He set his bundle of forcibles on the ground, then pretended to scratch himself and drew the dagger from his belt with his left hand. He held the haft in his grip, the blade flat against his wrist, so that it remained concealed.

Then he just listened. The mill wheel made a noise like the rumble of rocks sliding down a slope, and Gaborn could hear distant shouts, perhaps the sound of folks fighting a fire in the city. “Let’s wait here,” Gaborn told Rowan.

He stilled his breathing as the hunter drew closer.

Stealthy, a stealthy man, but quick. The man had an endowment of metabolism.

Gaborn had no extra metabolism. He moved with the speed of youth, but he was no match for a force warrior.

Gaborn couldn’t risk letting the man cry an alarm, attract the attention of the nomen.

He waited till the hunter drew close, twenty feet. A twig crunched softly. Gaborn pretended not to hear. Waited half a second.

He waited until he judged that the hunter would be gazing at his feet, concentrating on not making another sound; then Gaborn spun and leapt past Rowan.

The hunter raised his sword so fast it blurred. He took a ready stance—knees bent, swordpoint forward. Gaborn was outmatched in speed. But not in cunning.

He flicked his dagger from ten feet, and its pommel hit the man’s nose. In that split second, when the hunter was distracted, Gaborn lunged, aimed a devastating blow at the hunter’s knee, slicing his patella.

The hunter countered by dropping the tip of his sword, trying too late to parry. On the backstroke Gaborn whipped his blade up, slashing the warrior’s throat.

The hunter lunged, not yet realizing he was dead. Gaborn twisted away from the blade, felt it graze the left side of his rib cage. Fire blossomed there, and Gaborn swept aside the warrior’s sword with his own, danced back.

Gurgling escaped the hunter’s throat, and he staggered forward a step. Blood spurted from his neck, a fountain that gushed in time with the warrior’s heartbeat.

Gaborn knew the man couldn’t live much longer, tried to back away, afraid of taking another wound. He tripped over a root and fell on the ground, his sword tip still held high to parry any attacks.

As the hunter’s brain drained of blood, he began to lose his sight, looked around dumbly for half a second. He grasped at a sapling and missed, dropped his sword and fell forward.

Gaborn watched the ridge above. He could see no more of Raj Ahten’s hunters. Silently he thanked Binnesman for the spices that masked his scent.

Gaborn felt his ribs. They bled, but not badly, not as bad as he had feared. He stanched the blood, then retrieved his forcibles.

Rowan was panting in fear. She studied him in the darkness as he climbed back down toward her, as if terrified that his wound would kill him.