‘They have killed you too,’ said his bodyguard.
Niallad saw the knives in their hands. He backed away into his room. His legs were trembling. All his young life he had feared just such a moment as this. And now it was upon him. Curiously the terror faded away, replaced by a cold anger. His limbs ceased to tremble and he ran to his bed, where he had discarded his dagger-belt. His fingers curled around the carved ebony hilt, pulling the weapon clear. Then he swung to face the men.
‘I thought you were my friend, Gaspir,’ he said, and felt a surge of pride that there was no fear in his voice.
‘I was your friend,’ said Gaspir, ‘but I serve Lord Aric. I will kill you swiftly, boy. I’ll not throw you to the beasts.’
Gaspir stepped closer. The other man edged away to the right.
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Niallad.
‘There’s little point in such a question,’ said the Grey Man, stepping through the balcony doorway. ‘You might just as well ask a rat why it spreads disease. It does it because it is a rat. It knows no other way.’
The two assassins hesitated. Gaspir glanced at the Grey Man, who was standing unarmed, his thumbs resting in his belt. ‘Kill the boy,’ he ordered the second man, then advanced on the Grey Man. His intended victim did not back away. His right hand moved to his ornate belt buckle. In that fraction of a heartbeat Gaspir saw the arrowhead-shaped centre of the buckle slide clear. The Grey Man’s hand flicked out. Blinding white light exploded in Gaspir’s right eye-socket, lancing fire through his skull. He fell back.
Niallad saw the Grey Man step in swiftly, grab Gaspir’s knife arm and twist it savagely. The long blade fell clear. The Grey Man caught the falling blade by the hilt, and flipped it. His arm rose and fell. There was a grunt from Niallad’s left. The second assassin staggered, Gaspir’s blade lodged in his neck. Even so he raised his own knife and lunged at Niallad. The youth sidestepped and, without thinking, slammed his own dagger through the man’s chest, piercing the heart. He dropped without a sound.
Gaspir was on his knees groaning, one hand over the bleeding wound in his eye. The Grey Man slapped his hand away, and tore the throwing knife clear. Gaspir gave a cry of pain and fell back. The Grey Man coolly sliced his blade across Gaspir’s throat. Ignoring the dying man, who continued to writhe on the floor, he walked across to Niallad.
‘My parents are dead,’ said Niallad.
I know,’ said the Grey Man, moving past the boy and making for the door. Gently he pushed it shut. He swung back to Niallad. ‘Breathe slowly,’ he said, ‘and look into my eyes.’
Niallad did so. ‘Now, listen to me. If you are going to survive you must understand your position. You are no longer the son of the mightiest man in the realm. You are, from this moment, an outlaw. They will hunt you and try to kill you. You are a man alone. You must learn to think like one. Strap on that dagger-belt, and follow me.’
Lord Shastar of House Bakard, his shirt torn away, blood seeping from the clawmarks on his naked back, sat huddled against the western wall, watching the black hounds ripping flesh from the bodies – some of which were still living.
Shastar sat very still, aware that the slightest movement could alert the creatures to his presence. Across from him he could see the bodies of the Duke and his wife, the dead Ruall lying beside them.
The black-garbed warrior who had killed them was standing silently, arms folded across his chest.
A massive hound padded across to where Shastar sat. He did not move. The beast’s nostrils flared, its huge head so close to Shastar’s own that he could smell the beast’s foetid breath. Shastar closed his eyes, waiting for the fangs to rip away at him. Just then a dying woman close by let out a groan. The hound leapt upon her, and Shastar heard the sound of crunching bones.