He saw John Chagan on the other side of the pantry facing the killer.
He heard a snap.
But Grigor, the Armenian who had been hurt outside the spice pantry, had stepped between John and the crossbow, and he took the bolt in his leather cuirass. Simon felt his mind moving much more slowly than things were happening, trying to grasp it all.
Grigor's eyes opened wide. Perhaps, Simon thought, he had expected that a bolt from such a little bow would merely bounce off his hardened leather armor. Or perhaps he knew that it would kill him.
In the semidarkness Simon could not see the hole in the cuirass, but Grigor's hand went to his chest, and then he toppled over.
The Tartar Philip had picked up a bow from the floor, and so had the other Armenian. Both raised their weapons toward the man in black.
Now we have him cornered and in a moment I will rip off his mask and know who he is.
The stalker's black-gloved hand flashed upward and he threw a tiny, round object into the pile of broken wooden shelves on the floor. A roar deafened Simon, and a blaze of white flame blinded him. The wooden shelves were afire, the flames feeding on the powdered spices that floated in the air. Heat seared Simon's face.
Death of God! He truly is a devil!
By the time Simon and the others had recovered from the burst of fire, the enemy was out the door and running for the cellar stairs. Simon cried out wordlessly in frustrated rage. He must not get away, not after all he had done to them.