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.
Now his Drenai wife and his eight-year-old son lay below, their sleep deepening towards death as he savoured his last dawn.
It had been hard watching them sip their poisoned drinks, listening to his wife’s amiable chatter about her plans for tomorrow. When his son had asked him if he could go riding with Brentar’s boy, he had said that he could.
He should have followed his first instincts and poisoned the old warrior, but Dun Mendar had convinced him otherwise. Suspicion would then have fallen instantly on the master of ceremonies. This way was surer, Mendar had promised: drug him and kill him in a dark alleyway. So simple!
How could one so old move so swiftly?
Musar had felt he could bluff it out. He knew Druss would never recognise him as the fifth assassin, for his face had been half-covered by a dark scarf. But the risks were too great, maintained his Nadir lord, Surip. The last message had congratulated him on his work over these last twelve years, and concluded: Peace on you, brother, and your family.
Musar filled a deep bucket with warm water from a large copper kettle.
Then he took a dagger from a shelf at the rear of the loft and sharpened it on a small whetstone. The risks were too great? Indeed they were. Musar knew the Nadir had another man at Delnoch, more highly placed than he. On no account would he be compromised.
He plunged his left arm into the bucket, then holding the dagger firmly with his right he severed the arteries of the wrist. The water changed colour.
He had been a fool to marry, he thought, tears shining in his eyes.
But she had been so lovely . . .
*
Hogun and Elicas watched as men from the Legion cleared away the bodies of the assassins. Spectators looked on from nearby windows, calling down questions, but the Legion ignored them.
Elicas tugged at his small gold earring as Lebus the Tracker outlined the skirmish. Elicas had never lost his fascination for the Tracker’s skill. On a trail Lebus could tell you the sex of the horses, the age of the riders and damned near the conversations around the camp-fires. It was a science beyond his understanding.
‘The old man entered the alley over there. The first man was hidden in the shadows. He struck him, and Druss fell. He rose fast. See the blood there? An axe cut across the thigh. Then he charged the other three, but he must have thrown his axe because he backed away to the wall there.’