Dancer's Lament

Chapter 17

A LIGHT DRIFT of windblown ice granules covered the body in the alley. Silk crouched next to it, reached a bare hand down the man’s chest, stone cold. More than a day, at the least. And not just another starving victim of the siege, either. Shot through by crossbow bolts – and these subsequently torn from the body as supplies were short everywhere.

‘Starved?’ Smokey called from down the alley.

‘No.’ Silk rested his elbows on his knees, rubbed his hands to warm them. ‘Looks like a gang war. This is one of Pung’s or Urquart’s.’

Smokey cocked his head. ‘Could be a murder made to look like such. We got informers, saboteurs and spies crawling all over us like godsdamned lice.’

Silk studied the cobbled alleyway. Small footprints in the dusting of sleet. Very small. Sandals and shoes, worn, some with holes in the soles. No proper boots. He raised his head to call, ‘It’s that new gang. Expanding their territory.’ He stood, brushed his trouser legs, then went to where Smokey, in a long woollen coat, leaned up against a wall. ‘I hear Pung’s in hiding.’

Smokey rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t give a shit. What I want to know is whether it’s the work of any blasted insurgent or traitor.’

‘In my opinion? No.’

Smokey grunted his satisfaction, pushed from the wall. ‘Okay, leave it be. At least in this cold it won’t rot.’ They started up the street.

‘It’s going to be a messy spring this year.’

Smokey hunched further, shuddering. He tucked his hands deep within the coat. ‘Don’t care.’ He added, muttering, ‘So long as we live to see it.’

‘Have faith, my dour friend. Burn’s Turning has come and gone – we are in the season of rising light. Kan’s thrown its best against us and been repulsed. They’ll crawl away with the melt.’

‘It’s not Kan that worries me – it’s malcontents here. Like at the Inner Gate.’

‘Mara caught them before they took control and now their heads adorn it as warning to others. Everyone will think twice now.’

Smokey grunted sourly. ‘We were lucky. We might not be next time.’ He cocked an eye to Silk. ‘What’s got you in such a grand mood?’

Silk thought about that. He was in an inexplicably good mood this day and he wondered on its cause. He decided that it was as he’d said: Kan really did seem exhausted. It looked to him as though they truly had repulsed Chulalorn’s overreach. And time was on their side. With every day that passed, the status quo solidified and opinion grudgingly shifted in their favour. In a siege, the mere survival of the defending party was itself success. It was up to Kan to prove otherwise.

‘I do believe we’ve turned a corner, my friend.’

Smokey laughed his scepticism. ‘Hunh! That’ll be the day I offer good coin to Oponn.’

* * *

Dorin sat up in his narrow underground room, more of a cell, just wide enough for his cot. He rubbed his chest beneath his thin shirtings, and remembered the chill touch of the knifepoint when it slid past his ribs. Must have punctured a lung at the least.

The cloth hanging across the doorway was edged aside and a youth entered: one of Wu’s lads. The boy’s dirty face registered surprise and he sketched a quick half-bow. ‘Wu wants to see you.’

Dorin sat up, blinked in dizziness. ‘He does, does he?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Sir?’

‘Yes sir, Dorin sir.’

‘I meant – you don’t have to use “sir”.’

‘We decided to use it.’

‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then.’

The lad was relieved. ‘Thanks. You sit – I’ll go and get Wu. Oh, is there anything you want?’

Dorin tried to swallow, failed. ‘Food and drink. And not from any tomb!’

‘Right.’ The lad left, the cloth fell.

Shortly afterwards a girl arrived carrying a wooden tray supporting a small loaf and a steaming earthenware bowl. ‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘Broth of onions and mushrooms. All we got left.’

Dorin picked up the fist-sized loaf – it was rock hard. ‘How am I supposed to . . .’

‘You dip it in the broth. Softens it.’

‘Ah.’ He ate. The girl crouched, watching him. From the edge of his vision he observed her. Finally, he asked, ‘What is it?’

‘Four of us watched your fight. They say it was the most amazing thing they ever saw. So fast it was. Like magic. Will you teach us?’

Dorin thought about that while he dipped the bread and gnawed it. The dissemination of specialized knowledge outside any guild was, of course, punishable by death. Assassins didn’t really possess an organized guild, though – too much the loners. However, they tended to follow rules similar to those of the secretive brotherhood of architects, or the closed guild of the goldsmiths, or the mystical gem-cutter guild. His teacher had guarded his hard-won knowledge and skills jealously. They were, after all, his only bread and butter. He had to sell them as dearly as possible. He’d taken only one student at a time – not that Dorin had had any coin. He’d been a charity case, taken on only because of his demonstrated ability. Teaching these lads and lasses would be seen as a gross break with tradition; a potential cheapening of all that he’d struggled so hard to possess. A betrayal of trade secrets that carried the death penalty.

He considered this while he stirred the broth with the knot of bread. ‘I’ll teach anyone who wants to learn.’

The girl shot to her feet, her eyes huge, ‘Thank you!’ She ran from the room, presumably to spread the word.

The cloth was edged aside once more and Rheena entered. She leaned up against the wall next to the doorway. She rubbed her hands down her thighs, her gaze on the floor. ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’

‘Thanks to these kids. Can you believe that?’

Rheena laughed, crossed her arms. ‘Kids? I was no older when I ran away. And that one who just left? She’s a talent of Rashan. Walks in the night like a ghost.’ She shook her head, amazed. ‘Seems your friend has an eye for talent.’

Dorin thought about that. ‘Yeah. I suppose he does.’

The half-smile fled her face and she brushed back her loose curls of red hair. ‘So, how is she?’

‘Blinded.’

‘Blinded? Gods – I’m sorry.’

He shrugged aside the apology. ‘It’s my fault. You were right. I shouldn’t have involved her.’

She hugged herself, nodding. ‘It’s the innocents who get it in the neck, isn’t it?’

Dorin eyed her anew. ‘Where’s Loor?’

She raised her gaze to the ceiling. ‘Must you . . .’

‘Where is he?’

‘Promise not to kill him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or blind him?’

He scowled, truly offended. ‘I’d never maim anyone.’

‘Just saying!’ She raised a hand. ‘All right. So long as you don’t harm him. He was just mad at you, that’s all.’

‘Mad at me?’

‘He thought we were a team. He thought he was finally going somewhere . . .’ She let her shoulders fall. ‘Never mind.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘The Wayside Inn.’

He knew it; one of the worst dives in the city. ‘Thank you.’

Her answering nod was miserable. ‘And me?’

‘You?’

She rolled her eyes once more. ‘Yes, me. What of me?’

He gestured to the hall. ‘These kids need a firm hand. Wu and I are busy.’

She dropped her gaze, drew a circle in the dust with the toe of her shoe. ‘I see . . . I suppose I should thank you.’

‘Just don’t prove me wrong.’

She jumped as if stung. ‘I’ll not disappoint you.’

‘See that you don’t.’ He gestured once more to the hall.

Rheena inclined her chin and left. Dorin finished his thin soup. When he looked up Wu was standing in the doorway studying him with the air of a pleased parent. It occurred to him that the Dal Hon mage was the only one apart from Ullara who could sneak up on him. ‘What do you want?’ he growled, irritated by that fact.

‘All hale and whole, yes? Thanks to me.’

‘Thanks to your healers.’

A flutter of one hand from the mage seemed to say A minor distinction.

‘So? What do you want?’

‘I? Why, nothing. Only your well-being, of course. It gratifies me no end to see you quite recovered. You should have seen yourself. Hood’s doorstep, as they say. Why, if it weren’t for me—’

‘No.’

The Dal Hon mage, as ever in his false façade of grey hair and wrinkled visage, faltered, blinking. ‘I’m sorry? No? What do you mean, no?’

‘No to whatever it is you want.’

‘I? Why, nothing. Nothing at all. But,’ and he raised a finger, ‘now that you mention it, there is one small favour . . .’

‘No. We’re done. You have that damned box thing, don’t you?’

Wu drew himself up looking smugly satisfied, like the cat that ate the mouse. ‘Absolutely. I, that is we, have acquired the, ah, object.’

‘Good. Then you will help me move on Chulalorn.’

The mage lowered his finger. He set to tapping the stick to the dirt, his gaze lowered. ‘Ah. Well. About that. I was thinking . . .’

‘You’re not reneging on me, are you?’

Wu now fluttered the air with his fingers, the stick waving. ‘Not a bit of it, my friend. I was just thinking that now may not be the best time, that is all.’

‘What do you mean, not the best time?’

‘Well. It’s quite convenient having him out there, after all. Suits our purposes, yes?’

Dorin crossed his arms and winced at a twinge from his chest. ‘What are you talking about?’

The mage waggled his brows as if trying to appear knowing. Dorin raised a forestalling hand. ‘Don’t do that – not to me, anyway.’

Wu’s lips drew down in a pout but he seemed to recover quickly as he now stroked the scraggy hairs at his chin. ‘Let Chulalorn and the Protectress exhaust their resources battling one another. Who knows, perhaps the king’s forces will even account for a city mage or two . . . We will then have a much easier hand, will we not?’

‘An easier hand? What are you—’ Dorin stared at the smirking hunched gnome of a mage for a moment then pulled a hand down his face, sighing. ‘You’re completely insane.’ He straightened from the cot, waved the fellow aside. ‘If you won’t help with Chulalorn, we’re done. I’ll go it alone from here on. Thank you for the healing.’

Wu was frowning his confusion. ‘But we nearly have the streets tied up. Soon we’ll be able to move on the palace itself.’

Dorin paused in the doorway. ‘I hate this damned city.’

‘Well, it does smell – but they say it’s the river . . .’

Dorin pushed past, started up the tunnel. ‘We’re done.’

‘But I have the box! It is vital!’

Dorin halted, marched back down to the short mage. ‘All right. Let’s see this amazing artefact.’

Wu clutched his chest, his eyes darting. ‘That’s not really necessary . . . You need only take my word, I assure you . . .’

Dorin extended a hand. ‘You said it’s ours.’

The fellow’s brows shot up. ‘Time’s wasting. Must be off.’ He turned to go, but Dorin gathered up a fistful of his shirt.

‘Let’s see it.’

‘Very well – if you insist. But do not be hasty. Appearances are always deceiving.’ He drew the flat wooden box from his shirt and handed it over.

Something hard clattered within. Dorin slid the top open and peered inside. He was still for a moment as he considered what confronted him. He had had no idea what to expect but this was not it: it was nothing more than a broken stone arrowhead, or spear-point. A childish souvenir. A common piece of old knapped weaponry such as littered riverbanks and coastlines.

He dropped the box to the ground and the point fell to the dirt. He pressed the heels of both palms to his eyes, took a long slow breath. Finally, he managed, slow and deliberate, ‘You Queen-damned utter lunatic. We’re done. Finished. Completely finished.’

The mage’s eager grin fell away. ‘What do you mean? Isn’t it fascinating?’

‘Stuff the damned thing!’

‘Well . . . if you’re going to be like that I won’t include you in any of my future plans after all.’

Dorin stalked up the tunnel. ‘What a loss.’ He continued on, muttering under his breath, ‘What a fucking terrible loss . . .’

*

The young derelict always sat alone in the common room of the Wayside Inn. And he cradled just the one glass of homebrew through the night. The proprietor would have chucked him out long ago if it weren’t for the fact that these days the room was nearly empty – better a few sad souls than none at all.

Dorin watched the figure from the bar. The lad looked awful: pale and sweaty as if fevered, his eyes sunken and red-rimmed. His shirt and jacket were torn and dark with dirt, as if he’d been sleeping in the street. Dorin pushed a few coins to the barkeep and waited for him to amble into the back kitchens. After a moment a crash as of dropped bowls sounded and the four men in the room craned to look.

Dorin slipped forward and eased into the chair opposite the lad.

Loor brought his gaze back from the kitchen entrance and stiffened, paling even more. Then he let go his breath and took up the drink before him, swallowing all. He set down the glass and gave a sickly smile. ‘Been waiting for you.’

Dorin almost started at that, his hands going to his waist. I underestimated this lad. But no – he’d checked out the other three already, and none carried anything larger than an eating knife. And the proprietor hadn’t betrayed any nerves when he spoke to him. Just a turn of phrase. Yet he kept his hands on the knives at his waist all the same. ‘Should’ve organized a welcome.’

A lift of the brows. ‘Tried. No takers. Dead man walking they called me.’

‘They’re getting smart. Where is he?’

‘You think he tells me?’

‘Where do you think he is?’

‘He moves around . . . a lot.’ Loor touched his ear. ‘Still got the scar. You’re good. Why’d you miss?’

‘I still hit the mark, but I was put off by Tran. He really got up my nose.’

The lad laughed, a touch maniacally. ‘Yeah. He did that to everyone. Rheena finally got fed up with it and did for him.’

‘She did?’

‘Yeah. He was interfering with her chances. She’s good too.’ He leaned forward and Dorin would’ve been alarmed but the lad had both his hands on the table, scooting the glass back and forth. ‘Why’d you do it?’

‘Do what?’

‘Fuck everything up, man! You ’n’ me ’n’ Rheena. We was a team. We could be fucking running the show by now!’

Dorin stared at the wretched figure before him. Ye gods, he just doesn’t see it, does he? Where to start? Tell him that he, Dorin, was running things now – his show?

Now he felt only pity. Pity and disgust. He waved the lad off. ‘Get out of town.’

Loor fell back in his seat. ‘What? Leave? Leave town?’ He laughed feverishly. ‘If you haven’t noticed, there’s a siege on! The Kanese are closing the north.’

‘There’re still gaps. Head out tonight. Now. Before I change my mind.’

‘What, and get captured by the Seti and sold as a slave? They’ve moved south, you know – want in on the fun.’

‘Better chances than you’ll get with me.’

Now the lad’s lips started twitching and he threw the glass back, forgetting that it was empty. ‘It’s all your fault!’ he yelled, his voice cracking, and heads turned.

Oh, Queen of Dreams. Not a blasted scene! ‘Just go. Now. Don’t make me knife you just to shut you up.’

Loor heaved the glass at Dorin but he edged his head aside and it missed to burst against the wall. He surged to his feet, wiping his eyes. ‘You ruined everything!’ he snarled, and staggered from the common room.

Dorin sat quietly for a time. The other patrons were wise enough to return to their drinks. He rocked in his chair while he tapped his thumbs together on his lap. Ruined everything. Perhaps he had. So far nothing he’d started had turned out the way he wanted.

Ullara could certainly attest to that.

Perhaps he was a jinx. Some people were. They were just . . . unlucky. People got hurt around them. Better for all concerned that he slipped away as well. After all, there was an opening in Unta.

If he could just find Pung and finish this. The bastard wasn’t even showing his shadow.

Dorin stopped his thumbs. He leaned his chair forward with a crash of the legs.

That fucking little sneak-thief shit. He knows. He’s known all along!

He stormed from the common room.

He found Wu in his ‘quarters’ – the large cellar where he kept a fire, busied himself with his charcoal drawings, and hoarded a fair bit of the gathered funerary offerings of gold and silver.

The diggers guarding him let Dorin in and Wu looked up placidly from where he sat at a table, a slip of parchment before him. He laced his fingertips together, elbows on the table, and began, ‘Well now. Come to apologize for your ill-considered—’

Dorin gathered together the fellow’s shirt and jacket collar at his throat, dragged him from behind the table, and slammed him against the dirt wall. ‘Where is he?’

Wu pulled at Dorin’s fists, his eyes bulging. ‘Now, now. Don’t let’s be too hasty . . .’

‘You know, don’t you?’

‘Well . . . yes. But please . . . he is irrelevant now. We have taken the streets. Let him hide. Everyone has deserted him.’

‘He’s not irrelevant to me.’

Wu raised a finger between them. ‘I understand. But consider. There are more than just us in this matter.’

Dorin released him and the fellow straightened his linen shirt and fine jacket of lined black satin. ‘What do you mean?’

Wu nodded to the doorway where a number of faces stared in, their eyes huge. Wu shooed them off and they withdrew. Dorin noticed the monkey-like familiar in the rafters where it yawned hugely revealing enormous fangs and a bright red tongue. He crossed his arms. ‘Explain.’

‘If you corner him there will be bloodshed. And I do not like bloodshed.’

Dorin arched a brow. ‘Really. You don’t like bloodshed.’

‘No. It’s messy and unsophisticated. There are better ways of doing things.’

‘Such as?’

Wu brightened, flashed his yellowed crooked teeth. ‘My ways. Lying, trickery, deceit, cheating, or just plain patience. He will come to us.’

Dorin remained unconvinced. ‘Where is he, then?’

Wu wove his fingers together at his chest, paced before the wall. ‘Well . . . he has sought refuge in a temple.’

Dorin felt a gathering tension in his stomach. ‘Which temple?’

Wu faced him, raised his steepled fingers to his chin, almost wincing. ‘The temple to Hood.’

Dorin looked to the ceiling. Queen-damned should’ve known it.

Two figures dressed in dark walk an empty street at night. Ice crystals of sleet swirl about them. One is short, his walk a side to side duck-like waddle, the other tall and slim, his walk smooth and gliding, utterly silent. The short one taps a walking stick as he goes; the other holds his arms hidden within his cloak. This section of the Street of the Gods lies to the east, just next to the shore of the Idryn. The only sound comes from the pancake ice-floes clacking and bumping on their way downriver.

The two stopped before a rundown nondescript old mausoleum, its dark entranceway gaping open. The burned stubs of candles layered the threshold here, along with clay cups of liquor, wilted flowers, parchment messages, and other offerings. The shorter of the two figures stepped forward and planted his walking stick in front of him, palms resting on its silver head.

‘Greetings,’ he called. ‘We wish to speak.’

A tall shape moved within the murk of the doorway. ‘Hood grants no special favours.’

Wu rolled his eyes. ‘Not to Hood – to you.’

‘I am a mere servant.’

‘A studied pose to fool the gullible. But not me.’

‘There are no false poses before Hood.’

Wu turned to Dorin, muttered, ‘This is getting tiresome.’

‘I know you’re in there, Pung!’ Dorin shouted. ‘Come out!’

‘He is a guest of Hood.’

Dorin pushed forward. ‘Perhaps we’ll just come in there and get him.’

The shape advanced as well, resolving into the youth Dassem, sword readied. ‘Then you will meet Hood.’

Wu threw his hands up. ‘You are determined to shelter this criminal, then?’

‘All are equal before the Dark Taker.’

Wu pressed a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, do shut up.’ He waved Dorin off. ‘Come. As you can see, he is nothing now. Just a rat hiding in his hole.’

Dorin spat at the doorway. ‘Rot in there, then, damn you to Poliel!’

Wu urged him away. ‘Enough. Let’s go.’

‘What of the child?’ Dorin called back. ‘You would keep him with her?’

Dassem tilted his head to where an encampment lay a little way down the empty road. Tents and awnings had been raised among the shrines and stone crypts, and campfires were burning. ‘She is safe with a family of adherents.’

Dorin allowed Wu to push him onward, but reluctantly, glancing back a number of times. When they rounded a turn both stopped and pressed themselves against the nearest wall. ‘What is the purpose of this mummery?’ Dorin hissed.

Wu raised a placating hand. ‘You shall see.’ He pointed the walking stick up the narrow alleyway between the squat shrines and crypts. ‘Ah, here we are . . .’

Two figures approached through the gloom. One Dorin recognized as Rheena. She held the arm of a slim man, slumped, his jacket torn. When he lifted his head Dorin was surprised to see the dejected features of Gren, Pung’s onetime lieutenant.

Wu jabbed the man’s chest with his stick. ‘Greetings, Gren. How the worm and the table have turned, though I don’t understand how tables turn – but that is beside the point. You understand your job?’

The fellow shook off Rheena’s grip, straightened his jacket. ‘Yes. But I want half up front.’

‘You have your life up front,’ Dorin grated.

‘Indeed.’ Wu nodded. ‘You’ll get no payment until the job is done. The east Outer Round wall here, two nights hence. Yes?’

Gren jerked his assent. ‘Fine.’

‘And until then you will enjoy the hospitality of our friend Rheena here – and my lads and lasses.’

Gren paled, swallowing. ‘Don’t let them at me. I mean it! Please.’

Wu jabbed the stick again. ‘Do your job. Don’t betray us.’

Rheena took his arm and yanked him away. Dorin watched them go. ‘Two days, then.’

Wu nodded once more. ‘Yes.’ He gestured, inviting Dorin onward. ‘A glorious boundless future awaits, yet here I am seeing to such trivial matters.’ He pointed the stick to the night sky. ‘This alone is a crime!’

‘Boundless in your imagination,’ Dorin muttered.

The young mage nodded, utterly untroubled. ‘Indeed. My imagination is boundless – and thus so my ambition and destiny.’

Dorin could only shake his head at such utter drivel.

* * *

Silk picked his way down the Idryn’s treacherous shore of frozen mud and iced-over puddles of meltwater. If he ruined the finish on his fine leather boots while on this errand he would be very annoyed. Earlier that day on the street one of the shambling destitutes had reared up before him like a terrifying vision of the future and muttered drunkenly, or as if dreaming under the influence of the d’bayang poppy, ‘Liss wishes to see you.’

He’d halted, flinching from the man’s stench. ‘What was that?’

But the human wreck slouched on. ‘Liss,’ he’d repeated over his shoulder, droning as if only half awake.

Now he found himself navigating the churned and frozen grey-green mudflats and cursing the witch thoroughly. Why couldn’t she live in a nice cottage like any other self-respecting witch? No, she had to sleep on the river shore, like some common fishwife. She was powerful, he knew, yet she insisted on living like the poorest of the poor. He couldn’t understand it.

He ducked under the lip of a wharf and walked down the slope of pilings to the current shore. The Idryn, he noticed, was lower than he’d ever seen it. Two figures waited ahead, both facing away, over the river; one squat and draped in hanging layered skirts and shawls, which one might interpret as worn against the cold, though Silk knew she dressed this way even in the height of summer; the other towering and equally ragged, the giant Koroll.

Silk nodded to them. ‘Greetings, Liss, Koroll.’

They glanced back to him. ‘You were right,’ Liss said to Koroll, ‘he really would get his fine boots muddy.’

‘Very funny, Liss. What, then, is so very pressing down here at the river? Are the fish plotting against us too?’

Koroll tilted his craggy, scarred and tattooed head in thought. ‘Few fish left here,’ he rumbled.

‘The river is low,’ Liss said.

Silk nodded patiently. ‘Yes. Yes it is.’

‘It is tainted.’

Silk frowned as he attempted to parse the comment. ‘Tainted? You mean poisoned?’

‘Tainted. Touched. I can taste it in the crayfish.’

Silk grimaced his disgust. Gods. She actually eats the ghastly things?

Koroll swept an enormous arm to the south. ‘The Kanese have not left.’

‘No, they haven’t.’

‘Why haven’t they?’

Now Silk blew out a breath and hugged himself; it was damned cold here on the flats with the plains wind whipping him. ‘Well,’ he began, tentatively. ‘I suppose they want to defeat us.’

‘Exactly,’ Koroll affirmed, pleased.

‘There is ice on the flats and the frogs are sleeping,’ Liss added. She shot a hard glance to Koroll. ‘It has been a long time since the frogs slept this deeply.’

Silk looked from one to the other. These are our mystical aids? Hood help us. What a damned waste of my time. He clapped his hands together to warm them. ‘Well, thank you for that state of the frogs report. We’ll keep it in mind.’

‘Yet the Kanese are not the real threat,’ Koroll rumbled to Liss as if Silk hadn’t spoken.

‘That chance is shadow slim,’ Liss answered. ‘None would bet on that.’

‘Yet clearly some have.’

The old woman’s laugh was harsh. ‘A standing wager that none have survived.’

‘What are you two going on about?’ Silk demanded, quite offended at being ignored – he was, after all, completely unused to it.

Liss turned her gaze directly upon him and he was almost shocked by the attractiveness of her deep brown eyes. The eyes of a very lovely woman.

She looked him up and down then pointed to Koroll. ‘He speaks of the meddler in shadows. But I say that one’s chances are too low to concern anyone.’

‘Chances of what?’

‘Survival.’ She waved him off. ‘Now go. Give our news to the Protectress.’

He set his hands to his hips. Who was she to send him scurrying off like a messenger boy? He shrugged; it was all too bizarre. Sleeping frogs and a taint in the water? ‘Very well. I will go. But do not expect to see me again.’

‘Really? How sad. You make my day, my pretty, pretty boy.’

Silk sighed, then bowed, sweeping an arm in a courtier’s farewell. ‘I would rather kiss the crayfish, Liss dear.’

She was cackling with laughter as he picked his way off the mudflats.

* * *

Two days later, at sunset, Dorin settled alone into the ruins of a burned-out cottage just east of the city walls. Kanese cavalry watched here during the day, while at night torch-bearing columns walked patrols. He waited and watched, hoping Pung would take the bait. Personally, he wouldn’t if he were in a similar situation. But that was too easy to say – he wasn’t the one who’d lost everything and gone on the run.

Far into the night, long after he’d given up hope, the golden predawn light revealed movement on the wall: a shape slowly descending. Dorin eased himself to his feet and carefully approached. From cover, he recognized the monochrome outline of Gren, now on the ground, shaking the rope and peering upwards.

Another shape descended. Dorin waited, tensed, glancing about – was there to be a double-cross? The second figure was the squat and powerful figure of Pung. When he touched the ground, Dorin straightened and approached. Both men stared, motionless: Gren sweaty and panting, his gaze restless; Pung’s eyes slitted in calculation.

Dorin tossed a small pouch to Gren. ‘For your trouble.’ It struck his chest and fell to the ground. When he stooped to pick it up, Pung’s hand darted out to his neck, jabbing, and the man collapsed. Pung ran, headed for the maze of outlying ruined cottages and farmhouses.

For a time Dorin peered down at the still form of Gren, stabbed through the neck, then he collected the pouch and turned to follow Pung’s trail. He jogged easily along, enjoying the chill clean air, so different from the city. It promised to be a clear day; good for a hunt.

He shook timbers and pushed tottering walls to chase the man out of two hiding holes and urged him out of the township. Dorin followed him east through the overrun fields, on towards copses of trees that lined the north shore of the Idryn. A famous ancient stone bridge, he’d heard, lay somewhere east of here. The Kanese probably had it garrisoned.

Best to get the fellow before he sought refuge. As he jogged along he eased his heaviest throwing blade from its sheath under his left arm.

His quarry was stumbling now, exhausted, his shirt dark with sweat down his back despite the cold. He was babbling and sobbing as he staggered along. The stiff grasses, laced with frost, sliced at both men’s legs as they jogged.

Dorin adjusted the grip of the weapon, blade backwards up his wrist, and drew back his arm just as a keening shriek tore the air above, making him stumble in shock. Pung, too, nearly fell, staggering sideways. Yet the dark shape that lanced from above did not miss. Talons spread wider than any hand-width clenched on the man’s head, tearing, and Pung howled, hands going to his face.

Immense wings buffeted the air and the huge predator opened its curved talons, rose. Pung tumbled to the ground and Dorin slowed, his arm falling.

Then Pung climbed to his feet, weaving and turning, and Dorin winced, looking away from the lacerated ruin of the man’s face, the blood dripping down the front of his shirt. He staggered off, blindly, numb with shock no doubt, and the dark shape circled above, falling once more.

The King of the Mountains struck again, knocking his prey down with the force of his blow. The predator hunched above his fallen victim, wings spread, beak darting and tearing. Pung howled and fought, shrieking. Dorin slowed to a halt. He sheathed his knife.

How long Pung writhed and screamed Dorin did not know, but it seemed a long time. Bones snapped in sharp cracks and flesh tore, ripping. Eventually the prone shape stopped flinching with every jab of the knife-like beak, and the great predator settled down to feed.

Dorin stood for a while, his breathing easing. The cold wind chilled him. He reached under his collar and withdrew an object on a leather thong – a bird’s foot complete with its talons. He studied it for a moment before tucking it back into his shirt, and then he turned away and started jogging back to the city.