The voice gave the swordsman who had lost his target a new direction.
His response was swift, sharp, and silent. The moment he heard the first syllable, he moved, shifting from standing still with his sword lowered to swift action.
He masked the friction of his long strides with his voice, drawing close. The stealthy hiss of the blade cutting through the air blended with his speech, and as he thrust, he lowered its angle slightly to improve his odds of hitting the chest.
Before the words were out, the blade was already at point-blank range.
Kraft almost thought the other man could see in absolute darkness too. But from what he could tell, the swordsman's movements were indeed based on limited, nonvisual judgment. He sensitively probed the air for clues, then swiftly pressed his attack.
His moves were fluid and entangling, as if they had shed the rigid nature of metal. He flowed with an icy, serpentine grace, like a snake hunting its prey, locked onto its target.
"I think there's been some misunderstanding, and you've gotten the wrong impression of a harmless scholar." Like a performer waving a red cloth to lure a bull, Kraft sidestepped at the last instant before the blade struck him, letting the swordsman's own momentum carry him into the wall.
The weapon became wedged in a mound of stacked bones and stones, producing a grating, tooth-aching scrape.
The pile shifted. A skull fell from above and rolled a long way across the ground, confusing the source of the noise.
Then that frustratingly calm voice sounded by his ear. "A monk—or should I call you Father? Sorry, I'm not sure what the proper form of address is. As an ordinary person, I'm not very familiar with the Inquisition."
The swordsman tried to wrench his