"Beware," they whispered. "There are more of them."
Tyr moved into the shadows, saying, "Keep marching. Turn at the corner—and wait."
The guards came on unsuspecting, but this time there were three of them, talking and jesting. Tyr came out of the shadows with naked hands and he hit so fast that one guard writhed on the stone street before the others had their guns out. Another dropped with splintered ribs. The third opened his mouth to scream. Two big hands took his throat and vised on it.
Tyr dropped the guard and nodded to the prisoners, "Keep moving. Zarman waits for me around the corner."
There were only two more guards. Tyr charged low. His fists pumped.
Tyr shook himself, standing alone in the alley, with the moon above beaming down at him, bathing him in silver. The street was deserted except for a white face above a dark cloak, and Tyr. The girl had a gun in her hand.
"Shoot," Tyr said, tensing himself.
"Goose," whispered the girl, and bent her head to watch her hand holster her weapon.
"Why do you not shoot?"
"Oh, I don't know. I always was a sucker for an underdog."