‘Ah well,’ said Obrin, with a broad smile, ‘may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb!’ So saying, he took a step forward and slammed his fist into the officer’s mouth, catapulting the man from his feet. Drawing his dagger, he moved in for the kill.
Something struck him a wicked blow on the skull and he staggered, half turning. He saw Bakker raise his arm, then the cudgel struck his temple and he fell into darkness.
When he awoke he found himself tied to his saddle. Masrick was leading the column and they were approaching a small castle. Fell was walking beside Obrin’s mount, his hands tied behind him and a rope around his neck. The other end of the rope was being held by the rider in front.
‘You really did it this time, sergeant,’ said a voice from his left. Obrin turned in the saddle to see, riding alongside him, Bakker. ‘Now they’re going to hang you! Not before time, if you ask me. You always was a right pain in the groin. Never liked you.’
Obrin ignored him.
The castle gates loomed ahead.
7
A SMIDIR HAD NEVER enjoyed great talent as a magicker. Though his powers of concentration were great, and his imagination powerful, he had always lacked what his tutors termed ability of release. Magic, he was told, involved the user surrendering control and merging his mind with the powers hovering beyond what the five senses could experience. For all his talent Asmidir had never been able to fully release. Now he sat in the main hall, a huge leather-bound book open on his lap. The script was in gold, carefully set upon bleached leather; it was an ancient Kushir script and he read it with difficulty.
Closing the book, he stood and moved to the long, oval table. Upon it was a golden dish, set on a stand above three small candles. Asmidir drew his dagger and began to speak. His eyes were closed, his spirit loose within the cage of his powerful body as his breathing deepened. The dagger blade cut into his forearm and blood welled, dripping into the heated dish where it sizzled and steamed. Asmidir’s voice faded away. Opening his eyes, he took a deep, shuddering breath. It was done. Not brilliantly, not even expertly. Let it at least be adequate, he thought. Returning the dagger to its sheath he pressed his thumb against the shallow wound on his arm, applying pressure for some minutes. A dark-skinned servant stepped forward with a long linen bandage. Asmidir extended his arm, and the man skilfully applied it.
‘Bring the officer here to me, Ari,’ he told the servant. ‘Also the man in green. You have prepared the refreshment I ordered for the soldiers?’
‘Yes, lord. As you commanded.’
The servant took the bowl and departed the room. Asmidir returned to the log fire and settled himself into an armchair. He heard the sounds of hoofbeats on stone, and felt the cold blast of air as the main doors of the castle were pulled open to admit the soldiers.
Rising from his chair, he turned towards the door just as the potbellied Lieutenant Masrick strode into sight with Kollarin the Finder behind him. Masrick’s face was discoloured, his lips thickened and split.
‘Good day to you,’ said Asmidir, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. ‘It is good to see you again, Masrick.’ The officer responded with a perfunctory handshake. A servant appeared. ‘Fetch wine for our guests, Ari.’ Masrick removed his iron helm and carelessly dropped it upon the highly polished table.
‘The Baron wants to see you,” said Masrick. ‘You are to return with us to Citadel.’
‘I think you mean that the Baron has requested my presence,’ said Asmidir coolly.
‘No, I said what I meant. He told me to bring you, and that’s what I’ll do.’ Masrick lifted a hand to his smashed lips, probing them. ‘I have two prisoners with me. Does this place still boast a dungeon?’
‘No,’ Asmidir told him. He swung to Kollarin. ‘And you must be the Finder,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘I take it from the fact that you have prisoners that you have been successful.’