‘Who are you?’ demanded Malif. The man removed his leather cloak, carelessly tossing it into the crowd.
‘You requested a champion, did you not?’
Malif smiled. The man was massively built, but even he was dwarfed by the Joining.
What a fine day, to be sure!
‘Remove your mask, so that we may see you,’ he ordered.
‘That is not necessary, nor is it part of the law,’ replied the man.
‘Indeed it is not. Very well. The contest will be decided in hand-to-hand combat, without weapons.’
‘No!’ shouted Valtaya. ‘Please sir, reconsider – it is madness! If I must die, then let it be alone. I am reconciled to it, but you only make it more difficult.’
The man ignored her as from his broad black belt he tugged a pair of leather gauntlets.
‘Is it permitted for me to wear these?’ he asked.
Malif nodded and the Joining ambled forward. It was almost seven feet tall, with a hugh vulpine head. Its hands ended in wickedly curved talons. A low growl issued from its maw, and its lips curled back to show gleaming fangs.
‘Are there any rules to this combat?’ asked the man.
‘None,’ replied Malif.
‘Fine,’ said the man, hammering a fist into the beast’s mouth. One fang snapped under the impact and blood sprayed into the air. Then he leapt forward, blows thundering to the beast’s head.
But the Joining was strong, and after the initial shock it roared its defiance and sprang to the offensive. A fist snapped its head back, then its taloned claw flashed out. The man jumped back, his tunic slashed, blood seeping from shallow cuts in his chest. The two circled each other.
Now the Joining leapt and the man threw himself into the air feet first, his boots thundering into the beast’s face. The Joining was hurled to the ground and the man rolled to his feet, running forward to aim a kick, but the Joining swept up an arm and knocked him to the ground. The beast reared up to its full height, then staggered, with eyes rolling and tongue lolling. The man jumped forward, hurling blow after blow to the creature’s head, and the Joining toppled face-first into the dust of the market square. The man stood above it, chest heaving; then he turned to the stunned Malif.
‘Cut the girl loose!’ he said. ‘It is over.’
‘Sorcery!’ shouted Malif. ‘You are a warlock. You will burn with the girl. Take him!’
An angry roar rose from the crowd and they surged forward.
Ananais grinned and leapt to the platform as Malif stumbled back, scrabbling for his sword. Ananais hit him and he flew from the platform. The guards turned and ran and Scaler climbed to the stake, slicing his dagger through the ropes.
‘Come on!’ he yelled, taking Valtaya by the arm.
‘We must get out of here. They will be back.’ ‘Who has my cloak?’ bellowed Ananais.
‘I have it, general,’ shouted a bearded veteran, Ananais swirled the cloak around his shoulder, fixing the clasp, then lifted his hands for silence. ‘When they ask who freed the girl, tell them it was the army of Tenaka Khan. Tell them the Dragon is back.’
‘This way, quickly!’ shouted Scaler, leading Val-taya to a narrow alley. Ananais leapt lightly from the platform and followed them, pausing to glance down at the lifeless Malif, his neck grotesquely twisted. He must have fallen badly, thought Ananais. But then if the fall had not killed him, the poison would have done so. Carefully he removed his gauntlets, pressing the hidden stud and sliding the needle covers in place over the knuckles. Tucking them into his belt, he raced after the man and the girl.
They ducked through a side door off a cobbled street and Ananais found himself in a darkened inn, the shutters closed and the chairs stacked on tables. The man and the girl were standing by the long bar.
The landlord – a short, balding fat man – was pouring wine into clay jugs. He glanced up as Ananais walked forward out of the shadows and the carafe fell from his trembling fingers.
Scaler spun round, his eyes fearful.