbecile would be so obvious in their strike. Either way, both methods of operation removed a lot of useful predictability they could use against their enemy.
Ending another man, Thomas paused, spun around and shot her a lazy smile. She shook her head in disagreement and frowned in return. He only laughed at her before he marching down the incline while reloading his flintlock to deal with another set of mercenaries.
She was exhausted, though more mentally than physically. Hickey's sheer presence grated on her from the start. That much was obvious, considering they'd came very near to murdering each other at first sight. Unfortunately, it only seemed to become worse after that night in the cabin. It utterly frustrated her that she didn't know whether it was all on account of him knowing how to goad her on. Or perhaps, her discipline was slowly slipping, thereby allowing him to pry apart her defenses piece by piece.
We never seek to control, only facilitate. For no one ever fully commands the circumstances of their existence. Yet you may rule your reactions to them, girl.
She ducked and twisted to the side, a pistol shot narrowly missing her neck. Hurling a throwing knife in retaliation, she hit her mark. The mercenary's shriek trickled to a rasping death rattle before he dropped his dagger and plummeted face-first into the dirty snow. She didn't bother to retrieve her blade; over a half-dozen remained on her person and she didn't have time to kick over the body to yank it out of his breast.
Achilles' words echoing in her head, Connor shuttered her conscious to all else, save the fatal flow of her movements.
One…two…three…and four.
A scream. A howl. A grunt. And then a fall.
Blood. Muscle. Sinew. And bone.
One…two…three…and f-
Black stars prickled against her eyes as an explosion of pain ripped through her right calf. A bullet…I am shot, she coolly evaluated while stumbling forward. Hopping on one foot, she sheathed her tomahawk for her flintlock. A close quarter attack would be sure to follow, a projectile better suiting. Yet it was impossible to stay upright. Not with the way her injured leg refused to bear any of her weight. Sheer will or not, it simply couldn't handle the physical shortcoming of being without a solid limb to stand on. Collapsing to the ground was the only option at the moment.
"Well, well, what have we here?" came an irritatingly familiar, sing-songy voice from above. "A real, live, Indian, eh? Masquerading as anything but the barbarian wench she is, too. How droll-"
Connor's shot in her direction went frustratingly wide. All due to a combination of Eleanor Mallow's training and the unexpected, seizing throb that rocked through the assassin's leg. For her trouble, the Redcoat rewarded her with a violent kick to her side that sent her ribs rattling.
"Always a Templar, Mallow," Connor grit, raising herself to her hands and knees. Blinking away the sharp snap of pain ebbing through her calf admittedly took a few seconds. Judging from the reek of gunpowder wafting from the Redcoat's direction, she'd fired the shot that brought her down. "But never a pleasure," she tersely added. Mallow's vicious punt to her arm had Conner wheezing out an grunt. "Hmph," she panted, "As before, you are lacking in civilized discourse."
This time, the Eleanor squarely aimed her kick for her wound on her lower leg.
Connor choked down a howl at the impact, tears springing to her eyes at the raw spasm of agony that raced up her limb. Biting her lip so hard she drew blood, she pressed her forehead to the snowy ground. She balled her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms as she gulped down a few mouthfuls of the frigid air. The jolt of the cold filling her lungs forced her back to her senses. As well as the rather troublesome fact that the Templar now had the icy steel of her flintlock pressed to the back of her head.
"Another pithy word, Assassin," the Redcoat threatened, "Just one more fucking utterance out of you, and I'll be cleaning your brains from my barrel."
"If you wished me dead, you would have done so by now," Connor frostily retorted, turning her head to the side to take her in. The Redcoat wore the same attire as their first encounter back at the tavern in the wilderness. That her usually immaculately clean British uniform now lay stained and smudged with dirt and snow was a small comfort. "Or perhaps," she narrowed her eyes at the yellowing bruises all along the other's woman's face and neck, "You wish me to balance out your visage with a matching left black eye?"
The ruthless strike to the top of Connor's shoulder from the hefty, silver butt of Eleanor's flintlock reverberated down her spine. It sent her sprawling back to the muddy, ice-slicked ground with a grinding gasp. "That," she exhaled, nostrils flaring, "Was untoward."
"Where is Grand-Prix, savage?!" the Redcoat brayed as Connor winced and rolled to her back. She barely had time to take in the bloodied corpse of the mercenary she'd knifed just seconds before she'd been shot when her breath hitched at Eleanor's boot connecting with her thigh. "I will not ask it again, you bloody cow!" Mallow spat. Pressing her stacked heel into Connor's lower abdomen for emphasis, she barked, "Where. Is. The Frenchman?!"
Hands dropping to her side, Connor remained wholly silent. Dark eyes flitting over the Templar with defiant calculation only served to raise the Redcoat's ire. Winding up, she flashed the assassin a malicious smile as she struck out again.
But her gloating prevented her from taking note of how Connor skirted her fingers closer to the dead mercenary. Within a heartbeat, the assassin nicked his dagger from under his limp arm and punched upwards. Its edged steel met the Templar's pistol dead on. Sending sparks flying as it slammed into the silver grip, the force of the collision knocked the Redcoat off balance. Connor then crossed her wrists to gain extra leverage. Thrusting skyward, she blocked the Eleanor's follow-up in mid-air, whipping her weapon to slice deep across the other woman's wrist. Reversing direction, she feinted a stab down, only to arc it up again. Regrettably, instead of burying the blade in Mallow's shoulder as intended, it sliced through the layers of her clothes down to the skin. For she'd coiled and sprung away a split second earlier than anticipated.
Eleanor screamed in rage, the rush of blood spilling from her freshly cut artery and staining her garb. The only reason it wasn't completely severed was due to Connor rolling away from her attempt to blind her by kicking up mud and snow into her face. Missing her target, the Templar tumbled forward. Although she didn't completely overbalance and hit the ground, she still fell within the assassin's reach.
"Your emotions will always rule you to your detriment, Redcoat," Connor flatly declared, seizing her by the shirt collar with one hand and mercilessly twisting it against her throat. Eyes bulging at the sight of the assassin about to sink the dagger into her heart with her other hand, Mallow smacked out and backhanded her. The powerful blow to her chin reflexively caused Connor to drop the knife with an annoyed mutter. Nevertheless, the Native swiftly reeled back and bashed her forehead into the other woman's face. Stunned and head ringing at the brutal impact, the Redcoat hit the ground, her behind crashing into a large, icy puddle.
Unable to get to her feet as a result of her injury, Connor again snatched up the dead mercenary's blade from the ground. While flipping it along her fingers to throw, she dragged herself backwards and away from her foe. Within a few moments, she reached a tree trunk some feet from their sparring. It allowed her to pull herself into a sitting position. However, the click of a hammer being pulled back caused her roll her eyes.
"I don't think so," Eleanor sneered, stumbling forward to stand in front of her. Though she furiously blinked and the pistol in her uninjured hand slightly shook, it remained trained right at Connor's chest. "Looks like you forgot that like any expert in my line of work," she huffed, "I always carry two pistols."
"But unlike you," Connor calmly countered, gaze shifting to some spot just behind the Templar's shoulder, "I am constantly aware of my surroundings."
Eleanor smirked at that, her gun still firmly aimed. At the same time, she pressed her other bleeding wrist against her stomach in a vain attempt to stop its flow. "I know English isn't your first language, savage," she jeered, "So what in the hell are you prattling about?"
"Pretty much me," Dobby drawled behind her. Feeling a sword point immediately pressing between her shoulder blades, Eleanor's face when ashen. "Drop it," Dobby stonily ordered, "The gun of course, ya bint."
Shoulders stiffening, for once, Mallow was rendered momentarily speechless. Yet her face suddenly twisted into a malevolent smile. "Do you truly think you can run me through before I shoot your precious native?" she mocked.
"Maybe. 'O maybe not," Hickey's amused voice rang out at Connor's rear. Despite the rivulets of blood trailing down his temple and a couple of bullet holes marring his coat sleeve, he still strolled into her view full of his usual bluster. Then again, his flintlock pointed at Connor's head wasn't hard to miss either.
"Sorry lass," he chuckled with a shrug but still maintaining his unwavering bead on her. Considering he only stood only a few feet away, it didn't prove particularly difficult. "But I never really thought that ya'd go an actually trust me. Frankly, I ain't realized that ya had it in ya. Not considering how near to killin' me ya was at first."
"What in fuck all do he be talkin' about?!" Dobby demanded, though her smallsword resolutely remained at Eleanor's back.
"Well, color me surprised," the Redcoat squinted at the scene in front of her, "But it appears that you blighters have a mole in your midst after all."
Giving her a firm shove that nearly sent Eleanor to ground, Dobby growled, "Shut your gob!"
"Make me, you flea-ridden cun-"
"For fucks sake, Ellie," Hickey interrupted, briefly rubbing a palm against his brow in irritation, "How 'bout ya go 'n button up that filthy mouth 'o yours fer once, yeah?"
Lip curled with derision and cheeks crimson with barely repressed fury, Connor finally spat, "Forgive me, Dobby."
"For what?" the Irishwoman exclaimed, eyes darting between Hickey and Connor while her other hand surreptitiously removed a smoke bomb from the pouch on her belt.
"Apparently," Connor swore, "I have made a terrible miscalculation."
"Oh, if only ya knew," Hickey shook his head in disagreement.
"I refuse to insult us both by feigning surprise at your treachery," Connor snorted.
"Well, sweetheart," Hickey leered, "This usually be the point where most folks go threatenin' all sorts 'o nasty revenge at me for sellin' 'em upriver."
Chest heaving, she grit, "I assume William-"
"Be dead?" Hickey raised an amused brow, "Naw, that ain't occurred yet. Likely be soon, though."
"It may not be today," Connor darkly promised, her grip tightening along the pommel of her dagger, "But your life will end by my hand."
"See, I ain't got no doubts that ya be a woman of your word," he smugly saluted her. "Just like I ain't got no doubts that you rarely be missin' them shots 'o yours. Be it from a flintlock, or even a nasty 'lil knife. Hell," he fixed his eyes her hand that clutched her weapon to her chest, "Especially with a knife."
"Why do you insist on prattling-?!"
"Some might even go sayin'," Hickey continued, completely ignoring her interruption, "That if the circumstances be all in alignment, bringin' a knife to a gunfight can actually go workin' out better, eh?"
Without warning, he spun and raised his flintlock in Dobby's direction.
"Your brain be addled, boy?" the older assassin snapped, "What in the seven hells do ya be playin' at?!"
"The irony be this, poppet," Hickey blithely replied, "I don't ever be jestin' when it comes to evening me odds 'o survival."
And with that, Thomas pulled the trigger.