Then they ran into the young men with the spears. Gwenna was just starting to think they might walk straight out of the camp when the three taabe stepped out from the darkness between two tents. The idiots were lugging twelve-foot spears—useful on horseback but potentially deadly in the confusion of a night camp—and they tangled up with Gwenna and Pyrre, wooden hafts and steel heads clattering, blocking the lane.

The youth in the lead shouted angrily in Urghul, a quick barrage of words Gwenna didn’t recognize, then yanked on the haft of his spear. The head ripped through her blacks, slicing into her arm. The wound wasn’t deep, but it took Gwenna by surprise, pulling her off-balance, and she cursed as the metal bit, then slid free. It was that curse that did it.

The head of the closest taabe snapped around at the unfamiliar language, his dark eyes locked on hers, and then, after a baffled heartbeat, his lips drew back into a snarl. He opened his mouth to shout, but Pyrre was already there, sliding a small blade across his neck, a subtle motion, almost gentle. Instead of a roar, a bloody lisp slipped from his lips as he folded to the earth.

The two others were still trying to free their spears, oblivious to the silent death of their comrade. Gwenna hacked one across the face, while Annick killed the other with an arrow shaft in the eye. The fight was over in less than two blinks, but the bodies lay hopelessly tangled with the long shafts of the spears, and Gwenna could see movement in both directions down the narrow lane. There was no time to hide corpses. No time to do anything but put distance between themselves and the bodies.

“This way,” Pyrre said, stepping from the path, sliding between the tents. Her voice was low, relaxed, but held none of her habitual mockery. For once, the assassin sounded as though she was taking things seriously. “Quickly, ladies.”

Gwenna didn’t care for the idea of taking orders from a Skullsworn, but the center of a hostile army didn’t seem like the time to contest the issue. She grimaced, slid into close-guard, and followed the woman into the tents. A dozen paces farther they emerged onto another muddy track running parallel to the first. Gwenna’s stomach clenched. The Urghul were everywhere, and worse, lit torches lined the path, flames snagging and ripping with the wind. Pyrre didn’t hesitate, striding straight across, aiming for the cluster of tents on the far side. She made it halfway before one of the Urghul—a tall bastard with a long yellow braid—noticed her and barked a question.