The Ventrian pushed back his chair and strode for the door. Dagorian made no attempt to call him back. If the situation were reversed he too would be sceptical. Zani reached the door, pulled it open and stepped outside. Dagorian heard him scream. The Ventrian officer stumbled back into the tavern, blood pumping from a terrible wound in his throat. Three dark-clad warriors moved inside. They were hooded and masked. The first thrust a sword deep into Zani’s belly. The other two ran at Dagorian. The Drenai warrior up-ended the table in their path, slowing them, then drew his own blade. A sword lunged for his throat. Dagorian swayed aside and launched an overhand cut that chopped deep into his opponent’s neck, slicing through the bone beneath. He was dead before he hit the floor. As his sabre came clear Dagorian leapt backwards. The second assassin’s sword
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sliced air. Bringing up his sabre in a reverse cut Dagorian slashed the blade into the assassin’s arm. It cut deep. The man screamed and dropped his sword. The killer who had stabbed Zani threw a knife, which missed Dagorian and clattered against the far wall.
The man with the wounded arm scrambled back and ran for the door. His companion hesitated – then joined him, and the two escaped into the night. Dagorian ran to Zani, but the little Ventrian, lying in a spreading pool of blood, was dead.
Anger rose in the Drenai officer, and he ran from the tavern, trying to catch the killers.
The streets were dark now, and there was no sign of them. Sheathing his sabre he returned to where the bodies lay. The tavern keeper approached him. ‘I have sent for the Watch,’ he said. Dagorian nodded and moved to the rear of the room, where the dead assassin lay. Flipping the body with his foot he knelt down and wrenched away the mask and hood. The man was unknown to him. He heard a soft curse from the tavern keeper and swung round.
‘You know this man?’
The tavern keeper nodded dumbly. ‘He has been in here several times – usually in uniform.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know his name. But he’s an aide to Antikas Karios.’
For the third time that afternoon Nogusta signalled a halt to rest the horses. The two mares ridden by Kebra and Bison did not need rest, but Nogusta’s huge black gelding was breathing heavily and sweat bathed its flanks. Nogusta stroked its sleek neck. ‘Do not be downhearted, Great One,’ he whispered, soothingly. ‘You have
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been ill, and you need time to regain your strength.’ The black man led him through the stand of pine and up the last rise. On the crest he paused and gazed down at the verdant valley below.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Bison, moving alongside Nogusta. ‘Sold for his hide! There must have been a mistake.’
‘No mistake. He has a lung infection, and the king decided he was no longer of use.’
‘But this is Starfire. He’s been the king’s warhorse for years. The king loves this horse.’
‘Beware the love of kings,’ said Nogusta, coldly. ‘Starfire is like us, Bison. He’s at least eighteen years old, and not as strong and fleet as once he was. Skanda had no more use for him. So he was sold for hide and meat and glue.’
‘If he’s useless why did you buy him?’
‘He deserved better.’
‘Maybe he did, but what will you do when he drops dead?’ argued Bison. ‘I mean . . . look at the state he’s in! Horses don’t survive lung rot.’
‘The diagnosis is wrong. There is no wasting of the muscles. It is just an infection and he will improve in the mountain air. But if he does die it will be under the sky, free and proud, among friends who care for him.’
‘He’s just a horse,’ persisted Bison. ‘Do you really think he cares?’
‘I care.’ Taking up the reins Nogusta started the long walk down into the valley. Bison and Kebra rode ahead and by the time the black warrior led the warhorse to level ground his two companions had made camp beside a stream. Bison had collected dry wood for a fire and Kebra had unpacked pots and plates for the evening meal.