seen former gladiator. Anyone who dealt with Jubal had more enemies than
friends.
As if in silent response to her thoughts, another group of men appeared out of
the fog. Illyra hid among the crates and boxes while five men without masks
studied the dead man. Then, without warning, one of them threw aside his torch
and fell on the warm corpse, striking it again and again with his knife. When he
had had his fill of death, the others took their turns.
The bloody hawk-mask rolled to within a hand-span of Illyra’s foot. She held her
breath and did not move, her eyes riveted in horror on the unrecognizable body
in front of her. She wandered away from the scene blind to everything but her
own disbelieving shock. The atrocity seemed to be the final, senseless gesture
of the Face of Chaos in a day which had unravelled her existence.
She leaned against a canopy-post fighting waves of nausea, but Haakon’s
sweetmeats had been the only food she had eaten all day. The dry heaving of her
stomach brought no relief.
‘Lyra!’
A familiar voice roared behind her and an arm thrown protectively around her
shoulder broke the spell. She clung to Dubro with clenched fingers, burying her
convulsive sobs in his leather vest. He reeked of wine and the salty fog. She
savoured every breath of him.
‘Lyra, what are you doing out here?’ He paused, but she did not reply. ‘Did you
begin to think I’d not come back to you?’
He held her tightly, swaying restlessly back and forth. The story of the hawk
masked man’s death fell from her in racked gasps. It took Dubro only a moment to