Dancer's Lament

Chapter 11

DORIN KNEW – AS did just about everyone across Quon lands – that the procession of icons and shrines celebrating Burn’s Sleep was the main religious festival of Heng. Preparations had begun long ago, the siege notwithstanding, when the official date was set by the Grand Temple. Pilgrims usually began congregating long before.

But not this year. This year the Kanese forces turned away all comers. Even those travelling by river had been intercepted and warned off. All this despite the High Priest of Burn’s hurrying by litter out to King Chulalorn’s compound south of the city to plead the case for the festival.

When the evening of the appointed day came, curiosity drove Dorin to take a look; as he left the common room the toughs glared but said nothing. They were not the least interested in the festival. It struck him then that perhaps it wasn’t that they were particularly irreligious – every one of them was certainly superstitious – it was that they simply lacked all curiosity and imagination. The shallowness of such a life made him almost pity them.

All the pickpockets and prostitutes were out, of course. Tonight should see the richest shifts of the last month. And thinking of work, he’d come very near to being called out to stick a knife into a few recalcitrant debtors today. Fortunately, the mere threat of his appearance had done the job. Again, Dorin wondered whether he wanted to be the mad dog in the cellar whose presence kept everyone in line.

The main streets were crowded with more Hengans than Dorin had seen in the last three months. They gathered round the many broad platforms that supported effigies of Burn aslumber, together with a number of lesser entities such as the Enchantress, also known as the Queen of Dreams; D’rek the Worm of Autumn; Poliel, who was the Lady of Pestilence and Corruption; and Mowri, Lady of Slaves and Beggars. All similarly sombre entities who shared aspects touching upon fate, futurity, and the struggle of life and death.

The Hengans, it seemed to him, currently shared a rather solemn and sober reflection on mortality; understandable, given their current grim circumstances. The crowds of men and women, even children, took turns supporting the massive pallets while the rest filed behind, waiting their turn. Many carried shaded candles or lamps. Dorin leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, and watched the long slow panoply pass.

In the wavering amber light he saw the final icon making its tottering way up the main avenue. It was the smallest of the lot by far: slim but tall, an effigy of a hooded figure. As it neared, Dorin’s surprise grew as he recognized the young man leading its supporters up the street. It was the dark, half Dal Hon youth from the mausoleum. And the severe looming effigy, carved of wood and stubbornly plain and unadorned, was of the Hooded One himself.

His first reaction was to steel himself for a riot. Yet the crowd of Hengan citizens did not react as he’d anticipated. True, many halted, just as startled as he, and glared or muttered their disapproval, but a few actually stepped out to join the group as it passed. Most, however, merely accepted this manifestation as just one more god in the procession. One which was also true to the spirit of the festival; for if any god could lay claim to sharing in concerns of mortality and fate, it was the master of the Paths Beyond.

Some dropped to one knee offering their obeisance and their prayers as this new effigy rocked by on its way up the avenue. On an impulse, Dorin went up to walk beside the youth leading this gathering procession. The swordsman shot him a dark look, but did not object. He wore loose worn leathers, his two-handed blade at his side, its grip high. His long black hair was unbound and lightly curled, and again Dorin knew a twinge of envy for the youth’s looks. Then he reflected that in his own calling it was always best not to attract attention.

As they walked along, he asked, ‘What is your name?’

‘Dassem,’ the fellow forced through clenched teeth.

‘Dorin. Not still angry, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you do not send me away.’

‘Because while I may not approve of you, this is where you belong – walking with this icon.’

Dorin raised his eyes to the night sky.

They completed their circuit of the Outer Round and now passed through the roofed gates to the Inner Round. A thought struck Dorin. ‘You are comfortable leaving your temple unprotected?’

‘They have given up the siege,’ the youth answered. He sounded disappointed. ‘Things are rather dull now.’

‘I can offer you work,’ said a new, familiar voice from just behind. Dorin glanced quickly back to find a short fellow, cloaked and hooded, following. The figure might be hidden in a shapeless cloak too big for him, but Dorin recognized the voice – and the manner. ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed. ‘We can’t be seen together. I’m supposed to be hunting you!’

The squat Dal Hon mage raised a finger to his lips. ‘Shh. I’m in disguise.’ Dorin resisted the urge to slap the fellow.

‘What work?’ Dassem asked.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Dorin warned. ‘He’s an utter liar.’

‘Murderer,’ the Dal Hon rejoined.

‘Thief.’

‘Incompetent.’

‘No fighting in the god of death’s presence,’ Dassem warned sternly.

Dorin scowled down at the little fellow. ‘Incompetent? What do you mean incompetent?’

The mage opened his arms wide. ‘Well, you were hired to kill me, weren’t you?’ He wrinkled up his wizened face, squinting at him. ‘Not much of an assassin, I’d say.’

Dorin raised a hand to cuff him, but Dassem stepped between them. ‘He is a bringer of death,’ he assured the mage. ‘He walks at the side of Hood.’

‘Says who?’ the little mage asked, cocking his head and still squinting.

‘My master.’

The Dal Hon – Wu, Dorin now remembered – raised his brows and nodded as if enlightened. ‘Oh!’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘Well, in that case, I yield to such indisputable authority.’

‘Just so,’ the swordsman agreed, either deaf to, or choosing to ignore, the sarcasm.

They walked in silence for a time after that. Dorin kept sensing eyes upon him and glanced once or twice to Wu; the Dal Hon was studying him thoughtfully. Uncomfortable beneath the steady regard, he demanded, brusquely, ‘What?’

A shrug from the youth. ‘So, an assassin. But not for hire . . .’ The lad, who only looked like a greying elder, raised a crooked finger as if in an ‘a-ha’ moment. ‘Or. Should I say one who cannot be bought?’

Dorin merely waved a curt dismissal. He told Dassem, ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s as mad as a cross-eyed rat, I tell you.’

‘They say madness is a gift of the gods,’ the young acolyte answered gravely.

Dorin threw up his hands in frustration.

They were reaching the end of their circuit of the Inner Round and were approaching the covered gatehouse that allowed access to the Central. ‘What sort of work?’ the acolyte asked the mage again.

The fellow airily waved a hand. ‘Oh, bodyguarding, you could say.’

The youth nodded his understanding. ‘I see. I will ask my master and see if he objects.’

‘Your master?’ Dorin protested. ‘That priest? He’s a cadaver.’

The young lad peered at him intently. ‘Yes. He is.’

Dorin studied the two, peering back and forth. Insane, the pair of them. Well, they were welcome to each other.

As they passed from beneath the gloom of the tunnel twin halberds fell, barring their way. They, the effigy supported by its crowd of adherents, and the following file, all came to a bumping halt of crowded bodies. The cowled head of the statue of Hood scraped and grated against the tunnel’s stonework arch. A squad of Hengen soldiery marched out across the avenue, blocking it. Two men strode forward and to his discomfort Dorin recognized one. It was the ragged, burly city mage from the rooftop ambush.

‘All worshippers may proceed,’ this city mage announced, ‘but Hood is not welcome within the central precincts of the city.’

‘He is present none the less,’ Dassem answered, and he pushed forward until his chest touched the crossed hafts of the halberds.

‘In spirit only,’ the other city mage answered. He bore a neatly trimmed goatee and his long hair was pulled back in a braided queue.

‘Do not make a scene,’ the first one continued. ‘You’ve made your point. Participated in the procession. Now go in peace.’

The swordsman raised a hand, gesturing to encompass the city ahead. ‘You cannot keep him out.’

The city mage shrugged. ‘None the less – go your way.’

The Dal Hon, Wu, pushed forward from Dorin’s side. He pointed at the heavy-set dishevelled mage and called out loudly: ‘If Hood be forestalled, Shalmanat shall fall!’

Dassem turned on him, ‘What?’

The city mage’s eyes widened and he pointed back. ‘You!’

Wu glanced shiftily right and left. ‘Me?’

‘Arrest that mage!’ the big fellow yelled.

Wu retreated to Dorin, who nearly flinched away as everyone’s attention followed. The city mage’s gaze found him and widened even further. ‘You as well! Arrest that one next to him!’

‘And that swordsman!’ the other city mage shouted.

As one, the guardsmen drew their blades and hiked up their shields. Dassem raised his empty hands. ‘This is a religious procession honouring the gods. I offer no violence.’

Dorin muttered to Wu, ‘I’m not going so peacefully.’

‘I predict we will not have to,’ Wu answered. ‘I sense . . .’ He threw up a hand, pointing skyward, shouting, ‘Look out!’

Heads snapped upward. Out of the night sky came dropping a file of black-clad figures who lit lightly on the street cobbles. They straightened with knives readied and glinting. ‘Get the city mages!’ the lead one ordered, and charged.

Utter panicked chaos exploded across the entire avenue. Citizens screamed their terror, ran in all directions, crashed against one another and surrounded the two city mages. The halbardiers rushed to join the guards who now pushed through the terrified crowd to close with the Kanese Nightblades. The metallic tings of thrown blades striking stone echoed all about the avenue. Someone shrieked in pain, while another yelled something that sounded like a loud death rattle.

Dorin, along with the swordsman and the Dal Hon mage, now stood completely ignored. He found it nearly impossible to keep track of the Nightblades through the shifting, pressing crowds. He glimpsed one or two dark figures dashing off into murky unlit alleyways. Meanwhile, the city mages fought to escape the horde of clamouring citizens pressing against them, all begging to be saved.

The worshippers of Hood hastily set down the effigy and retreated down the tunnel. The tall statue effectively blocked the way out of the Central Circle, rather like the grimmest of guardians. The complete panic and confusion now escalated into a riot as benches and barrels went crashing into shop fronts and a general pillaging began.

Dassem turned to the other two, crossed his arms, and cast a gimlet eye on Wu. The little mage peered nervously right and left again and opened his hands meekly. ‘What?’

The swordsman gestured to invite them down the arched tunnel. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Indeed!’ Wu answered, and he edged round the effigy. ‘I do like these night outings,’ he enthused. ‘So invigorating. And the locals. So energetic.’

As they descended the empty street, Wu in the centre and Dorin and Dassem to either side, Dorin offered, ‘Something to remember. When the Nightblades attack, they don’t take the time to shout “Get this fellow” or “Get that fellow”. They already know their targets.’

The little mage, moving in a sort of crouched monkey-like shuffle, and with a walking stick now – where had that come from? – sighed the tired impatience of a long-suffering teacher. ‘It’s all about the perception of reality, my friend. Not the slavish recreation of a true reality. That is boring beyond belief.’

* * *

A ferociously cold wind buffeted Silk where he stood next to the Protectress on a narrow ledge atop the palace tower. He hugged himself for warmth; he longed to raise his Warren for a touch of heat, but that would only advertise his presence and perhaps invite a sniping crossbow bolt, or an assassination attempt from the Nightblades. Shalmanat, at his side, wore a thick fur-trimmed cloak bunched about her shoulders; her long frost-white hair whipped and lashed about her.

It was a bright clear night, and they watched the smoke rising from various quarters of the Outer Round. Silk shivered and hugged himself more tightly. The riots had been long in coming; can’t have a long siege without the citizens erupting in a riot or two. Usually over food. This one might have been triggered by the high emotions of a religious festival, but it was really all about fear – fear and hunger. The terror over the nightmare beasts had kept the populace in check for a time, but that was wearing off.

The high winds whipped all sounds away, but Silk fancied he could hear the shouting of the rioters, the snap of the flames, and the crash of breaking wood. ‘Not a very quiet send-off for Burn,’ he observed.

The Protectress’s answering smile was thin. ‘Good thing she’s already asleep.’

‘At least the Kanese haven’t attacked,’ he offered, trying to find something reassuring to say.

‘They wouldn’t dare. Not during the festival. The entire city would rise against them.’

Silk reflected that this was probably so. Though many now turned to the Protectress as a patron of the city, the Hengans’ love for Burn remained deep. He watched Shalmanat closely. She appeared to have recovered from the shock of whatever it was that had assaulted her with the visitation of the beasts, but to his eyes not nearly fully. Her pensive gaze on the riots now, she didn’t seem able to muster anger or outrage. No, she appeared hurt, withdrawn, resigned even. That resignation frightened him. He was, he realized, frightened for her.

Footsteps sounded on the circular stone staircase behind and they turned. Smokey emerged, soot-smeared, his hair dishevelled, a sleeve torn, and a bruise on one cheek where someone had punched him.

‘I’ve suppressed the fires,’ he announced, sounding exhausted and hoarse.

Shalmanat inclined her head to him. ‘My thanks, Smokey.’

‘We’ve announced a curfew,’ he continued.

‘And the instigators?’

‘They got away. We assumed you didn’t want us to use force against the populace . . .’

Her answering nod was firm. ‘Yes. I’ll not have that. Thank you.’

‘We’ll have his head yet,’ the mage of Telas muttered, ferociously.

‘Not his head,’ Shalmanat answered quickly. ‘I want all of him. I have . . . questions for him.’ She turned away to lean once more on the stone ledge enclosing the narrow terrace. Smokey shot Silk a glance; Silk fought to keep his concern from his face.

‘His magery is strange . . .’ Smokey allowed, slowly. ‘Something of Mockra, a whisper of the Enchantress’s touch, something like Rashan. Yet something else as well.’

‘Yes,’ the Protectress agreed. She leaned far out over the ledge, as if tasting the wind. ‘Something else.’

‘If we all committed to the search . . .’ Smokey began.

‘No. Your job is to defend the city. I cannot have you from the walls.’

Smokey bowed his head. ‘Very well. However, if he can access Rashan, then we’ll never flush him out of the catacombs.’

‘Yes,’ the Protectress sighed. ‘You are right in that.’ She lifted her head to the north, her hair snapping like a banner. ‘The plains are open to us. Why are we still short of food?’

Smokey grimaced as if pained. ‘We’re hunted out, and the foraging parties won’t travel more than a day’s journey . . . They fear the man-beast,’ he added, reluctantly.

‘But they have my assurances . . .’

The mage nodded his agreement. ‘That is so. However, when it’s night and you’re all alone out on the grasslands, assurances don’t count for much.’

Shalmanat sighed as she studied the ravaged fields. ‘I see. Very well . . . Silk, you will accompany them.’

‘Pardon?’ he asked, rather startled.

She turned to study him with her odd inhuman eyes; this night they seemed to hold a touch of amber brightness in the dark. She tilted her head, still studying him. ‘It will do you good to get out, I think. To assume some responsibility. Take a large party.’

Silk was now truly frowning his confusion. ‘Protectress,’ he began, tentatively, ‘is this really necessary?’

‘It is.’ She shivered then, pulling her cloak tighter about her. ‘It’s too cold.’ She passed between them and headed down the stairs, murmuring irritably to herself, ‘Why is it so cold?’

In the silence following her departure Silk cast a significant glance to Smokey and waited. After a brief moment the latter shrugged and waved a hand in disgust. ‘That shifty mage? I don’t know. Maybe it’s true. I saw some strange things this night. But what does it mean? Cuts too close to religious history for my liking.’

‘The wars of Light and Dark,’ Silk recited. ‘I used to think those just stories. But she fears these phenomena touch upon them. She fears it mightily.’

Smokey nodded sombrely. ‘She does indeed.’

‘What does Koroll say?’

Smokey crossed his arms and smoothed his goatee. ‘Being of Thelomen-kind, he says he takes the long view in this. We must wait and see.’

Silk’s answering laugh was without humour. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

A wicked sly smile now quirked Smokey’s lips. ‘Good luck on your first command.’

‘Oh, go to the Abyss.’

* * *

The next morning Dorin was summoned to the compound yard. Here he found Pung with a large party of his strong-arm toughs and enforcers, big and small. Two favoured bodyguards stood with the crime boss, truncheons in their hands. Dorin paused only momentarily, as behind him more of the thugs came lumbering out of the common room as if to urge him onward.

He moved forward before it would appear that he was reluctant. Everyone, he noted, was armed with clubs or sticks. They spread out in a circle as he approached. It looked to him as though they thought him unarmed. Indeed, he showed no knives at his belts, but in truth he was far from weaponless. And so he crossed the broad yard careful to maintain an unconcerned, neutral blandness of expression.

Before he got too close, the two bodyguards stepped between him and Pung. Dorin waved to them. ‘What’s this?’

Pung was glowering at him, rather like an angry thick-jowled dog. ‘I hear you was with our damned mage last night.’

Dorin cursed inwardly; he’d taken a chance on none here knowing, but Pung, it appeared, had better informants than he’d imagined. He crossed his arms in a show of nonchalance – and took hold of the blades hidden up his sleeves. ‘Yes. What of it?’

Pung’s face darkened. ‘What of it?’ he stammered, almost too enraged for words. ‘You’re supposed to kill the bastard!’

Dorin nodded. ‘And I almost had him too, except for the procession. There were hundreds out. Maybe you heard about that too?’

Pung let a breath hiss through his pressed lips. ‘Yeah. So . . . you almost had him, hey?’ A strange sort of smile crept up those thick lips, rather like a crude attempt at cunning. ‘So, you won’t mind if we head on in now and drag them all up, hey?’

Dorin shrugged. ‘Go ahead – if you can find them.’

Pung opened his arms as if to embrace him. ‘Good, good.’ He waved Dorin onward. ‘Come, then. I’ve something to show you.’

He headed for the warehouse that was the main entrance to the tunnels. The thugs pressed in behind Dorin, and Pung’s two guards fell in step just ahead. They slapped their truncheons into their palms as they walked.

Inside the cavernous warehouse the only glow in the shadowed dark was one of the smithy forges. A youth was pumping the bellows and white and blue flames crackled with each gust of air through the coals. Another youth, a young boy, hung suspended by his arms from ropes; his toes just brushed the dirt floor. The bare chests and backs of both lads bore the ugly mottling of bruising together with dried streams of blood in shallow cuts from countless lashings.

For the first time Dorin’s heart clenched, and revulsion twisted his stomach. But a dark cold fury also welled up within, hardening his mouth, and he decided then that no matter how this turned out, Pung had to die.

‘Raise his foot,’ Pung told one of his thugs. The fellow came forward and yanked up one of the boy’s legs, gripping the shin. Gagged, the lad whimpered, stark terror in his tearing eyes.

Pung lifted a truncheon and tapped it gently into one meaty palm. ‘I’m told this hurts like Hood’s own touch,’ he said to Dorin, arching an eyebrow. He nodded to the tough who tensed, steadying the foot. Pung stepped in, swinging powerfully, and the truncheon smacked into the boy’s sole with a shockingly loud slap. The youth convulsed, shrieking into his gag, then sagged, almost faint, crying continuously.

Pung shoved his face close to the boy’s. ‘Going to take us to him now?’ he demanded.

It looked to Dorin as though the lad was far too gone in agony to comprehend anything.

‘The other,’ Pung ordered. The thug switched legs.

Dorin started forward, only to halt as four crossbows swung up to cover him. Pung eyed him derisively. ‘Got something to say?’

Dorin kept a tight grip on the blades sheathed under his sleeves. ‘I’ll take you,’ he said.

Pung pointed the truncheon and waved it back and forth. ‘Oh, no. Not you. I don’t trust you.’ He spun, the weapon swinging, and smacked again into the child’s foot with an agonizing slap that jerked the poor lad like a lightning strike.

Dorin also flinched, and gritted his teeth in suppressed rage. Too many. Too blasted many right now . . .

Pung backhanded the dazed boy’s sweat-streaked head from side to side. ‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Now? Going to lead us to him now?’

And the lad nodded, blearily, blinking, mouthing something behind the gag. Pung nodded to the tough, who let the foot fall. Another released the ropes. The child moaned, nearly falling, as his weight came to rest on his tortured feet.

‘Okay,’ Pung announced, tossing away the truncheon. He motioned to the crowd of his enforcers. ‘You lot. Take this kid down and bring me back the damned mage. Whole or part. I don’t give a fuck which.’

One of the short enforcers pushed the limping boy along. Gren, next to Dorin, gave him a leer and a wink and said, ‘That’s how you get things done.’ He went to the door, keys jangling.

That’s how you make blood enemies, Dorin answered him, silently.

Ten descended the steps, lamps in hand, pushing the lad ahead of them. Twelve now remained with Dorin inside the darkened cavernous warehouse, not counting Pung, who faced him. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ He nodded to his men. ‘Cover him. He’s got blades hidden on him, I’m sure.’

The four crossbowmen steadied their aim at Dorin’s heart. He opened his hands and slowly extended his arms to allow himself to be searched. Two toughs patted him down. They found short blades at his wrists, his collar, the rear of his belt, and the ankles of his soft leather shoes. When they pulled off his shoes he casually rested his hands at his waist only to have them slapped away, whereupon he held them out, hands open and fingers straight.

Hands grasped Dorin’s arms from behind. They pulled him over to the same ropes and tied his wrists. Pung signalled and the toughs heaved on the ropes; Dorin’s weight slowly lifted from his feet until only his toes just brushed the dirt floor. The ropes creaked and stretched. The toughs tightened them further then tied them off.

Pung had been poking at the sullen glowing forge. Now he came away lifting an iron bar whose end shone like a lamp. Smoke curled from its tip. He pointed it at Dorin, saying, conversationally, ‘You know, I didn’t like you the moment I laid eyes on you.’

‘The feeling’s mutual,’ Dorin answered through clenched teeth.

Pung waved the bar’s bent crimson tip so close before Dorin’s eyes that he could feel its heat and hear it hissing. ‘Good,’ he continued, ‘good. I’m glad we’re finally clearing the air between us. Honesty’s always best, don’t you think?’

Dorin could bend his head back no further. ‘I agree.’

Pung pulled the bar away. ‘Thought you might.’ He turned to his crew. ‘What do you think, lads? Where should we start? Eyes, hands, or feet?’ He held the bar straight up before him. ‘Or maybe we should just lower him on to this and let him cook from the inside out?’

All the toughs had a good laugh at that – Dorin couldn’t help but wonder how many times they’d actually done it. The crossbowmen now cradled their stocks in their arms. One had even set his down. Dorin clenched his fists and shifted the long thin blades he’d held pressed between the straight index and middle fingers of each hand. Then he grasped the ropes, holding them in his fists, and began sawing by edging his fingers back and forth.

Most of the answering catcalls were for Pung to burn the feet off first and the black marketeer raised a hand, acquiescing to the majority. ‘Okay, okay. The feet . . . first. Panet – fill one of them brazier pots and bring it over here.’

One of the toughs went to the forge and started shovelling coals into an iron pot. The men were all chuckling now, and taking bets on how soon he’d start begging, or whether he’d piss himself, or whether he’d faint the moment they shoved his foot in.

‘Grab his feet,’ Pung ordered.

No one held a crossbow now; they’d all been set aside. The toughs closed in on him to take hold of his legs. Dorin kicked down a number of them, but they laughed at that, baiting him; they were too many. They piled on, pulled his legs straight. He knew this was what they really wanted and enjoyed: this fight – a damned unfair one – and wrestling a helpless foe, but he couldn’t help but struggle to keep his knees bent and his feet high. At the same time, he sawed on the ropes with all his strength; hot blood ran as he slit his fingers in his fury.

They dragged the brazier pot over. Pung was pointing the bar, grinning as he gave orders. ‘Okay, closer. In front. Bring the right one – that one – hold it steady.’

Raging heat seared Dorin’s heel and he flinched, managing to yank it away.

‘Aw,’ said Pung. ‘He moved. Hold him steady now . . .’ His voice died away as he stared up at Dorin’s hands, frowning. ‘What’s . . .’

The combined forces of the toughs’ yanking and Dorin’s twisting and pulling and cutting did the job, and one rope parted. Dorin fell sideways on to the crowd of thugs and they all collapsed together. He jabbed the thin blade into the eye socket of one, who whipped his head away, howling, yanking the blade from Dorin’s blood-slippery fingers. He stamped the hardened outside edge of one foot into the throat of another, felt cartilage crush.

The second rope gave. A knife thrust into his side but he still wore his bone and leather vest and the blade skittered over it. He twisted his head away from another knife thrust, slit that wrist and took the knife away even as the hand reflexively opened. That knife then went straight across the nearest throat. An arm closed round his neck from behind. He punched up over his shoulder with the thin blade extended, exactly where one eye should be, and was rewarded by the scream of a hit; the arm yanked away in a slither of commingled sweat and blood.

None of them had even stood up yet. They grappled and twisted, heaved and wrestled in a slick hot heap. A kick from Dorin sent one into the brazier pot, upending it, and the fellow rolled away shrieking and batting himself. Greasy fingers groped and tried to gouge his eyes with broken nails; hands sought to twist and capture his arms. Sweat-slick, he slithered about, gasping and hissing his effort, and slid the knife down his side, opening up someone’s stomach in a gush of hot blood and bile.

A blade entered his thigh and another licked his neck. He twisted again, panicked. His groping hand found the grip of a second knife in a corpse’s belt. With both he slashed and thrust all about himself in a paroxysm of loathing and disgust. Then it was over – a bare four or five heartbeats was all it took. Yet already Dorin regretted it. He’d succumbed to blind fury and savagery in the moment. Now only he moved with any purpose among the piled bodies; all those who still lived clenched wounds, or spasmed in anguish.

No hands held him. All the limbs lying over him were flaccid. The bodies pressing against him were motionless or shuddering in the grip of fatal wounds. He straightened from the heap, pushed the slick limp arms from himself. Tottering, blood running in streaks down his legs and arms, he stepped over the dead and the maimed survivors. One fellow lay face up, gingerly fingering the blade standing from one eye as if he couldn’t believe it was actually there. Dorin calmly made for the nearest crossbow.

Pung had backed away until his rear pressed up against the forge; his face held a mixture of disbelief, rage, and horror. ‘Bastard!’ he yelled, and threw the bar, which flew wide. Dorin turned to him, a crossbow in each hand, the stocks braced against his sides. Blinking, Pung seemed to come to himself. He ducked from sight behind the forge.

‘You can’t escape,’ Dorin called. He raised the crossbows. ‘I’ve got you covered.’

The black market boss straightened up then, but he was not alone: he held a squirming youth before him by the neck. It was the lad from the bellows.

Dorin cursed silently as the man now slowly edged towards a rear door. He dropped one weapon to steady his aim; he’d have a shot, but the kid kept struggling, kicking his feet and flailing his arms.

‘Better run!’ Pung yelled. ‘I’ll find you, and I’ll have your head!’

Dorin advanced to keep a close shot, sighting carefully down the stock.

Then the ground shook and an enormous gust of dust and dirt came shooting up the tunnel mouth. The beaten-earth floor of the warehouse actually subsided in folds as Dorin staggered, blinking in the dust. He saw Pung similarly struggling to keep his footing. The roof groaned in a creaking and explosive snapping of thick timbers.

Dorin glimpsed the kid clamping his mouth on Pung’s forearm and heard the crime boss’s shout of pain and outrage. Then the boy was scampering away and Dorin snapped off a shot, but the earth was rocking and bucking and the bolt went wide. Pung darted out of the door.

A full section of the warehouse wall groaned, sagging, and Dorin spotted the lad. He was laughing and dancing some kind of jig amid the clouds of dust. Dorin snatched his arm and ran for the nearest way out.

‘It worked!’ the boy was laughing. ‘Worked!’

‘What worked?’

‘His trap! Ha ha!’

‘Trap? You mean this was deliberate? Not an accident?’

‘A’course! They come down there and whoosh! Buried!’

Coughing, Dorin waved the suspended dirt from his face. ‘What about the other lad?’

The boy stopped laughing, then shrugged. ‘Pillip? He knew. Musta run.’

At the wide front doors, Dorin propelled the lad onward, then paused. He glanced back to the buckled dirt floor and snorted his amazement, together with a kind of grudging respect. He saluted the dusty air with the crossbow then threw it in. Well done, you crazy bastard. Well done.

More of Pung’s people, youths, enforcers and thugs, had all gathered to stare at the canted warehouse. But as he limped between them, shedding droplets of blood, smeared in dust and dirt, none challenged him as he headed for the main gate. They only stared with wide eyes at what he imagined must resemble a corpse that had dragged itself free of the freshly opened earth.