The holy silence of the monastery was annihilated by another sharp, savage thwip of a bowstring.
Derek's head moved a fraction of a second before his brain had even processed the sound. An arrow, black-fletched and deadly, hissed past his ear, missing him again by a hair's breadth. It slammed into the thick, dark wood of the altar behind him with a heavy, sickening thud, the shaft vibrating from the force.
He was trapped. In front of him, the wall of Royal Guards, their swords raised, their faces grim. Above him, a death-dealer in the rafters, already nocking a new arrow.
The guards, seeing his momentary pause, seeing the archer's near-miss, took it as their signal. They let out a unified, guttural shout and lunged.
He dodged the first two slashing blades, parrying their over-eager attacks. He saw the archer above him lean forward, his bowstring drawing back. He had perhaps two seconds.
