[WARNING: Contains very strong language, therefore the 18+ rating] Enjoy!
Damion stuck out his tongue at the back of the retreating Duke. This caused a general chuckle to escape the Dreghs, though they waited until the Duke was safely out the doors first.
”Gods, Ryne, you can take that thing away from my balls. You damn bastard took pleasure in almost stuffing it up my ass didn't you?” Damion said with a gringe.
Ryne retracted his crossbow with a wry grin. ”Whatever gave you that impression?”
Damion surveyed the men around him with wary. ”Can they all be trusted?”
”Will a pig fly if you stick wings on its back? Fuck no, none of them can. They've been promised a Lord's ransom in gold if they make it out alive, so I guess they're loyal enough.”
Damion grunted. It was the best he could hope for. He looked the small collection of men over; there were fourteen of them, all dressed in the uniform of the Dregh-rank (the elite hit-force of the Duke) complete with the scarlet bandana that covered the face. Damion chose the one closest to his size and pointed at him.
”You there, what's your name?”
The man looked puzzled. ”My...name, sir?”
”Are you telling me you don't know your own bloody name?”
”It's Derek, sir,” he said with a hint of annoyance.
”Well, from now until we get out, your name'll be Damion Kale. And when we get the fuck away from here, you'll get half more the amount of gold for acts of bravery. Now change clothes with me,” Damion ordered.
The man – Derek – looked even more confused, but the promise of additional gold fueled his limbs and he rushed to undress himself.
Damion applauded enthusiastically.”Good boy! And while we're busy stripping, the rest of you can stop ogling like a bunch of limp-titted milkmaids and make yourself useful. Extinguish those damn fire-sticks on the walls, we want almost total darkness. Leave only a couple of them burning.”
The men lept to his order, spreading around the hall to blow out the sconces.
Three minutes later, everyone was reporting back to the Throne. The once hauntingly lit hall was now plunged into near darkness; eerie silhouettes of men stood in a group, their faint outlines blurred. The man named Derek was dressed in clothes that most propably cost more than his house, admiring the fine cut of the coat and the feel of the tight, silky breeches against his skin. Damion, in his newly acquired uniform regula of the Dreghs, slid down the sweaty bandana so that it wouldn't muffle his voice.
”Let's get a move on, gentlemen. Knives and crossbows only, no funny business. That means no explosives, you fuckwads. The last thing we want is an alarm to go off.”
Breaking into a jog, Damion shook his sleeve, dropping a thin knife into his palm. He could hear the steady drum of muted heels hitting the marble floor as the rest of his small troop followed in his wake.
He crossed the spacious hall and halted by a doorway to listen, holding up a fist to signal the others to stop. Light flooded in through the doorway, creating a vague rectangle of light on the floor. Ryne appeared at his left side; they both listened intently for a moment.
”You should let the crossbows go first,” Ryne suggested in a quiet voice, winking.
”Fair enough.” Damion turned to the mercenaries and whispered: ”Advance down this corridor in two ranks, first rank crouched. Shoot one rank at a time. Concentrate your volleys, don't miss. All eyes front. All clear?” A chorus of brief nods. ”Absolutely spiffy. Ryne and I will cover your backs, just in case.”
The mercenaries were used to this sort of a job and the order was carried out flawlessly. Two close-nit ranks of bristling bolts entered the corridor a minute later, ready for anything – except an honest-to-fucking-god army. A hundred Dreghs – real ones this time – with crossbows waited around the corner, and at point blank range, the hundred twangs of crossbows were devastating. The mercenaries were ripped apart without exception, riddled with sharpened bolts at high velocity.
Ryne and Damion took up positions in the shadows near the doorway, as good as invisible, and Damion pulled up his bandana. As expected, the order was given to see if there were any survivors on the other side of the doorway. Damion counted their steps as they closed in on the doorway. Four sets of steps. He conveyed the message to Ryne through hand-talk. Ryne grimaced and flashed a series of signals back.
This ain't gonna be easy, make a diversion.
Damion gave him a thumb's up. As four long shadows appeared in the doorway, Damion threw his palmed dagger into the far corner of the room, the resulting clatter halting the shadows as they crouched in alarm. Slowly, the men etched forward, spreading to cover all the corners, crossbows held at the ready.
One of their number slowly stalked to the sight of the clattering, and Damion slipped out of concealment, seeing that Ryne did the same on the other side of the door. The Dreghs' backs were facing them, but they still proceeded with the utmost caution, soft-soled boots making almost no sound at all. Damion slipped behind the nearest Dregh, and waited for Ryne to get to his man. This would need perfect synchronization. Damion shook out his second knife from his other sleeve, holding it back-handed.
He saw Ryne nod and counted to four in his head. Upon reaching four, he placed a quiet hand on the Dregh's lips while simultaneously driving the slender dagger through the spot where the neck and backbone met. The man crumpled instantly, and Damion made a lunge for the crossbow as it slid out of nerveless fingers, catching it just in time. He gentled the fall of the dead man with his foot, so as to reduce the sound made.
After the corpse hit the floor with a small thump, Damion straightened up and peered down the length of the crossbow, blood pounding in his head. He snuck a glance to his left and saw Ryne giving him the thumb's up; he'd succeeded too. The Dregh that hadn't continued forward flashed a glance at Ryne, and cocked his head slightly. After a few seconds he shrugged and turned back to see if his comrade had found anything. Damion let out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding.
The other Dregh that had went to inspect the sound shouted back. ”There's nothing here.”
”Well kindly get the fuck back here then,” came the answer.
Ryne and Damion casually walked back with the other two Dreghs to join their ranks with no-one the wiser, smirking under the cover of the scarlet cloths around their face.
The mercenaries were sprawled on the floor in a thickening puddle of blood, and among them, one could clearly see the distinguishing clothes of Damion Kale, the face mutilated beyond any recognision.
The way you twist it in between the action is splendid, it doesn't break up the story at all like most seem to do when it comes to description.
) 
