He shook his head and lowered the scepter. There would be no parlaying, no opportunity for an honorable surrender--or even one of the other kind. It was his blood that they wanted, and he had a sudden premonition of acute anemia.
With a final curse and a last glance at the attackers, he withdrew from the balcony. There was still a little time in which to put a few affairs into order and to prepare for the final moment. He dismissed the notion of cheating his enemies by means of suicide. Too effete for his tastes. Better to take a few of them along with him.
He shook the rain from his cloak and hurried down the hallway. He would meet them on the ground floor.
The thunder sounded almost directly overhead now. There were bright flashes beyond every window that he passed.
Lady Lydia of Rondoval, dark hair undone behind her, turned the corner and saw the shadow slide into the doorway niche. Uttering a general banishing spell, appropriate to most unhuman wights likely to be wandering these halls, she made her way up the corridor.
As she passed the opening, she glanced within and realized immediately why the spell had been somewhat less than efficacious. She confronted Mouseglove the thief--a small, dark man, clad in blackcloth and leather--whom she had, until that moment, thought safely confined to a cell beneath the castle. He regained his composure quickly and bowed, smiling.