When Kasanal at last opened ethereal eyes to find himself striding towards Hood’s Gate, he was pleased to find his four kinsmen with him.

Wiping the blood from his sword, Karsa Orlong swung to face the two women. ‘Felisin,’ he growled, ‘your scars burn bright on your soul. Bidithal chose to ignore my warning. So be it. Where is he?’

Still feeling the remnants of the strange dullness that had stolen her senses, Felisin could only shake her head.

Karsa scowled at her, then his gaze shifted to the other woman. ‘Has the night stolen your tongue as well?’

‘No. Yes. No, clearly it hasn’t. I believe we were under sorcerous attack. But we are now recovering, Toblakai. You have been gone long.’

‘And I am now returned. Where is Leoman? Bidithal? Febryl? Korbolo Dom? Kamist Reloe? Heboric Ghost Hands?’

‘An impressive list – you’ve a busy night ahead, I think. Find them where you will, Toblakai. The night awaits you.’

Felisin drew a shaky breath, wrapping her arms about herself as she stared up at the terrible warrior. He had just killed five assassins with five sweeping, almost poetic passes of that enormous sword. The very ease of it horrified her. True, the assassins had intended the same for her and Scillara.

Karsa loosened his shoulders with a shrug, then strode towards the path leading to the city. In moments he was gone.

Scillara moved closer to Felisin and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Death is always a shock,’ she said. ‘The numbness will pass. I promise.’

But Felisin shook her head. ‘Except for Leoman,’ she whispered.

‘What?’

‘Those he named. He is going to kill them all. Except for Leoman.’

Scillara slowly turned to face the trail, a cool, speculative look stealing across her face.

The last two had taken down four warriors and come within thirty paces of his tent before finally falling. Scowling, Mathok stared down at the arrow-studded, sword-slashed corpses. Six attempted assassinations this night alone, and the first bell had yet to sound.

Enough.

‘T’morol, gather my clan.’

The burly warrior grunted assent and strode off. Mathok drew his furs tighter about himself and returned to his tent.

Within its modest confines, he paused for a long moment, deep in thought. Then he shook himself and walked over to a hide-covered chest near his cot. He crouched, swept aside the covering, and lifted the ornate lid.

The Book of Dryjhna resided within.

Sha’ik had given it into his keeping.

To safeguard.

He closed the lid and locked it, then picked up the chest and made his way outside. He could hear his warriors breaking camp in the darkness beyond. ‘T’morol.’

‘Warchief.’

‘We ride to join Leoman of the Flails. The remaining clans are to guard Sha’ik, though I am confident she is not at risk – she may have need for them in the morning.’