Night of Knives

CHAPTER FOUR

A lone orange ember flickered dully within a maelstrom at the heart of an icy ocean. It bobbed and surged with each heave of the fisherman’s oars that cracked and clattered off chunks of ice. Circling at a distance, Riders plunged and reared, darting in close then submerging. Javelins of ice hurled at the skiff burst into clouds of mist. The fisherman forced his chant through lips frozen to his teeth.

One Rider dared to lunge within the circle of calm surrounding the fisherman. Wave-borne, it reared close only to howl and beat at its arms as its glittering pearl armour melted, then it plunged beneath the boiling surface. Far off, amid the whitecaps and rafts of ice, five indigo-robed Riders watched, conferring. They cradled amethyst wands at their chests. Cold pulsed from them as an expanding sphere. Kneeing their churning wave-mounts, they dispersed. One raised its wand to the south.

Out of the heaving waters from far under the clouds came yet another crag of ice, this one the smallest of the flotilla. Riders at all sides shepherded its progress. The fisherman rowed on oblivious, back hunched, his whole being focused on the effort of rowing and his song. The berg loomed closer, a dark shape frozen at its heart.

The instant vapour burst from the iceberg’s leading spur the Riders plunged beneath the ice-mulched surface. Water poured in torrents down the crag’s shoulders while the gale tore streamers of frost smoke from its peak. When a shard of glacial emerald calved from its front, it raised a fountain of spray that rolled north to the skiff and disappeared under its bow. Now from the heart of the berg jutted a prow of wood. Water streamed from it, driving wisps of cloud into the wind. Caught in a mountain of ice, it bore down on the tiny skiff.

The fisherman, his back against the thrashing wind, continued rowing as the berg entombing Rheni’s Dream shattered and slid into the waves. He chanted on even as the prow of Rheni’s Dream loomed over him. He was pulling on the oars as the skiff was smashed to shards and the glowing brazier extinguished in an explosion of steam as it was driven beneath the waves. Rheni’s Dream bore on, listing, its planks heaved and warped. Caught broadside by a massive wave, it rolled further, seemed to hesitate, then ploughed into the sea. Amid the wreckage left behind one oar floated. A sheath of ice gleamed over it already. Stormriders surged past the wreck. Some raised their ice-lances high overhead and brought them down, pointing north. At the horizon of cloud and storm-tossed sea, lightning revealed a dark smudge of land.

High combers flung themselves against the south shore, driven by a freezing wind. A woman, her long black hair and layered skirts snapping, picked her way down the rock-strewn shore. She held a woven shawl close at her shoulders as she took a footpath down to a driftwood and sod hut just above the strand. Pushing open the wooden door, she peered into the dim interior. Within sat a woman, motionless, facing the door, knitting forgotten in her lap. Her bright white eyes glowed in the darkness.

The woman at the door shivered. ‘It’s me, Agayla.’ Her breath hung in the cottage’s frigid air. She stepped closer; hoarfrost crackled beneath her shoes. Ice crystals glittered on the blackened logs in the fireplace. Frost layered the sitting woman’s lips and eyes.

Agayla reached out to gather up the knitting but the wool shattered into fragments.

In what little moonlight penetrated the churning clouds, Agayla walked the edge of the strand where driftwood and old planking lay beached by the high waves. Steam rose from the freshest seawrack of dead fish and seaweed. She gazed steadily to the south, to the horizon of sea and cloud where past the foam of whitecaps flashed a bright glimmer of emerald and azure. Her route took her to a point of tall rock overlooking the shore. Another figure stood there already, an old man in shapeless brown robes, bald but for a fringe of long white hair that whipped in the wind. Arms crossed, he scowled southward.

‘Have you ever seen anything like it, Agayla?’ he said without turning as she drew near. His words reached her easily despite the roaring wind.

Skirts raised in one hand, Agayla picked her path carefully over the rocks. ‘There has never been the lik’e since the earliest assaults, Obo.’ She stopped beside him, pulled her shawl tighter.

He grunted, glowered even more deeply. ‘And the fisherman?’ Obo asked, cocking a brow at her.

‘Overcome. He was out there all alone. They knew how naked we are. They could sense it.’

‘That fool, Surly, trying to outlaw magery on the island. Why didn’t she stop to consider why this island should be such a hotbed of talent? Wind-whistlers, sea-soothers, wax-witches, warlocks, Dragons deck readers. You name it. The Riders dared not come within hundreds of leagues.’

‘She didn’t know because no one knew, Obo,’ Agayla observed.

He spat to one side. ‘I’m leaving. We can’t stop this.’

She lanced him a glare. ‘Certainly. Run back to your tower. We both know you could keep it secure. But what of the island? How would you like living on a lifeless rock continually besieged by the Riders?’

He sniffed. ‘Might have its advantages.’

Scornful, she shook her head. ‘Don’t try that. You’ve anchored yourself here in your tower and it sits on this island. You have to commit yourself. You’ve no choice.’

Obo’s mouth puckered as if tasting something repugnant. He raised his chin to the south. ‘We can’t win anyway. The two of us aren’t enough.’

‘I know. That’s why I asked someone else.’

‘What?’ Obo spun to her. ‘How dare you! Who? Who is it? Who’s coming? It’s not that raving lunatic is it?’

‘By the Powers, no. Not him. He’s chosen another path in any case. No, it’s someone else.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t,’ Agayla sighed. ‘In the meantime we must still resist.’

‘If I don’t like who you’ve asked, I’ll leave. I swear.’

‘Yes, Obo.’

As if caught in a sudden gust, Agayla wavered, took a step back to steady herself against an invisible pressure. She reached behind to a waist-high rock to brace herself and leaned against it, massaging her brow. ‘Gods above. I’ve never felt anything so strong.’

Nodding, Obo crossed his arms again. ‘Single-minded bastards, ain’t they?’

Temper opened his eyes to find himself once again at the siege of Y’Ghatan. It was his old nightmare. The one that he relived over and over, dreaming and awake. Yet it had been a long time since it had returned, and it troubled him that he should find himself here now once more.

He heard cloth lashing and snapping in the unrelenting wind, orders barked from somewhere nearby. The air stank of burnt leather and rotting flesh. His doubts and lingering sense of unease dispersed like a pan of water left out under the burning Seven Cities sun. Serried ranks of Malazan regulars stood, backs to him, before a flat field scoured by blowing sand. Bodies dotted the plain and a forest of spears and javelins jutted from the ground at sickening angles. Through the dust rose the dun walls of the first escarpment to the four levels of the ancient ruins. The fortifications looked to Temper like nothing more solid than simple rammed earth. Beyond, the jagged incisor-like ridges of the Thalas Mountains darkened the northern horizon.

Flags snapped in the strong wind. Orders carried, distorted by the wind’s own voice. Soldiers marched. Temper squinted into the dust, pushed back his helmet and hawked up grit. A canteen thumped against the chest of his scaled hauberk. He took it with a nod to the bearded and armoured man at his side. ‘Thanks, Point.’

‘What in Burn’s Wisdom are we doing in this god-forsaken waste?’ Point grumbled as he drew on his own helmet, an iron pot bearing cheek guards embossed to resemble the jaws of a roaring lion.

Temper said nothing. There was little to say. Point grumbled about everything; it was his way. Across the lines mixed Gral, Debrahl and Tregyn of the Y’Ghatan guard rode back and forth, shouting insults hoarse and unintelligible from this distance, clashing their swords against round bronze-faced shields. Temper turned to examine the rippling white walls of the command tent. ‘The last one, he says.’

Point snorted. ‘Not in this rat’s nest of a land. There’ll always be another, and another. These people will never face the truth.’

Temper watched the snapping cloth, the marines standing guard at the entrance, and his four brother bodyguards waiting next to them. ‘Maybe so. But he says it’s his last.’

Point glanced at him, his eyes narrow within the shade of his helm. ‘You don’t really believe that. He’s always sayin’ that.’

‘I don’t know. That Bloorgian priest, Lanesh — you’ve heard the things he’s been ranting.’

Point slapped the sword sheathed at his side. ‘That pig. He’s just eaten up that Dassem’s closer to Hood than he’ll ever be. Ferrule says we ought to gut him, and for once I agree with that murdering brute.’

Temper straightened as the tent flap was thrown back and officers filed out. ‘Here they come.’

Dassem stepped out, his horsehair-plumed helm under one arm. The four others of his ‘sword’ bodyguard met him there. Soldiers nearby in the ranks shouted, ‘Hail the Sword!’ Dassem raised a gauntleted hand in answer. A few of the mage cadre emerged: old man A’Karonys with a staff taller than he was; the giant Bedurian; the woman Nightchill; and the short bald walking stump of a man, Hairlock.

Point murmured, ‘I wish the old ogre was still around. He always kept that bitch in check.’

Temper grunted agreement. The bitch, Surly, remained hidden within the tent. Talian and Falaran Sub-Fists and commanders came out and headed to their posts. In their wake they left messengers running with last minute orders. From behind the city walls horns sounded distant alarm. After a last dust-ridden pass and javelin toss, the harrying Y’Ghatan cavalry withdrew.

The assault lasted through the entire day. The thunder and roar of battle rose and fell as flank commanders probed the defences, searching for a weakness. Smoke and the stench of burnt flesh washed over Temper as A’Karonys lashed the walls with flames, only to be pushed back by what remained of the Holy Falah’d. Ranged around Dassem, Sword of the Empire and commander of the Imperial forces, Temper and his brethren watched and waited through the day’s punishing heat for the time when the Sword would commit itself to the field. Runners came and went, conveying intelligence to Dassem, relaying his orders. A company of saboteurs emerged from the churning winds. Caked in dust but grinning, they saluted Dassem. Somewhere, the defences had been breached.

Slowly, step by step, the regular infantry advanced. They scrambled up the first incline of the lowest terrace to the broached first ring of walls. Here the Imperial sappers had done their work, undermining and blasting entire sections. So far, the defenders held a death-grip on these breaches. Piled cask and timber barriers went up at night, while each day the Malazans tore them down. Scaling a siege ramp, Temper calculated that every footstep taken up the dusty rotten slope cost a thousand men. An impenetrable cloud of reddish dust obscured everything. Ahead, muted screams and the thundering clash of arms reached him through the gusting wind.

Temper scanned the next walls — no more than heaped sun-baked mud bricks. Why here at this pathetic backwater? Why had the surviving rag-ends of insurrectionist armies and a last few newly anointed Falah’d converged here? Prisoners boasted of its extraordinary antiquity and named it the hidden progenitor of all the Holy Cities themselves. A convenient claim now that all the rest had fallen, and a sad one too. It spoke of just how far a proud civilization had been reduced. The last undignified scrambling of a defeated people.

Dassem gestured to his signal corps and the messengers stopped coming; he had turned over the battle to the sub-commanders of the Third Army: Amaron, Choss, and Whiskeyjack.

Temper approached. ‘The last one then?’

Dassem glanced over, his dark eyes softening. ‘Aye. The last.’

Temper thought of all he had heard whispered from so many sources — of Pacts and Vows sworn to the Hooded One himself. Steeling himself, he ventured, ‘You can’t just walk away.’

Dassem slapped at the dust coating his long surcoat of burgundy and grey, the Imperial sceptre at its chest. ‘That’s the last of my worries, Temper. There are plenty of others all too eager to do his work. Lady knows, they’re practically lined up.’

‘It can’t be that easy.’

‘Easy!’ The First Sword’s black eyes blazed and Temper jerked back a step. Dassem passed one gauntleted hand across his eyes as if wiping away a vision of horror. His long black hair, plaited back and tied at his neck, lashed in the wind like the horsetail plume at the helmet under his arm. He shaded his gaze to scan the battle. ‘He made a mistake,’ he whispered aloud.

Temper wondered: was this meant to be overheard?

‘All that has ever mattered to me has been taken. I have nothing left to lose…’

Though he ached to take his commander’s shoulders and shout — But what of your own soul, Dassem? — Temper held his tongue.

He sensed he had pushed as far as he dared, had been given all that this man was prepared to give. Besides, what did he know of pacts made in his grandfather’s time? Or of Hood’s murky intentions, for that matter?

A roar went up from thousands of throats as the Malazan regulars of the Third Army pushed on through the next level of the layered defences.

’Soon, now. We’ll see Surgen soon,’ Dassem said under his breath. His lips drew back from his teeth, his features tensed, eager. Although they were the enemy, Temper found himself pitying the soldiers ranged against them. Dassem drew on his helm and started forward. Temper and the rest of the Sword-Point, Ferrule, Quillion, Hilt and Edge — fell in around him.

As they advanced, Temper kept a look ahead for Surgen-Surgen Ress, the man who claimed to be the last of the Holy City’s patroned and anointed champions. Never mind there were only seven Holy Cities and that all seven champions had fallen to Dassem’s sword. He gave life to Y’Ghatan’s claim to be the eighth Holy City, hidden, but the eldest. Temper wondered just how long such a pretence could last.

Wounded soldiers, some carried, others staggering, appeared out of the wind-lashed dust like summoned spirits. All paused at the sight of Dassem’s black horsehair plume. Those that could, saluted; most simply watched them pass with battle-dulled eyes.

They reached a second tall earthen embrasure and its ramp. Corpses lay thick upon it: Malazan infantry in scaled armour under grey surcoats; Seven City defenders lying in droves, robes and headscarves tossing in the wind, brown limbs askew. Crossing the second wall defences, Temper and his brothers tightened their protective ring.

Sweat soaked the padding under Temper’s armour and dripped from his brows. Grit scoured his mouth as dry as baked stone. He blinked, his eyes burning and watering in the dust. The screams and clash of arms deafened him as always, but he stood more relaxed than at former engagements. He knew that the surviving Seven City priest-mages, the Falah’d, could not strike so long as they were held in check by the Malazan cadre mages.

A runner reached them, saluted. ‘Surgen has taken the field. Right flank.’

Dassem dismissed him, eyed his bodyguard. ‘I’ll try not to let him slip away this time.’ Temper and his brothers smiled as Dassem drew his sword. They advanced to the right.

The regulars parted to allow them passage. Dassem stepped to the front while Point and Edge took his flanks. Temper, Hilt, Ferrule and Quillion fell in to guard his back.

They reached the front lines. Sergeants directed Dassem through the swirling maelstrom of dust and struggling bodies to Surgen’s position in the lines. Spying Dassem’s plume the Y’Ghatan soldiers howled, suddenly berserk with fury. They launched themselves forward in a frenzy, as if meaning to bury the ranked soldiers. Temper knew that those who engaged Dassem and fell had been promised a blessed martyrdom. Then, from the screen of blowing dust, appeared Surgen’s escort of twenty hand-picked bodyguards, in red headscarves and bearing facial hatch-lines. Dassem committed himself to the front. The Y’Ghatan infantry pushed in like a crushing wall. Soon, in the sweep and shift of battle, Temper found their position enisled by Seven City defenders.

At first he was not worried. It had happened before, and would no doubt happen again. He was certain even now Malazan regulars were counter-attacking to reach them. Surgen appeared, clashed briefly with Edge, but it was clear that Edge was not the man Surgen wanted, and so he pulled back to move on to Dassem, who stood alone, none daring to engage him, or those who did lasting no longer than a single exchange.

The blades met, ringing continuously. Surgen’s escort pressed around Temper, eager to hack down him and his brothers to encircle Dassem. But such tactics had often been attempted. Temper fought a careful, defensive duel with sword and shield. Heavily armoured, he did not exert himself but rather delayed and deferred, waiting for an opening to fell his opponent. And ultimately, secretly, his advantage was that he knew: he had only to last long enough for Dassem to finish his man.

At first it went poorly for the defenders. Dassem bore Surgen back and the Sword advanced with Dassem, covering him against all comers. Seemingly overborne, the last of the Seven City champions continued to retreat, step after step. Still Temper waited for the Malazan regulars to reach them. Yet this day the Y’Ghatan defenders, citizen-soldiers bolstered by veterans of all the other smashed native armies, held where before they had broken.

Dassem advanced and Temper finished off the last of the escort guards opposing him, then edged sideways to close the gap.

Surgen attacked with both swords and Dassem countered, his blade a blur. Then a flash across Temper’s vision and Dassem gasped, bowed forward as if cradling a wound. Another attack? An arrow or bolt? Temper couldn’t be sure what he saw. Surgen was also startled, but instantly pressed his advantage. One-handed, Dassem fended off the blows while grasping at his chest. Quillion and Edge broke formation to interpose themselves.

Then Hood’s Own Paths cracked open upon them.

Smelling the blood of a champion who’d stood for as long as any could remember, Surgen, his remaining escort, and the regulars lunged in upon them. Quillion and Hilt fought fanatically as the Sword attempted to retreat as a unit. But only Dassem could match Surgen, and so Quillion fell to the twin swords of the anointed and Holy-patroned champion.

Temper bellowed for relief but his voice was lost in the defenders’ frenzied shouts. Dassem struggled, head hanging, staggering. Neither Temper nor any of his remaining brothers could spare an instant’s concentration to help steady him. It tortured Temper to feel the man stumble against his back as they withdrew, pace by pace, over the uneven ground.

What had struck him? Temper wondered, blazing with fury. Who could have reached him? How could it be that on this day, at this hour, the Y’Ghatan soldier-citizenry defeated Malazan professionals? What gave them the backbone?

Surrounded, they struggled to retreat. Temper could only shield-bash continuously, slashing any hands that grabbed at the sharpened iron edges of his shield. For a moment, the five of them surfaced intact like a wave-tossed piece of wreckage. Then they were four: he, Dassem, Point and Ferrule. They held for heartbeats longer until Surgen broached the crowd like a bear scattering a pack of dogs. Though apparently injured near to death, Dassem still easily parried and dropped the regulars. Point moved to intercept Surgen while Temper and Ferrule fended off the encircling mob.

And still the Malazan regulars had yet to push through. Point faced Surgen. Temper saw little of the duel — he was too busy staving off Seven City infantry throwing themselves against him in a desperate bid to bear him down. Glimpses convinced him of Point’s brilliance: the man outdid himself, lasting more exchanges than Temper believed possible against a patroned champion. Temper bellowed again for the Malazan regulars; short of friendly forces sweeping over and rescuing them, he knew each would die in turn under Surgen’s blades.

Point fell. Temper roared in rage as Point had fought beautifully; there was no justice in his defeat. He used that searing fury to break into the gap. Of the duel that followed, he never forgot Surgen’s hot eyes fixed at a point past his shoulder… on a crippled Dassem just beyond reach.

Sensing the end was near, the Seven City regulars drew back to give Surgen room. He pressed forward confidently, contemptuously even, and that made Temper all the more stubborn. The blows rained down. He simply hunched low like a shack in an avalanche, determined to remain, no matter what was thrown at him.

Surgen punished him for his temerity. Yet, Temper hung on. Surgen was incredibly skilled, almost as strong as Temper, and far quicker. Facing the champion’s ferocious eyes, his mouth open as if already tasting Dassem’s blood, Temper abandoned any hope of surviving. He gave himself up as dead already and determined to remain standing merely long enough to deny Surgen the satisfaction of victory. He parried the man, using his bull strength to bear Surgen back whenever possible. Thrust through the stomach, Temper merely grunted and swung for Surgen’s head. But such was warrior’s speed that Surgen simply snapped back his head, taking only a cut across the bridge of his nose. Surgen pulled away then for an instant, stunned Temper hoped, for he could no longer see clearly through the pink mist of sweat and blood fogging his eyes.

He waited, gasping in air, still giving ground while Ferrule, bellowing, thrust everywhere, surrendering to blind battle lust. Dassem staggered, parrying like a drunk, yet still able to defend himself against the common soldiery.

Surgen howled holy outrage and lunged at Temper again. The attacking blade was a blur. Temper could only wait to see what the man intended for the damage was done: he could feel his life leaking down his legs in a warm wet tide. His shield shattered under Surgen’s punishment and Temper released his sword, grappling the man’s wrist. The champion spat into his face, ‘Die! Die!’

Temper smiled blearily at him. ‘Fast as I’m able, friend.’

Enraged, Surgen swung at him again, fought to tear loose his arm, but no one, not even Dassem himself, could break Temper’s iron grip.

Surgen glared past him: his eyes widened; he yelled incoherently. Temper, his vision blackening, felt his grip weaken. Surgen wrenched free, backed away. A tide of Malazan regulars swept over them. Arms took Temper and lifted him from the field. He let himself go then into that darkness, knowing he’d won his last battle — that once again he’d stood long enough…

Temper waited for the old nightmare to end. He always woke after that moment, his heart hammering, short of breath. But this time the darkness didn’t come. Surgen still tore at him, workmanlike, as if butchering a slab of meat. And now, instead of a gilded bronze helm, he wore a grey hood. The certainty of death clutched Temper’s throat. The hooded form leaned over him, smothered him in a different sort of darkness. Temper couldn’t breathe. Death pressed down upon him like a vast weight, crushing his ribs, heavier, till he felt nothing of himself was left. Still he struggled to fight. If only to twitch a finger, to spit into the face inside that hood.

Temper inhaled. Cold air jarred his teeth. His chest expanded, fell, rose again. Light returned to his vision, blurred at first then clearing: once more he watched clouds massed before the frigid stars of a night sky.

Someone spoke from beyond his vision, saying dryly: ‘You’re a very stubborn man.’

Groaning, he turned his head. A man hooded in ash-pale robes sat above him on a stone block. Temper wet his lips, croaked, ‘Who in Fener’s own shit are you?’

‘I would ask you the same question but believe I have my answer.’ The man hefted an object: Temper’s helmet. He turned it in his gloved hands as if critiquing the workmanship.

Temper moaned, let his head fall back.

‘My people saw your duel with Rood. They were impressed. They, ah, intervened and fetched you here.’

Temper experimentally raised his right arm. He studied the hand, rubbed his eyes. ‘Rood?’

‘The Hound of Shadow. You surprised him. Too much easy prey recently, I should think.’

Temper attempted to sit up, groaned again. He wondered: how does one intervene against a demon like that?

‘I had them heal you — after I saw this.’ He tapped the helmet. ‘A very unusual design.’

The helmet thumped onto his stomach. With a gasp, Temper sat up.

The man stood. ‘You should get rid of it. Too distinctive.’

Temper grimaced. ‘It’s the only damned one I’ve got. And the question still stands: who are you?’

The man ignored him. He studied something in the distance then waved him up. ‘Time is short. Suffice it to say that we have a common enemy in the Claws.’

Temper grunted at that. He carefully pushed himself upright. He examined his arms and wondered at the flesh made whole beneath the broken iron links and shredded leather under-padding. Forced healing of this magnitude stunned him. It was unheard of. He should be prostrate in shock, his body convinced he was crippled, if not dead. What had they done to him? At his side lay all his weapons and both gauntlets, one mangled and in tatters. He re-girt himself, hissing and wincing at limbs stiff and numb, shocking jolts of pain from every joint. The man merely watched, his face disguised in darkness.

They stood in Mossy Tors, a glade the town had encroached on as it grew inland. Temper spotted others, male or female, clothed in the same shapeless robes standing guard among the birch copses and jumbled stones. ‘Well, whoever you are,’ he grudgingly admitted, ‘you’re out in force.’

‘Yes. This night is ours. We control the island two or three nights every century’

Temper tried to get a glimpse into the shadows within the man’s hood. There was something very odd about his accent. But it was as if the cowl was empty. That shook him: too reminiscent of the Claws… and his dream.

Another figure approached, almost identical to the first, and the two spoke. Their hoods nearly touched as they bent together. Both stood unnaturally tall and slim within their robes, and they conversed in a foreign lilting language that made Temper uneasy. He’d encountered a lot of languages in his travels, but this was not like any of them. That, the healing, the undeniable fact that they must’ve done something to yank him free of the hound, and the man’s claim that they ruled this night, put Temper in mind of what he’d heard of the cult that worshipped Shadow. A sect steeped in sorcery and patron to assassins. And evidently, an organization hunted by the Claws. That made sense. Professional rivalry, he supposed. He recalled another organization of assassins, started up by Dancer at the inception of the Empire: the Talons. Surly’s Claws, so it was said, began later as a pale imitation of that secret society. He’d also heard murmurs that since Kellanved and Dancer’s absence, Surly’s organization had moved to fill the void. That people loyal to the old guard had been disappearing. He’d never considered himself particularly loyal to Kellanved or Dancer; it was Dassem he’d refused to betray that day at Y’Ghatan. He’d survived, gone underground. Watching these two, he wondered if they too had served, though sure as Hood he’d never ask. He cleared his throat. The one who’d addressed him earlier turned to examine him. ‘Come.’ He waved for Temper to follow and abruptly started across the stone-littered meadow.

Surprised, Temper stood frozen until two others in the same shapeless garb approached from either side. The slimmer of the pair walked with an arrogant, cocky swagger that made Temper want to slap him. Scorch marks marred his robes at the front of and along the edge of his hood as if the fabric had been dropped in a fire. The stockier one motioned him to move on ahead with a hand that was hairy and wide-knuckled like a blacksmith’s or a strangler’s.

He was led to a rise overlooking the east quarter of the old town. ‘What do you see?’ the one who’d woken him asked.

Temper hesitated. What did the man want from him? Then, reluctantly, he scanned the quarter. Fog, thick as low clouds, clung to roofs and snaked through the streets. It seemed to converge around the general block of the Hanged Man Inn-and the neighbouring Deadhouse as well.

Staring now, he could just make out lights, an eerie blue-green nimbus that sometimes accompanied manipulation of the Warrens. How many times had he witnessed that same glow burst, spirit-like, over battles? And how many times had he ducked, experiencing the same cold knot in his stomach, because here was something all his skill could not combat? Rolling up from that same quarter, like a distant blast of alchemical munitions, came a hound’s deep-chested call.

‘What is it?’ Temper asked.

‘Some say a door,’ the man told him, his tone thoughtful. ‘An entrance to the realm of Shadow. And he who passes through, commands that Warren as a King. A stunning possibility, yes?’

Temper gave a knowing nod. ‘So that’s what all this is about. You’re going for it.’

A silken laugh whispered from within the hood. ‘No, not I… I haven’t near the power. And it is too well defended. The hounds are only the first of its guardians. But another might try before dawn, and for that we are readying.’

‘And what’s that to me?’

‘You could help.’

He nodded again, this time with scorn. ‘And if I refuse?’

The hood regarded him and he stared back, trying to find the man’s eyes in the darkness. The silence grew in length and discomfort. Temper rubbed the scar crossing his chin.

‘Then you may go,’ the man said.

Temper scoffed. ‘What? Just like that?’

‘Yes, just like that. Two of my people will escort you to wherever you wish.’ He pointed past Temper.

Glancing to one side, Temper saw his earlier guards waiting nearby, at a length of mossy wall. ‘Anywhere?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’m going to take you up on that.’

‘Fare you well, soldier,’ and the man gave a salute at his chest, the old sign of the Imperial Sceptre.

Temper dropped his hand from the scar that slashed down his cheek to his chin. ‘I don’t suppose you want to know what I think about your chances.’

The hood cocked to one side. ‘Don’t be foolish, Temper.’

‘Yeah. I suppose so. My thanks for the healing.’

The hood inclined a goodbye. Temper backed off a few steps, as if worried that at the last moment they might change their minds, then started for Riverwalk. His two escorts fell into step behind him.

All the way up Riverwalk, Temper’s back itched as if he were under the Twin’s regard. He couldn’t shake the suspicion that these two had been sent along to leave him dead in a ditch. Stupid of course: they could have simply left him for the hound. But the old habit of a healthy paranoia wouldn’t leave him alone.

Finally, it became too much and he abruptly stopped and turned. Back about ten paces, the pair stopped as well. The slim one struck a pose, crossing his arms as if bored by the whole thing. The stocky one waved him on.

‘Nothing to say for yourselves, eh?’ Temper taunted, but then resumed his walk. The damned prophecy of the Return, he told himself, that was what all this was really about. Not this Shadow gateway bullshit. They’d gathered for him tonight. For Kellanved to return and claim the throne of Empire. It was still his after all. And Temper had to admit it was hard to swallow that he’d just disappear to let Surly — or anyone — usurp it. If he was yet alive, that is.

Pure blind bullshit. Or in this case, hound shit. Come dawn, their predicted millennium would fail to appear and they’d fade away, like so many cults before them. Temper had never been a religious man himself. The old standby patron gods of soldiers, Togg and Fener, had always been more than enough for him. The rest of that dusty theology just made his head numb: Old versus New; the rise and fall of Houses of influence; the eternal hunt for Ascension. Still, it was troublesome to see someone as clearly sharp and organized as that robed fellow swallowing it all.

He turned north onto Grinner’s March. Rampart Way rose into view through the mist, making Temper smile. That, and the thought that he now had a ship-load of questions for Corinn when he found her. He counted on getting answers from her. Hood’s bones, she owed him an explanation. I saw, she’d told him; seen the breaking of the Sword. Why? To shock him into cooperating? He sent a short prayer to Togg that somehow she’d managed to escape all this.

As he laid a hand on the cold granite wall of Rampart Way, he turned to his two escorts. They’d stopped a few paces back, side by side.

‘What? Not coming?’

The slim one’s hood rose as he peered up at the Hold. ‘You’ll find only death there tonight.’

Temper wanted to laugh that off, but the man’s words sent a chill up his spine. He waved them away. ‘Maybe. Run back to your master and let him know where I went.’

‘He knows.’

Temper watched them. They remained motionless. He stared back for a time longer, then, snorting his impatience, started up the steps.

Grumbling, Temper strode up the wet stones. What a pack of moonstruck fools! As if there was anything to all that charlatan cant about a Return. It was damned embarrassing, that was what it was. A bunch of spoiled aristos probably. None of whom had ever shed a drop of blood in the fields. Never saw Kellanved murder thousands when he brought down a city wall, or his pet T’lan Imass warriors slaughtering entire towns. Good riddance to that wither-legged Dal Honese elder and spook of a partner, Dancer! In his career Temper had met and fought a lot of men and could honestly say: none scared him as much as those two did.

Dassem spoke of the Emperor rarely, but when he had, it was always with the greatest care and wariness. He had told one story of entering a dark command tent during the Delanss pacifications to inform Kellanved of the dispersal of the troops. While the two spoke an aid brought a lit lantern into the shadowed tent and Dassem discovered himself alone. Later, he learned from Admiral Nok that on that day the Emperor had been at sea, on board the Twisted. Dassem said this was characteristic of the old man: no one should ever be certain where Kellanved stood — in anything… or on anything.

Temper had seen him now and then, distantly, during marshalling of the troops: a small black man with gnarled limbs and short grey hair. Or so the pretence. At first glance he looked like nothing more than a withered-up old gnome. Yet one look from him could be enough to drive anyone away as if struck, or if wished, crush them to their knees. Temper had to give him that much.

But Dassem, Sword of the Empire, he had looked out for the men. By the Queen, the army literally worshipped him! All those others — Surly and the rest — knew it too, even then. He’d seen it in their eyes the times he’d accompanied Dassem to briefings. Surly and the other lackeys knew only the rule of fear. But Dassem, with praise here, or a chiding word there, could capture a man’s heart. And he led from the front; in every battle. Soldiers shoved each other aside just for the chance to fight near him.

At a switchback Temper paused. The night closed in on him, black, hollow, and surprisingly cold — a chill that seemed to broach his soul. Downhill, the fog obscured the slopes and hung over the town. Icy rain brushed him and he wiped at his face. Damn, it was raw! His bones ached. What time was it now? Four bells or five? He couldn’t remember hearing the mole lighthouse for some time now. Gods, he was weary. Leaning against the wall, he wondered just what it was he hoped to accomplish. He stared out into the lazy wisps of mist and the strangely dull stars, and he remembered that other night. The night close to a year ago when he and Dassem died.

He’d awakened in an infirmary field tent. An officer’s facility, small and empty, unlike the ones they stuffed with regulars while the overflow simply stacked up outside. Ferrule sat beside him on a travel chest, as short and hairy and vicious-looking as ever. He wore a thick leather vest over a cloth jerkin. Two dark shapes stood at the closed flaps: Claws.

‘Back with us, hey?’ Ferrule grinned, slapping his leg. With his left hand, hidden by his body, he signed: they’ve made their move.

Temper answered with a faint nod, smiled. ‘Yeah, whole again.’ Their move. The six of them had always known it would come. They had spoken of it, planned for it, dreaded it. But now they were only two. Two against all Surly’s Claws.

‘Where is he?’

Ferrule jerked his head to the flaps. ‘Taken for special treatment. Tried to stop them, but…’ He shrugged.

‘The wound?’

‘Damned bad. Worst yet.’ Ferrule opened his vest a fraction revealing the hilts of two knives. We have to get to him. ’How do you feel? I made them heal you up. Raised Togg’s own stink about it,’ he laughed. Can you make it?

Temper signed to Ferrule: I’m with you. ’Feel like a new-born kitten. Help me up. We have to check on him.’ He’d exaggerated only a bit. Surgen had pretty much cut him up into a walking corpse. Forced healing and bone knitting was wondrous, but it was just as traumatic as the wounds themselves: he felt as if he’d been tortured for weeks. He bit back sour vomit. Sweat beaded all over his body, trickled down his face. Yet he was alive, and he had sworn his life to Dassem. If the Claws were behind this attack, then as far as he was concerned they had made a huge error in not killing them all immediately. Surly’s hands were probably tied — too many must have witnessed their survival.

Ferrule grunted, ‘Don’t faint on me,’ and passed a knife while helping him off the cot. Temper leaned on Ferrule’s shoulder, both for effect and because his knees shook, barely able to support him.

Flanking the entrance, the Claws exchanged glances. Both were male and dressed for combat rather than in the loose black cloaks they always wrapped themselves in when allowing themselves to be seen. Their unofficial uniform consisted of dark dyed cloth, tall leather boots, trousers, loose jerkins, vests and gloves. Their long hair hung gathered down their backs. Each carried an arsenal, but concealed in pockets and folds. The tiny, understated silver Claw sigils glittered at their left breasts.

Temper shuffled across the tent on Ferrule’s arm, exaggerating his weakness, though probably fooling no one. Ferrule’s rock-like solidity reassured him. It would be good to have him at his side for what was to come. They’d given the hairy, muscular Seti plainsman the name Ferrule because he preferred to fight in close. After any battle the blood literally ran from him.

The Claws shifted to stand side by side. ‘You’re to remain. Recuperate. The Regent’s orders.’

Ferrule slowed. ‘We’re leaving, lads. Stand aside.’

’Orders, soldier. Don’t challenge her authority.’

Under his arm, Temper felt Ferrule flex, readying for action. ‘Stand aside,’ he warned, his voice level, ‘or we’ll carve through you like we did the Holy Guard.’

The Claws exchanged one quick glance. The one who’d spoken flicked his hand.

‘Spell,’ Ferrule snarled. He snapped out the hand he’d held behind Temper’s back and a knife flew. Temper flung himself ahead and to one side. Something clipped his arm, the dressing ripped. He rolled, came up where the Claws had stood and though dizzy, snatched out in time to grab an ankle of one as he tried to call up his Warren. Losing his balance, the man fell and lost control of the forces he’d tried to summon. Wracked by lancing pain, his vision darkening to a tunnel, and just plain furious, Temper stabbed the man in the groin then lunged for a lethal throat jab. But the Claw wriggled aside and Temper’s blade merely nicked the man’s chin.

Amazingly, the Claw stood. Temper was slowed because he’d discovered his right side was smeared in fresh blood, and something long and sharp stuck entirely through his upper arm. How in Hood’s name had that got there?

A knife appeared in the Claw’s gloved hand. Temper lashed out for his legs, but it was a feeble effort. As the Claw bent his wrist back for a quick snap-throw, Ferrule slammed into him. They went down together in a flurry of limbs, swinging, racking, grappling. And though more blows were exchanged than Temper could keep track of, it was over in a few seconds.

Ferrule rose, grinning. One ear hung loose, nearly torn off. His shirt was flayed and his chest dressings hung in tatters.

‘Wind’s Blessing!’ he sighed, as if he’d just drained a mug of beer, ‘I’ve been aching to do that for years.’

Temper groaned, stood. He poked at his arm. ‘Am I everyone’s target today, or what?’

Ferrule examined the wound then eased the blade free. Temper muffled a shout of pain, hung onto the man’s shoulder to keep from falling. Ferrule, admiring the long lethal stiletto, whistled. ‘Might’ve got you in the heart.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Ferrule sat him down and began redressing his arm. Temper watched the big man work, all the while feeling embarrassed by his performance in that quick and dirty fray. He didn’t think he’d be much use in what was to come.

Ferrule checked the entrance, reported that it looked like they were under unofficial quarantine for the night. He said he saw where they’d taken Dassem, then set to cleaning himself up and collecting useful weapons from the Claws. Temper sat and shook his head. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘Look, Ferrule. Seems like I’m not going to be too useful. Maybe you should go it alone.’

Ferrule looked up from one Claw corpse. There was something in his eyes: wonder? Disbelief? He came to Temper’s side. ‘Not much use! That you’re alive is a miracle. Do you know what you did?’

Temper shook his head, uncertain.

‘You stood against Surgen! It was amazing! I didn’t see the half of it, but everyone’s talking. I heard them through the tent. He was a Holy City patroned champion! Mage-abetted. Temple anointed. And you stonewalled him! I thought we’d had it, but you saved our hides. I even heard talk that maybe you had a patron up your sleeve-’

Temper laughed that off.

‘No. I mean it. You come out of this tent looking like the ugly block of granite you usually do and everyone’ll back off. I mean it.’ Ferrule waved to the corpses. ‘Don’t you think it was strange the way those two panicked? You, us, we impressed the shit out of some people today. People who thought we were sure to be dead.’

That had troubled him as well. It had been too easy. The Claws had acted as though they were facing opponents of unknown potential. They’d tried too hard to keep their distance. He nodded, squeezed Ferrule’s arm. ‘Very well. Hail the Sword.’

Ferrule gave a grin of savage glee. ‘Just the three of us now — but three times enough, I say.’

Outfitted and cleaned up, they pushed aside the tent flap and boldly set out across the infirmary quarters of the encampment. The night was warm and dry. The branches of a nearby olive orchard rustled in a weak wind and a sliver of moon shone down like a yellow scimitar blade. Torches burned at every major intersection of the tent city, but few soldiers moved about. They greeted each sentry and some, recognizing them, called out, ‘Hail the Sword!’ Ferrule raised a fist in answer.

‘They’ll know we’re coming,’ Temper complained.

‘The more witnesses the better.’

Temper grunted at the wisdom of that. Ferrule guided them to a private tent near the edge of the infirmary quarters. Lamps glowed within and two Claws stood at its closed flap. As they approached, the sight of open surprise and confusion cracking through the assassins’ legendary control warmed Temper’s heart.

Side by side, they walked right up to the Claws guarding the entrance. ‘We’ve come to see Dassem,’ announced Ferrule without slowing, and he waved to soldiers watching from nearby tents.

After the briefest hesitation, one Claw inclined his head and stood aside, opening the flap. Ferrule eyed the dark opening, perhaps not liking their cooperation. Temper felt a twinge of doubt; what if they’d simply moved Dassem again?

Inside, clay lamps gave a low, guttering light. Dassem lay on a cot as if dead, his torso wrapped in dressings. The amber light gave his dark skin a rich lustre, as if he were a statue of bronze. Temper paused, sensing someone else in the darkened recesses of the tent.

Fabric whispered in the dark.

‘Hail the Sword,’ said a woman’s voice.

Surly stepped from the shadows, three Claws just behind her. Temper had rarely faced her this close. She wore her typical shirt, sash, pants, and her feet were bare. The woman’s plain face was flat and narrow, tight with concentration. Her hair was cropped short in the fashion common to the many women who served in the Malazan military, and her hands bore dark calluses. She struck Temper as all hard edges. As the third most powerful individual in the Empire, Temper supposed she had to be.

The three Claws with her Temper knew by name and reputation: second-in-command Topper in his signature green silks; Possum, as beady-eyed and narrow-faced as his namesake; and Jade, a dark-hued Dal Honese female, and one of the most vicious of the crew.

Ferrule and Temper ignored Surly and her aides, crossing to Dassem’s cot. Temper felt for a pulse, sensed nothing. ‘Is he alive?’

‘For the moment,’ Surly responded. ‘He flutters on the edge of his patron’s realm. One would think Hood should be eager to embrace him.’

Ferrule and he exchanged glances, turned on Surly. Temper saw Ferrule sizing up Possum. Balanced forward on the balls of her feet, Jade seemed ready to throw herself at Temper.

Surly raised a placating hand. ‘A change has been decided upon. Choss has been field promoted to High Fist and interim Commander of the Third.’

Ferrule scoffed but Temper let out a long thoughtful breath. Choss was a name that just might please the majority. The officer cadres respected him, and he was a skilled strategist. He was also unpatroned. Just a regular soldier — no threat to Surly.

Temper licked his lips. ‘But you still need Dassem. Choss is no champion.’

Surly frowned a negative, shook her head. ‘No, Temper, you still don’t understand. Things are different now. Even as we speak, Surgen succumbs to his wounds. It isn’t the most decisive victory, but it will be a victory. And disheartened, without time for a new ritual of Anointing, Y’Ghatan will fall. No more champions. They’re too expensive. Too… vulnerable.’

Snarling, Ferrule would have launched himself, but Temper gripped his shoulder. ‘And what of us?’

Surly raised her brows, surprised and impressed by Temper’s pragmatism. ‘What is it you wish? Rank? Titles? A regional governorship?’

Ferrule squeezed Temper’s wounded arm in a ferocious grip. Temper bit his lips to keep from shouting. Pressing his hand into Ferrule’s back, he arranged his fingers in a sign: wait.

Temper managed in a controlled voice, ‘Dassem’s life, for one thing.’

Surly nodded. ‘That might be arranged.’

Her response decided the night for Temper. It seemed neither of them had any intention of keeping their word. ‘No witnesses’ was almost Surly’s credo. The Claws never left anyone alive. It was part of their terror tactics. He also believed that she knew he wouldn’t sell out, or frankly didn’t care either way. Yet they had their roles to play, a charade to complete.

‘Okay,’ he breathed out long and slow. ‘We’ll stay with him. For the meantime.’

Surly pursed her lips. Temper could almost see the plans and various options spinning through her thoughts as she eyed him and Ferrule. Her gaze lingered at his wounded arm and something changed in the set of her shoulders; she inclined her head a fraction. ‘Very well. You may discuss the particulars with these two representatives. Possum. Jade. Take care of these gentlemen. Topper, accompany me.’

The two Claws edged forward a half-step. Surly crossed to the entrance, the cloth of her pants brushing soundlessly. As she turned away, Temper glanced to his own arm: fresh blood soaked the new dressings. So. She figured her best should be enough to finish the job.

Topper held open the tent flap, with a half-bow of farewell Surly exited. Ferrule and he caught each other’s eyes. Ferrule, legs flexed, arms crooked, looked like a bear ready to pounce, and he winked, the same old supremely confident brawler. Temper couldn’t muster the same relish for this fray. His fears were confirmed when the two Claws guarding the opening stepped in as their commander left. Possum waved as if tossing something down and suddenly the camp sounds from beyond the tent walls ceased as if snatched away.

Shit, Temper fumed, that guaranteed privacy. He decided to pursue the one mad chance he’d thought of while Surly made her own evaluation of the situation.

‘Guard me,’ he snapped to Ferrule. In one motion he stepped, knelt, and raised his knife in both hands over Dassem’s chest. Fluttering at death’s door, Surly had said. He prayed that was an inadvertent truth, for Hood was the patron god Dassem has sworn his soul to-sworn then rejected.

He heard Ferrule parry the first attacks behind him as, in that same motion, he plunged the knife down with all his strength.

‘Stop him!’ Possum snarled.

Something smacked off Temper’s skull.

Dassem’s hand snapped up, grabbed Temper’s arm, and tossed him aside. Dassem sat up. Temper crashed through a cot and thumped to the beaten earth. Blood blinded one eye and warmed his face. He watched the rest of the melee on his side, stunned, fighting unconsciousness.

Foolishly, perhaps misled by their numerical advantage and Dassem’s weakened condition, the Claws chose to finish things here. Not that Temper could blame them. After all, they hadn’t fought side by side with Dassem as he and Ferrule had. They had never seen up close just what the First Sword was capable of. That, and Claws tended to overconfidence.

It all registered like slow deliberate dance steps to Temper’s fading vision. Ferrule spun aside, spurned by Possum. Blood arched from his wounds as he fell. The other three closed on Dassem who lunged at the nearest. In one motion he simply reached out and crushed the man’s throat then turned, holding the corpse before him.

Regardless, Jade and the other closed. Possum — wisely, if belatedly — backed off. Rather than use the body as a shield Dassem threw it as easily as a horseshoe at both lunging Claws. They fell in a heap. Temper could tell how angry Dassem was by the extravagance of that gesture and the way he scowled his disgust.

He kicked Jade across her head, tore a weapon from her hand and pulled it across her throat. The other Claw guard lay where he’d fallen, stunned.

Possum tried to access his Warren, but broke off to dodge the knife Dassem threw. The two closed and Possum met Dassem with daggers in either hand. They circled, Possum feinting, Dassem weaving, dodging. Temper had to admire Possum’s form; it was the best he’d seen, but the man had made a fatal mistake in not breaking off the instant Dassem revived. Arrogance, perhaps.

Dassem closed, yielding a cut across his side to grab one hand. They spun, pivoting on that fulcrum and again Temper was amazed by Possum’s moves. But Dassem’s skill, strength, and speed, though all sapped, still proved too great for Possum’s will and razor-honed training. Dassem broke the wrist, twisted the arm around, and jammed Possum’s own blade onto his chest. He collapsed, and camp sounds returned to the tent.

Temper smiled at their victory and gave in to the cold hard darkness that pulled at him like the embrace of deep water.

As the night progressed he fluttered into consciousness now and then. Pain in his stomach jabbed him awake once and Ferrule, his face close, strained and pale, motioned for silence. He saw tents and wagons once, dark, unmanned. Later, a field of tall grass whispered and hissed as pain shocked him awake again and Dassem, wearing a broad cloak, examined him, smiling his encouragement.

Travelling only a few leagues each night, they escaped. They walked north through passes of the Thalas Range to the coast and stole a small fishing launch. This they sailed by turns night and day, north-east out to the Sea of Dryjina, then south. A month later they landed, thin, sunburnt, bearded, on the Seven City coast south of Aren. Here they parted ways. Temper and Ferrule planned to take the boat south to Falar. Dassem did not intend to go with them.

They had stood together on the rocky shore, none wishing to speak. They wore loose robes now over trousers and tunics. White home-spun cloth scarves wrapped their heads and masked their faces. Of his former life, Temper carried only his helmet wrapped in his blanket bedding. Dassem had presented it to him when he awoke.

Temper stood with arms crossed, fixed his sight on a distant mountain range. ‘So,’ he said to Dassem, ‘it has to be alone, does it?’

Dassem gave a tired nod. It was an old argument.

‘What will you do?’

‘Travel. Head west.’

‘What in Togg’s name could possibly be out there?’ Ferrule snapped, furious as usual when thwarted in anything.

Dassem’s smile cut at Temper’s soul, so wintry was it. ‘Something. Something’s out there. Maybe what I’m looking for.’

Temper cleared his throat. He thought of Dassem’s own whispered words and the rumours he, Point, and Edge kept track of, regarding a purge among the highest levels of the cult of Hood. ‘I’d wish you luck, but I’m not sure you should find what you’re looking for.’

That got a sharp look, but Dassem relented with a pained expression that seemed half-agreement. ‘I suppose we’ll see.’

‘A pox on all of it!’ Ferrule snarled, and threw himself into the surf. He lurched out to the anchored boat. Grasping the side, he shouted back, ‘If you must travel half of creation, look me up on the Seti plains.’

Dassem waved farewell.

Temper stepped up and they embraced. At the shore he tried one last appeal, though he knew it was useless. ‘Retire with us. Set your feet up.’

‘There are things I must do.’

‘Yeah, well. Be damned careful.’

Dassem laughed. ‘I will.’

‘You ain’t got us to watch your back no more.’

‘I know.’

Still Temper could not bring himself to part from the side of the man he had sworn to give his life for. ‘I could refuse, you know. Follow along.’

Again the sad smile. ‘I know.’ He squeezed Temper’s shoulder. ‘But you will die if you remain with me. This I know. Stay with the fight, Temp. There is a good chance you will live a very long while yet.’

Temper’s breath caught. ‘You have seen this?’

Dassem released his shoulder, motioned him on. ‘Go. That’s an order.’

Temper pushed his way out through the surf. Ferrule and he set the sail. As the dusk gathered between the boat and the rocky shore, they waved farewell. Dassem raised an arm in one long continuous salute. Finally, the dim figure turned away from the shore and disappeared among the trees.

After a time, while they sailed along the coastline, Ferrule asked, ‘What in Fener’s tusks is so damned important? Why can’t we go with him?’

‘I think he’s going where we can’t follow.’

Ferrule peered back over his shoulder at Temper as if wondering just how serious he was. Temper wasn’t sure himself.

It wasn’t until weeks later on the island of Strike that they heard the official version of that final day at Y’Ghatan. It seemed that the three surviving members of the Sword, weakened by their wounds, died in a night raid by fanatical Holy City Falah’d, who after withdrew to the city, taking Dassem’s body with them.

That same night Surgen died in a manner never fully explained. Three days later the city fell. By all accounts High Fist Choss acquitted himself well. Dassem’s body was never conclusively identified and the Empire never did get around to appointing a new First Sword.

At the top of Rampart Way Kiska found the Hold’s towering iron-studded gates closed. No lantern or torchlight shone from the slits of the machicolations to either side. Normally, the glinting barbed tips of crossbow quarrels would have tracked her movements and the watch captain would have hailed her long ago.

Cut into the timbers of the left-hand gate, the tiny thieves’ door stood ajar. Something lay jammed at its bottom. Kiska slid along the timbers until level with the opening. A forearm, bloodied palm up, stuck out as if offering a macabre greeting. She peered through the gap. It belonged to one of the mercenaries who had kidnapped her. He was dead, the leather armour at his back stitched by cuts. From the way he lay he must have been trying to escape. Darkness obscured the entrance tunnel and she knew she was now outlined by the moonlight glowing behind her. Slipping in, she stepped to one side and stopped dead, listening.

Nothing but the faint and distant surf. The stink of blood and voided bowels filled the enclosure. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the twisted shapes of two other mercenaries distinguished themselves from the cobbled lane. Perhaps they’d been left behind to guard the gate and since then, someone had come and made quick work of them. She knelt: a dark trail of blood, still sticky to the touch, traced where one of the men had dragged himself just short of a small side-door in the tunnel; the entrance to gatekeeper Lubben’s quarters. She followed, stood over the body, and listened at the door. After a few heartbeats she was about to step away when the scuff of a shifting foot reached her. Someone was within, perhaps listening just as she was. Did she want to know if it was the hunchback or his murderer? No, she’d leave that alone. Somewhere ahead Artan must be…

The door whipped open. A thick arm and a hand the size of a small shield grabbed the front of her shirt and yanked her in. A hatchet blade shoved under her chin jammed her against the wall. Close hot breath reeking of wine assaulted her.

‘Oh, it’s you, lass,’ Lubben growled. He squinted through his good eye then released her and pushed himself away. ‘Sorry.’

Kiska caught her breath, straightened her shirt and vest. The room was no more than a nook. A hole overlooked during the fortress’s construction — too short for her to straighten, though tall enough for the hunchback gatekeeper.

‘By the Elders, child. I thought you’d better sense than to come here tonight.’ He shoved her aside, closed the door, slammed the bolt.

’What’s happening upstairs?’

Lubben thumped down into a chair beside a brazier of glowing coals. He took a pull from a skin, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his stained leather jerkin.

‘Don’t know and don’t care.’

Kiska stood near the door, shivered in the damp air. ‘But you must have some idea.’

Lubben laughed, coughed hoarsely. ‘Lass, I’ve ideas all right. Plenty. But here they stay.’ He tapped one blunt finger to his temple.

‘Well, I’m going to find out.’

Head tilted to one side, he eyed her as if estimating the degree of her insanity. He pointed to the door. ‘Be my guest.’

Kiska hesitated. ‘You mean you’re just going to sit here?’

‘Indeed I am.’ Grinning, he took another pull from the skin. ‘Listen. It’s a war up there — no prisoners. You understand? This ain’t your regular social affair.’

‘Fine. I’ll go alone.’

Lubben frowned, shoved a wood stopper into the skin and set it down on the floor. He cleared his throat, spat into a corner. ‘You could stay here for the night, y’know. Been safe enough so far.’

Shifting to warm her hands over the brazier, Kiska shook her head. ‘No. Thanks. I’ve got to look into this. There’s…’ She stopped herself, decided against revealing names or just what might be at stake. ‘This is important. I’ve got to know what’s going on.’

A deep-throated chuckle shook Lubben. ‘I’m thinking that’s what everyone would like to know.’

Kiska got the feeling that Lubben knew more than he was revealing. He’d been the Hold’s gatekeeper for as long as she could remember. As a child she and her friends had often gathered at the open gate, daring each other to tease the ’hunch’ with his crablike walk and the great ring of keys rattling at his side. Remembering that, Kiska felt her face burn with sudden embarrassment. To think she’d almost called him a coward for hiding in his cell. Who was she to judge?

She sighed. ‘All right. I’ll be going then.’ Lubben nodded, stared at the sullen coals as if reviewing his own painful memories. Struck by a thought, she turned from the door. ‘Can you lend me a weapon?’

He grunted, pulled a dagger from the wide belt at his waist and handed it over. She took it: one of the meanest-looking blades she’d ever seen on a knife — curved like a hand-scythe.

‘Thanks.’

He grunted again, his gaze averted. She unbolted the door.

‘Lass…’

She turned. ‘Yes?’

‘You keep your back to the walls, you hear?’

‘Yes. I will.’ Slipping through the door, she pulled it shut behind her.

The bailey stood empty, unguarded. Just inside the fortified door to the main keep she found four more dead mercenaries. Among them was one of the scarred commander’s picked veterans. No visible wounds — it was as if they’d simply dropped dead. Her back prickled at the possibility of a Warren-laid trap such as a ward. If so, she prayed it was now spent. She wasn’t sure how many men had escaped the hound’s attack: maybe fifteen or twenty. By her rough reckoning that left ten men, including their commander and the woman she believed to be a cadre mage.

In the reception hall the light was low. The candles had burnt out, leaving only oil-lamps guttering here and there along the walls. Deep shadows swallowed most of the chamber, gaps so dark someone could stand within and she’d never know it. A circular stone stairway hugging the wall started on her right. The high official and her Claws had taken over the top floors of the keep.

With Lubben’s warning in mind, she eased herself along one wall. In the darkness her foot pushed up against something at the base of the stairs. She crouched down. One of Artan’s two remaining guards, dead, a throwing spike jammed into his throat. Hood’s breath! At this rate no one would be left alive. And who was doing all the killing? So far, the murders stank of the Claws.

At the second-floor landing a single oil lamp cast a weak glow upon a scene beyond her worst nightmares. The dead lay in heaps, most of them from the mercenary band. Smouldering tapestries and scorched furniture sent wisps of smoke into the air. She gagged at the sweet odour of burnt flesh. Eviscerated and blackened, the head and upper torso of a Claw hung through the smashed planking of a door. Another Claw lay sprawled amidst the thickest pile of dead, virtually hacked to pieces. It looked as though another one of those alchemical bombs — Moranth munitions — had been touched off in the enclosed quarters.

Holding a portion of her cloak over her nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the stench, Kiska stepped over the bodies to cross the landing. A hall led to a second flight of stairs. Another veteran lay on the floor in a pool of blood, throat slit. From the number of corpses, it looked like the commander couldn’t be left with more than a few survivors at most. The woman didn’t appear to be among the bodies, nor Artan or Hattar.

Blood dripped down the worn stairs, sticking to her slippers as she followed the curve of the inner wall. She halted just short of the top behind the body of a man who’d dragged himself up from the carnage below. She recognized the lozenged armour: it was the sergeant who’d captured her at Mossy Tors.

She stepped over him and crouched, head level with the landing above. She paused to listen. Silence. Profound and utter quiet. It made her back itch. Was everyone dead?

A sough and a slip of cloth sounded beneath her. She looked down, the hair at the nape of her neck rising. The mercenary was not dead. While she watched, a hand rose then snapped at her ankle. She nearly shrieked aloud. It yanked and she fell back onto him, her head cracking on the stairs. Stars and tearing pain half-blinded her. The mercenary’s arm rose and she blocked his feeble blow, though the effort sent her sliding backwards down the stairs.

The grip on her ankle weakened and she jerked her leg free. The mercenary lay slumped on his back. Half the flesh of his face had been burned away. He glared at her. ‘You again,’ he chuckled. Oddly, he merely sounded tired.

Kiska snapped, ‘What in K’rul’s pits are you trying to do?’

That roused him. He grimaced, foam on his torn lips. ‘What’re we trying to do? Bring back the old glory! Return Malaz to its true path! You know nothing of how it was. He came to us. He promised us!’

The man coughed up blood, his eye lost focus, then found her again. Kiska did not need to ask who He was. ‘And what happened?’ she whispered.

‘A damned free for all, s’what. Claws comin’ out of the woodwork like roaches. Don’t know how many left. Too many is my wager. She came ready for anything.’

‘She? Who is she? Tell me.’

Kiska shook him, but his eye closed and his head eased back to the stairs. His last breath hissed: ’Surly.’

So. There it was. Yet he could be wrong. He might be mistaken. It was possible confirmation of what she’d suspected but dared not believe. And now that she knew, or suspected that she knew, fear replaced curiosity. Agayla, Artan, even Lubben, they were right: she had no business here. This was between what everyone in Imperial service called the Old Guard. She — and anyone else — would be killed as unwanted witnesses to old grudges.

Kiska shrank back down the stairs. At the bottom she leapt back into shadow, spotting someone coming up the hall. Smoke still hung thick in the air, and the lamps cast poor light, but even at noon on a clear day the figure would have sent shivers of dread up her spine. It looked like a hoary shape out of the legendary past, ripped from its grave by the Shadow Moon.

Two curving longswords out, crouched, the apparition strode heavily through the wreckage. In archaic armour that might’ve been worn decades ago by the Iron Guard or the Heng Lion Legion, a battered, lobster-tailed and visored helmet covered its head. And Kiska was thankful for that, for no one could have survived the ferocious wounds the mangled armour betrayed. Steel scales swung loose from the torn leather and padding. Iron rings clattered to the stone floor as it lumbered forward. Surely this was one of the horrors hinted at in the legends of the Shadow Moon. A demon, or an inhuman Jaghut tyrant clawed from its rest, lusting to settle ancient wrongs.

Kiska couldn’t move: there was no way past it, and she couldn’t go up. While she watched its implacable advance, a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. Something thudded from the figure’s layered armour. It grunted, turning awkwardly sideways in the hall like a battered siege tower, one weapon ahead, the other to the rear.

Two shapes emerged from the shadows before and behind the figure.

Claws. Needle-thin blades gleamed in their hands. The figure glanced behind, then returned its attention to the front.

Kiska watched appalled while whatever the thing was shifted to forge ahead. Its body language shouted lunge in footing and balance, and the forward Claw yielded a half-step. Incredibly, at that instant, the armoured giant spun then sped behind as swiftly as a naked runner. The rear Claw parried a blur of blows. The figure pressed on, head-butting the Claw with his steel helm. Stunned, the Claw reeled back, then, as he fell, the figure slashed, ripping open his gut.

A thrown blade slammed into the armoured back and jammed. Snarling, the warrior whirled around. It and the Claw stood facing each other, poised. Like a boar readying for a charge, the warrior rolled its shoulders. It pointed a mangled gauntleted hand at the Claw. ‘I’ll have your head this time, Possum.’

Kiska felt a chill from her scalp to her toes. Clearly, this Shadow-summoned fiend could not be stopped. No normal soldier went around dispatching Claws or vowing their destruction. Perhaps it was a warrior from the Emperor’s terrifying T’lan Imass legions. They were said to wear tatters of their ancient armour and to be as irresistible as a typhoon.

The Claw laughed. ‘Then come. I’ll await you above.’ He stepped back into darkness and disappeared.

Alone, the figure snorted its disgust. It rubbed its back against a wall like a bhederin scratching itself. The knife clattered to the stones. After that the warrior rolled its shoulders once more and clashed its swords together as if gathering itself to slaughter anyone it found.

Kiska dashed up the stairs past the dead mercenary.

At the top stretched another hall like the one below. This one however displayed no trace of conflict. She knew it held the rooms of senior officers, the military tribunal presided over by Sub-Fist Pell, and a private dining room. The appointments were stark, befitting a military garrison: clay wall lamps, a few hanging banners and moth-eaten standards. Narrow hall tables bore funerary vessels, spent candles, and miniature stone statues of soldiers, the sight of which reminded Kiska of the demonic warrior behind her. The furthest door stood ajar. She pushed it open and slipped into the darkness.

Though she’d never visited, Kiska knew this for the private dining room where Sub-Fist Pell entertained visiting ship captains and other officers, and where long ago pirate admirals once drank with important hostages dragged out of the dungeons below.

She backed slowly into the room. Vague outlines of tall-backed chairs swam into view along the walls. Trying to slow her pounding heart, Kiska took deep breaths. This was obviously the largest room on this floor, but she felt crowded, as if she weren’t alone. She stopped moving, poised to turn on the balls of her feet. Sensing something behind her she spun to stare up at Hattar’s flat, anger-twisted face. As a warning he raised a finger for silence, then waved her to the rear of the room. Backing away, she bumped up against someone who steadied her. It was Artan.

She turned to him, started to speak, but he pressed a gloved finger to her lips. She clamped her mouth shut, nodded.

He leaned his mouth close to her ear, whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

‘Something’s coming. An armoured demon like a T’lan Imass. Unstoppable. It defeated two Claws.’ Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and she saw his brows rise in disbelief, or surprise. She also caught hand signals flying between Artan and Hattar. That startled her; earlier, Hattar’s night vision had struck her as poor. It must since have been augmented. By Warren perhaps. Two long knives at hand, the plainsman took a position just behind the door. Artan drew her farther back into the long room, to a corner where, through the open door, they could see a section of the lamp-lit hall and the base of the steps to the topmost floor, occupied by the High Official — Surly.

They heard the armoured fiend long before seeing it: slow, heavy tread, torn scales and strapping rattling the walls.

As it loomed into view in the doorway, Artan’s breath caught. Kiska wondered if it was in recognition, fear, or both. ’You were right,’ Artan murmured, his voice a bare whisper, ‘a ghost out of the past indeed…’

Filling the hall like an animated statue, the shape turned to the stairs. It rolled its head in the large helmet, slashed one blade through the air at the base of the narrow curving stairs. Then, swords clashing up into guard, it flinched away.

Someone stepped down from the stairs and into view. A slim figure in an iron-grey cloak. A cultist! Kiska shot Artan a questioning look, but his eyes were wide with amazement. She turned back to the doorway.

The two appeared to be negotiating. Clearly, they knew each other and no love was lost between them. The cultist’s voice was a soft murmur, the warrior’s a hoarse rumble, both echoing in the stillness of the hallway until, eventually, they seemed to come to some sort of an agreement. The cultist lazily waved one hand and a third shape appeared, prone on the hall’s floor. The armoured being, not lowering its attention from the cultist, nudged the figure with its foot. The new arrival responded groggily. It was the dark woman, the mercenary mage, in her black silk shirt and brocaded vest. After a few more exchanges, the armoured figure sheathed its weapons and lifted the woman to its shoulder. It retreated back down the hall, out of sight.

Why take the woman? Kiska wondered. Some kind of sacrifice? She released her breath. It was over. The ancient revenant was gone. Artan, though, gave her arm a painful squeeze. She peered up.

Gaze nailed to the doorway, he mouthed, Be still.

She looked. Whoever the cultist was, he’d turned and now stared straight at them through the door’s narrow yawn. Yet standing in the lamplight it should have been impossible for him to see them hidden in the dark. At her side, Artan stood as tense as a drawn bow. He swallowed, breathed aloud in wonder, ‘By the Autumn Worm. It is he.’

When he’d entered the Hold’s main gate Temper had drawn his twin curved longs words at the sight of the four corpses. He recognized them as members of Ash’s rag-tag platoon and noted there were no ex-Bridgeburners among them. Ash was obviously holding his best close to hand. He hoped fervently that Corinn counted among those.

He paused at the door to Lubben’s quarters, wanting to see if the hunchback still lived, but reconsidered. If alive, there was a chance Lubben might recognize his helmet. There was no telling — the old souse was pretty damned canny in his own way. So Temper passed by the door, stepped out into the empty bailey. He thought of checking the barracks, but dread of what he might discover urged him away. The Claws had perpetrated worse atrocities in their history than the slaughter of one small garrison. After jogging across the bailey, he pushed open the keep’s door with the tip of one sword. More dead chaff here. The Claws, and perhaps even Ash, were thinning their ranks of expendables. He could just imagine Ash figuring that, Twin’s chance, the boys might actually get lucky and kill a Claw or two. Pausing, he tightened his helmet strap, adjusted the frayed rag-ends of gauntlets and shook his shoulders. This was it. Upstairs was the ‘High Official’, her Claw bodyguard, possibly a friend, and perhaps two spectres from his past who had yet to answer for a betrayal they did nothing to prevent. He concentrated, emptied his mind of everything but the objective at the top of the tower.

Ten heart beats later his old fighting calm slipped over him like a familiar protective cloak. He felt good. Damn sore, but strong. He started down the entrance hall, knees bent, weapons ready. He didn’t have far to go. At the main reception chamber he felt a prickling of warning and threw himself against the wall. Something disturbed the air only to disappear, swallowed by the shadows. He began sliding along the wall for a corridor that led to the stairs.

A shape rippled into view at the centre of the chamber. A Claw — female — her chest slashed by savage wounds, blood soaking her pants. She stood before him empty-handed, staring glassy-eyed.

Through the forward sweep of his cheek-guards, Temper frowned. As he edged along the wall he wondered if she even saw him. When only a few paces separated them, the Claw began weaving her hands in front of her. The distant lamp flames guttered and a cold wind brushed Temper’s face while a pool of impenetrable night grew before the woman. Horrified, he recognized a summoning of the Imperial Warren. At any moment anything could emerge: Claws, an army, or a demon. Temper launched himself forward to the floor and slashed the Claw’s feet out from under her. She collapsed and the portal snapped shut. Rolling, he straightened and thrust down. Both blades tore their way into the Claw’s bloodied chest. Still silent, she pawed futilely at Temper’s blades, weaker and weaker, until she sighed and her arms fell.

His heart racing, Temper pushed himself to his feet. Gods! Though half dead that Claw had almost finished him. He swivelled to cover the chamber. Why not a more active use of the Warrens? It occurred to him that perhaps this night, during the Shadow Moon, drawing upon them might be the greatest risk of all. Sensing himself alone, he wiped his blades across the body and continued on.

Carried by pale smoke a familiar stench drifted down the stairs. It transported Temper back to the countless battlefields he’d strode. No matter where the war, in forest or desert, the smell of death was always the same. As he stepped up onto the landing he felt he’d arrived home. As if the brotherhood hadn’t been shattered. As if he still campaigned with the Sword. He almost sensed their presence at his back like a firm hand urging him on.

Two more dead Claws lay among what looked to be the majority of Ash’s remaining company. It must have been an ugly knife-fight that ended when one of the Bridgeburner veterans touched off an alchemical anti-personnel Sharper or explosive concussive right in everyone’s faces. Those boys always did play rough. He didn’t see Corinn or Ash among the bodies.

Up the hall past the wreckage Temper thought he saw movement on the stairs ahead, but it might’ve been the oil lamp’s flickering flame. He paused, flexed for action: the Claws had disputed this stretch of hall before so perhaps they’d-

A thrown weapon hit and deflected from his back. He struck a sideways guard position: one sword high to the front, the other low to the rear. How many of the damned murderers could be left? A normal Claw cell numbered five. Leaving two. But if that was a Fist upstairs, or someone of even higher rank, she wouldn’t have travelled with less than two cells in attendance.

A Claw appeared before him and he knew instinctively that another had come out behind. But he looked back anyway, confirming it, because he didn’t want them to suspect his knowledge of their tactics.

The front one closed a few paces, two parrying gauches out. There was something eerily familiar in his walk and carriage, but Temper ignored that for the moment, thinking through his options. Having passed the aftermath of an old-style drag-out brawl, he felt inspired. These two probably expected a dumb-grunt lunge up the middle, so he’d be accommodating. He gave them that, then reversed, charging flat-out. The rear Claw hesitated, thrown for an instant. Temper overtook him, headbutted, sliced him across the middle and began to turn back in the same motion but wasn’t quite quick enough. A thrown dagger slammed low into his side.

The wound staggered him, but he gave a show of shrugging it off. He must be facing a Claw commander — damned few people could throw a weapon through a thumb’s breadth of bone stripping and boiled leather.

A commander, and familiar! He’d heard that beady-eyed bastard still lived. Temper rolled his shoulders, partly to try to dislodge the knife, partly to think of his next move. He needed time, so Twin’s luck, he might as well try it. He pointed to the Claw.

‘I’ll have your head this time, Possum.’

The Claw laughed, acknowledging their mutual recognition. ‘Then come. I’ll await you above.’

Well, gods below. He’d guessed right.

Possum took one step to the rear, as if putting his back to a wall, then slipped into the gloom and disappeared.

Temper held himself utterly still. Had that been a mere distraction? Would he come for him through another shadow, like that blasted hound? He let a breath hiss through his teeth. No sense worrying. What would come, would come. He limped to a wall to try to pry out the damned knife. Luckily, the armour had absorbed most of its thrust. At a joint of the wall’s stones he felt the hilt catch. He slid sideways and bit back a shout as it pulled free.

Damn that hurt!

He thought he heard steps on the stairs and wondered if that disappearing act had been for show, and only now did Possum run up the steps. That would be funny: Possum scurrying off like a rat. Temper chuckled, sucking in air, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. He clashed his swords together to hurry the bastard on.

Gathering his breath he straightened, crossing the hall and climbing the stairs, all the while testing every space before him with a blade. He hesitated at the landing. So far he’d hoped to avoid going all the way up. He thought he’d have come across Corinn by now, dead or alive. Had Ash and his company made it all the way to the upper floors? He had to admit that he thought it unlikely. Were they hiding in a side room? Probably not. Ash had struck him as a fanatic, not the least troubled by the odds he faced.

Unhappy about it, Temper decided to push on. Wary of Warren-anchored traps, he slashed the air at the next stair-way. Shadows over the steps rippled like heat waves. Temper backed off, swords raised. He prayed to Fener it wasn’t another hound.

A shape took form, that of a slim figure, male or female, in a hooded robe like the Shadow cultists in town, only of finer material that seemed to shimmer. It stepped lazily down the stairs and in those few movements Temper recognized whom he faced. Rarely had they met, but Temper knew him beyond a doubt from the tired, almost bored stance — the carriage of absolute arrogance. It was Dancer, Kellanved’s co-conspirator, bodyguard, and the top assassin of the Empire.

This could be it for him. No one could match Dancer. The man was an artist at murder. In fact, so subtle was he that many had forgotten that Kellanved had a partner. The worst kind of killer: the kind no one notices. And the slippery bastard was supposed to be dead, too.

Temper decided to break the stand-off. ‘Are we going to go a round?’

Dancer gave a nonchalant wave that utterly dismissed Temper as if he weren’t worth the trouble, and reminded him that he had much more important matters to deal with.

‘You wouldn’t agree, Temper,’ he said in that soft patronizing voice, ‘but we’re on the same side.’

Temper decided against scoffing. He’d play this close to the chest. Dancer was like a viper that could squeeze through the smallest opening. He said nothing, waited, watched.

‘A lot of care and energy have gone into arranging tonight’s drama. It’s invitation only and I’m the gatekeeper.’

Temper wet his lips, thought of Corinn. ‘A woman came up before me, ex-mage cadre. Where is she?’

‘I have her.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. Her and Ash. They remained loyal and came to serve.’

‘Give her to me and I’ll go.’

Dancer’s laugh whispered like falling sand. ‘Why should I? You’ll go anyway, Temper. You’ve no choice.’

Temper hunched, took a fresh grip of his weapons. ‘Give her up, Dancer.’

‘Don’t be a fool.’

Damn the man for stacking the deck! He decided to try negotiation. ‘I’m not the one acting the fool here, Dancer. You’re leaving me no choice and that’s not smart. Everyone has their pride. I can’t just turn around now.’

‘But you see,’ Dancer whispered, ‘there is a choice.’

Inwardly, Temper groaned. Dancer had simply been demonstrating the strength of his position. Corinn was nothing to him; he wanted something in return. Through clenched teeth Temper ground out, ‘And that is?’

‘One last fight, Temper. One last service from the last shard of the shattered Sword.’

The last? Something stabbed at Temper’s chest. Truly the last? He seemed unable to breathe. Then Ferrule — even Dassem — dead?

‘What is it?’ he murmured, vaguely aware that he’d lowered his weapons.

‘I relinquish the woman. You return to Pralt who commands my servants in town. I understand the two of you have met already; that should make things easier. There, you do as he says. Understood?’

Temper nodded. Perhaps Dancer lied, but why should he bother? Maybe for all he knew Temper was the last. ‘And do what? Temper asked sharply, suddenly remembering where he was and with whom he negotiated.

‘Nothing distasteful. A battle, Temper. What you’re best at.’

He grunted. ‘Very well. Where is she?’

Dancer waved to the floor. ‘Right here.’

Corinn appeared from the shadows at his feet as if a blanket of night had been pulled from her. Temper extended an armoured foot, nudged her. All the while he kept an eye on Dancer. Corinn moaned, stirred groggily.

Grumbling irritation at himself and his position, Temper slammed home his weapons and lifted Corinn over one shoulder. He faced Dancer.

‘You two mean to retake the throne?’

The hooded head tilted to one side. Temper imagined a teasing smile. ‘We’re not here for a lark; you know that. But even from the beginning we didn’t want such an unwieldy entity. A kingdom, an Empire. These are just symbols. Kellanved and I see much further. We’ve always been after greater things.’ Dancer waved him away. ‘Go. There’s a nasty little battle brewing in town. I think you’ll find it amusing.’

Temper edged away; he wanted to ask about that battle but decided he was afraid of the answers. Backing up the stairs, Dancer dissolved into shreds of shadow and was gone.

Corinn’s flesh was cold to the touch. He adjusted her on one shoulder and started down the hall. What Dancer had said more or less agreed with own conclusions about the Emperor and his cohort. To his mind most people, like Surly, viewed control — political or personal — as the highest ambition. But men like Kellanved and Dancer were after Power, the ineffable quality itself. Heading a kingdom or an Empire was just one expression of it. They’d done that and now wanted more. What had that cultist, Pralt, said? That the control of a Warren was in the offing? Now there was a prize!

Temper paused as he stepped out into the moonlit bailey. He touched one hand to Corinn’s cheek. The flesh felt like damp clay. What time was it now? He scanned the sky: the moon would soon sink below the walls. That is, if the laws of celestial movements still held. Could it be near the sixth bell? Of course, there was no question of not following through with his word. If the island belonged to the cultists for the night, and they belonged to Dancer, then nowhere would be safe for him. And he had to admit he was curious. Too bad he couldn’t just go as a spectator. He adjusted Corinn over his shoulder. He had to get her somewhere quickly that was safe, and the nearest place was one he’d prefer not to visit. But it seemed he had no other choice.

Temper stopped at the main gate’s tunnel and gave Lubben’s door a kick. ‘Open up!’

A voice snapped, equally impatient, ‘Go away!’

‘Open up, Lubben, you pox-blinded lecher!’

‘Hey? What’s that?’ Uneven steps clumped up to the door. ‘I know that voice. Who’s that to speak of lechery when he’s too old to remember it?’

‘Old!’ Temper ducked his head, peered about the tunnel, then leaned to the door. ‘Open up you hunchbacked freak of nature. This is no time to be ashamed.’

‘Ashamed!’ The door whipped open. Lubben glared out, bleary-eyed, a wineskin in one hand. He blinked, stared at Temper’s helmet, then blinked again at his burden and backed away from the threshold. Temper pushed in, hunched under the low roof, and dumped Corinn on the straw mattress. Wine fumes swirled in the closed room as potently as in the Hanged Man on a busy night.

Weaving unsteadily, Lubben scratched his stubbled chin. ‘Who’s this then?’

‘She’s a vet, ex-mage cadre.’ Temper pulled off his helmet, squeezed Lubben’s shoulder. ‘So keep your hands to yourself.’

Lubben snorted, thumped down onto his chair. He eyed Temper suspiciously. ‘What’re you mixing yourself up in now?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t give me that nothing crap.’ He crooked a finger at the helmet under Temper’s arm. ‘You’ve had your head down for a long time friend. Raise it now and you’ll get it chopped off.’

Temper replied with a fatalistic shrug, then said, ‘You’re the second one to tell me that tonight.’

Lubben shook his head sadly. He waved the skin; wine sloshed within. ‘Well, be gone with you then. You sorry-assed fool. Listen,’ and he looked up, his eye bloodshot, screwed nearly shut. ‘I thought we had an understanding. You and I. We were gonna hang around long enough to piss on all their graves.’ He waved the skin up to the ceiling.

Temper laughed. ‘And I still mean to.’

Lubben snorted his scorn, shook his head. ‘You’re being used again.’ He pointed the skin at Temper. ‘Used like before. They don’t care if you live or die, so why should you give a damn for them?’ He drained the skin and threw it, limp, into a corner.

Temper had nothing to say to that. He knew it. He pulled a dirty wool blanket over Corinn. ‘Keep her here, Lubben. Till dawn.’

Lubben nodded tartly.

Temper turned to the door. ‘See you later.’

‘You say she’s mage cadre?’ Temper turned back. Lubben sat scratching his chin, eyeing Corinn.

‘Aye.’

‘What outfit?’

‘Bridgeburners.’

Lubben arched the grizzled brow over his one good eye. ‘Well I’ll be damned.’

Temper hesitated, wondering what the battered old hunchback was getting at, then shrugged it off. ‘Right. So watch yourself.’

Sitting back in the creaking chair, Lubben answered with a crooked smile. ‘Oh, yes. I mean to.’

Temper pointed one last warning at Lubben, then ducked out of the low doorway.