He felt her leave his side, heard her light steps patter away.

Heboric sought to rise, but agony ripped up from his broken hip, left him gasping and blinded.

Approaching footsteps, three sets, moccasined, two from the right and one from the left. Knives whispered from sheaths. Closing . . . then silence.

Someone was standing over Heboric. Through his blurred vision, he could make out dust-smeared boots, and from them a stench, as of musty, dry death. Another set of boots scuffed the ground beyond the Destriant’s feet.

‘Begone, wraiths,’ a voice hissed from a half-dozen paces away.

‘Too late for that, assassin,’ murmured the figure above Heboric. ‘Besides, we’ve only just arrived.’

‘In the name of Hood, Hoarder of Souls, I banish you from this realm.’

A soft laugh answered the killer’s command. ‘Kneel before Hood, do you? Oh yes, I felt the power in your words. Alas, Hood’s out of his depth on this one. Ain’t that right, lass?’

A deep, grunting assent from the one standing near Heboric’s feet.

‘Last warning,’ the assassin growled. ‘Our blades are sanctioned – they will bleed your souls—’

‘No doubt. Assuming they ever reach us.’

‘There are but two of you ... and three of us.’

‘Two?’

Scuffing sounds, then, sharp and close, the spray of blood onto the ground. Bodies thumped, long breaths exhaled wetly.

‘Should’ve left one alive,’ said another woman’s voice.

‘Why?’

‘So we could send him back to that fly-blown Napan bastard with a promise for the morrow.’

‘Better this way, lass. No-one appreciates surprise any more – that’s what’s gone wrong with the world, if you ask me—’

‘Well, we wasn’t asking you. This old man going to make it, you think?’

A grunt. ‘I doubt Treach will give up on his new Destriant with nary a meow. Besides, that sweet-lunged beauty is on her way back.’

‘Time for us to leave, then.’

‘Aye.’

‘And from now on we don’t surprise no-one, ‘til come the dawn. Understood?’

‘Temptation got the better of us. Won’t happen again.’

Silence, then footsteps once more. A small hand settled on his brow.

‘Scillara?’

‘Yes, it’s me. There were soldiers here, I think. They didn’t look too good—’

‘Never mind that. Pull the quarrels from me. Flesh wants to heal, bone to knit. Pull ‘em out, lass.’

‘And then?’

‘Drag me back to my temple ... if you can.’

‘All right.’

He felt a hand close on the quarrel buried in his left shoulder. A flash of pain, then nothing.

Elder Sha’ik’s armour was laid out on the table. One of Mathok’s warriors had replaced the worn straps and fittings, then polished the bronze plates and the full, visored helm. The longsword was oiled, its edges finely honed. The iron-rimmed hide-covered shield leaned against one table leg.