Something swished through the air. Light exploded in his eyes as the club hit him – he went down hard and rolled in the dirt as a dark figure sprang forward. Snaga sang through the air slicing through the man’s thigh, crunching on bone which splintered and broke, tearing a scream from the assassin. Druss lurched to his feet as more shapes came from the shadows. His vision blurred, he could still make out the gleam of steel in the moonlight. Bellowing a war cry, he lunged forward. A sword arced towards him, but he batted it aside and clove his axe through the skull of the swordsman, simultaneously kicking out at a second man. A sword blade cut through his shirt, nicking his chest. He hurled Snaga and turned to meet the third man.
It was Mendar!
Druss moved sideways with arms outstretched like a wrestler. The young officer, sword in hand, advanced confidently. Druss glanced at the second man; he was lying groaning on the ground, his weakening fingers desperately trying to pull the axe from his belly. Druss was angry with himself. He should never have hurled the axe – he blamed it on the headache and sickness. Now Mendar leapt and swung his sword, and Druss jumped backwards as the silver steel swished by him, an inch from his neck.
‘You can’t back away much longer, old man!’ said Mendar, grinning.
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Druss.
‘Playing for time? Sorry? You wouldn’t understand.’
Once more he leapt and slashed and once more Druss jumped clear. But now his back was against a building and there was nowhere to run.
Mendar laughed. ‘I didn’t realise it would be so easy to kill you, Druss,’ he said, and lunged. Druss twisted, slammed his hand against the flat of the sword, then leapt forward as the weapon sliced the skin over his ribs, and hammered a fist into Mendar’s face. The tall officer staggered back with blood pouring from his mouth. A second blow crashed under his heart, snapping a rib. He went down, losing his grip on his sword, but huge fingers gripped his throat and hauled him upright. He blinked – the grip relaxed just enough for him to squeeze air through his windpipe.
‘Easy, boy? Nothing in life is easy.’
A whisper of sound came from behind him.
Druss grabbed Mendar and swung him round. A double-headed axe clove through the officer’s shoulder, lodging against the breastbone. Druss hurdled the body and shoulder-charged the assassin as he struggled to free his weapon. The man was hurled backwards. As Druss clambered to his feet the killer turned and sprinted out into Baker’s Row.
Druss cursed and returned to the dying officer. Blood poured from the ghastly wound, soaking into the hard-packed earth.
‘Help me,’ said Mendar. ‘Please!’
‘Think yourself lucky, you whore-son. I would have killed you much more slowly. Who was he?’
But Mendar was dead. Druss retrieved Snaga from the other dead assassin, then searched for the man whose leg he had wounded. Following a trail of blood into a narrow alley, he found the man lying back against a wall – a dagger rammed to the hilt in his heart, his fingers still curled about the handle.
Druss rubbed his eyes and his hand came away sticky. He ran his fingers over his temple. A lump the size of an egg, tender and broken, made him curse once more.
Was nothing simple in the world any more?
In his day a battle was a battle, army against army.
Pull yourself together, he told himself. There have always been traitors and assassins.
It was just that he had never been a target before.
Suddenly he laughed as he remembered the silence. The inn was empty. As he turned into Unicorn Alley he should have realised the danger. Why would five men be waiting for him after midnight in a deserted alley?
You old fool, he told himself. You must be getting senile.
*
Musar sat alone in his loft, listening to the pigeons as they ruffled their feathers to greet the new dawn. He was calm now, tranquil almost and his large hands no longer trembled. He walked to the window, leaning far out over the sill to gaze north. His one all-consuming ambition had been to see Ulric ride in to Dros Delnoch and on to the rich southlands – to see the rise, at long last, of the Nadir empire.