Mark Spain Flamenco II

Mark Spain Flamenco IIMark Spain Flamenco IMark Spain Eternal Flame
There was about an inch of crossbow bolt sticking out of its eye. The feathers had been sheared off by its passage through the keyhole.
“Wow,” he said.
The armory door swung open, revealing nothing but darkness.
One of the “Yes.”
The elves on either side of the doorway nodded at each other.
“Please?” Magrat pleaded.
“Yes.”
Shawn groaned. If it had been Mum or Mistress Weather-wax, they’d have fought to the death. Mum was right—
Magrat always was the nice soft one .. .
. .. who’d just fired a crossbow through a keyhole.
Some eighth sense made Shawn shift his weight. If the elf relaxed his grip for just one second, Shawn was ready to stagger.
Magrat appeared in the doorway. She was carrying an ancient wooden box with the word “Candles” on the side in peeling paint.