EIGHT

As he listened to their stealthy approach he cursed, fluently and silently. There were more of them than he would have expected – ten at least – in addition to which this was not really his kind of a fight. He was a skulker rather than a head-on brawler and preferred conflict to arrive at a time and place of his choosing, not to have it thrust upon him like this. Still, he'd little choice but to play the hand that was dealt him. The assassin had moved to one side of the clearing, back pressed against a tree, braced and ready.

He was just grateful that they'd been granted some warning of the attack; Kohn had somehow sensed the enemy's approach, though it wasn't the giant that shook him awake but the Thaistess, whom Kohn had evidently woken first. Even so, they didn't have much time, but at least they weren't destined to die in their sleep and could meet their attackers with weapons drawn. Mind you, judging by the way Tom was holding his sword, Dewar doubted whether the lad had ever handled one before. He looked more like a knife fighter whose blade had outgrown him. Discounting the Thaistess, who appeared to be unarmed, there were only three of them as it was, so he just hoped the former street-nick proved to be more accomplished than he looked

No further time to worry about that – the first attackers were already advancing into the clearing. Dewar raised his kairuken, took careful aim and fired. The weapon, a deceptively simple spring operated catapult with a handgrip and trigger, was designed to be quickly reloaded, giving it the edge over a crossbow in Dewar's opinion. Even as one razor-edged metallic disc flew towards a shadowy assailant, a second was being slipped into place. He fired again, catching another attacker a split second after the first target hit the ground.

Dewar was a good swordsman when he needed to be, verging on expert. But he avoided such intimate exchanges whenever possible, especially in forests, where twisting your foot on an exposed tree route or tripping over other woodland detritus offered such golden opportunities for cruel chance to kick a man in the balls.

He pushed himself away from the tree, ever conscious of his footing, angling the move so that one of the attackers was slightly behind and so hampered by the other. Peripherally he was aware of a great roar that could only be Kohn, and of men's curses and movement to his right, but he shut that out, narrowing his focus onto these two men before him.

He danced back to avoid a crude cut from the first attacker, using the foot that had gone backward to spring forward again immediately, so that he was upon the man even as the blade sailed past, thrusting with his own sword. His lunge only scored what amounted to a deep scratch, as the fellow twisted in the wake of his strike; either a very clumsy move or a quite brilliant one, since it saved his life. Dewar wasn't taking any chances, kneeing this first opponent – who doubled up with a dramatic whoomf of expelled breath – and slamming the pommel of his sword into the side of the man's head. That way, the blade was still facing in the right direction to parry a blow from the second attacker. Hampered by his colleague, this was never going to be more than a hopeful thrust, but the man quickly moved around to engage the assassin properly. Dewar had planned to finish the first man off before facing the second, but he wasn't given the chance.

What was more, this opponent actually seemed to know what he was doing, taking the assassin's measure with a well rehearsed combination of strikes, the first high and the second low, while keeping his own guard high enough to leave no obvious openings. Dewar feinted and then jabbed in earnest, once twice, was parried each time and then had to jump back smartly to avoid the other's riposte. They were closely matched, and he had neither the time for this nor the desire to see which of them would eventually better the other. Then he remembered the tree roots.

Stepping back hurriedly in the face of another attack, Dewar seemed to trip and fall backwards, twisting around desperately as he did so. Seizing the opportunity, his opponent closed in, and the assassin barely blocked an otherwise lethal strike. Yet even as the two blades met Dewar's other hand was in motion, swinging up to sink into the man's groin the dagger he had surreptitiously drawn under cover of the apparent fall and roll. The brigand let out a scream of pain and surprise as Dewar twisted the knife, feeling the warmth of fresh blood coat his hand.

He was on his feet again in an instant, ignoring the stricken swordsman for the moment as he faced the first attacker again, now recovered but still not in the same class as his colleague. Dewar easily blocked a wildly aimed blow before driving the edge of his own blade through the man's collar bone and on.

The other swordsman was desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from his groin and didn't seem to offer much of a threat, but there was no point in taking any chances. Dewar ran him through and then turned his attention back to see what else was going on around him.

If you were going to pick a fight with a Kayjele there was one thing you really had to be aware of. Not necessarily that they were big and so had a long reach, though that was certainly worth bearing in mind, nor the fact they had only one eye and so perhaps suffered from a lack of depth perception. No, what you most had to bear in mind was that they were strong. Really strong, not just because of their size; even when proportions were taken into account a Kayjele packed far more punch than your average man, which was why they made such ideal tenders for the pumping stations dotted around Thaiburley's multiple levels, where from time to time heavy equipment had to be moved and regulated. The Kayjele could perform unaided tasks that would otherwise have required the help of an ox or two. Dewar supposed this disproportionate strength had developed in response to the harshness of their mountain home.

So, if you choose to place the trunk of a small tree in the grasp of hands powered by that sort of muscle, the result is always likely to be impressive. A fact which several of the attackers were now discovering to their cost. The giant was holding off a semi-circle of four armed men, roaring and snarling defiance while brandishing his length of tree as if it were a twig.

The men feinted and darted, making a fine show of looking for an opening while doubtless hoping one of the others would be the first to chance their arm. The crumpled forms of a couple of their colleagues lying around Kohn's feet offered a clue as to why the quartet seemed a tad reluctant to push forward. As the assassin watched, one of the fallen pair moved, slowly, trying to drag himself away. The other one didn't.

The assassin thought about going back for his kairuken, which should still be close to the tree where he'd dropped it, but decided to make do with what was to hand, or rather foot. Of course he could have employed the sword which hadn't been sheathed as yet, but he was curious. The man was so focussed on the Kayjele and that intimidating bough that he seemed oblivious to Dewar's approach until the assassin's boot landed squarely in the brigand's back, sending him stumbling forward.

What followed lived up to Dewar's expectations in every way. Kohn's hefty club came whistling around in a two handed swing, catching the brigand while he was still trying to recover his balance. The bough struck the unfortunate man's head with a sound like the clap of thunder, lifting him from his feet and sending him flying through the air to land in a heap some distance away. Dewar doubted he'd be moving again in a hurry.

The brigand furthest away then gathered his courage while the other two gawped and, seizing the half opportunity offered by his colleague's demise, chose to move in. However, in mid-stride he seemed to think better of the notion as Kohn's club came whistling back towards him, and tried to retreat without following through on the attack. He wasn't quite quick enough. Tree trunk smashed into hand and, with a yelp, the man dropped his sword.

Dewar had to concentrate after that, as he crossed swords with the man who'd been closest to the fellow Kohn had just attempted to swat into the forest's canopy. Unlike the first two the assassin had fought, who if anything had seemed overconfident, this one didn't seem to have his heart in the contest. Younger than those others, his stance was wholly defensive and he gave ground from the first. Then Kohn roared, a sound chilling enough to give any man pause, let alone a lad already looking for a way out of a scrap. The youth flung his sword at the assassin, and then turned around and ran, hot on the heels of the other surviving attackers.

Dewar sheathed his sword and deftly drew a throwing knife, confident that he couldn't miss at this distance. Yet, as he took aim, a vast shape hove into view; Kohn, chasing after the brigands himself and doubtless ensuring they wouldn't stop running for a while, but robbing the assassin of a clear shot in the process.

Only once he was well into the trees and knee deep in bracken did he remember how awkward blundering around in a forest at night could be. Woodcraft was a skill Dewar hadn't needed to call upon in years, and he was quickly discovering that, like all mistresses, she demanded a certain level of dedication. Dare to ignore her and she'd desert you. Despite his best efforts, it sounded to his own ears as if he was moving through the undergrowth with all the elegance and precision of a heavily pregnant goat.

The assassin caught up with the fleeing men as they were scrambling onto their horses, cursing and squabbling the whole while, each with their own opinion as to why the supposed ambush had turned into such a shambles – all of which doubtless laid responsibility firmly at someone else's feet. There were the expected ten or eleven horses, though only three carried riders, still hastily settling into their saddles. Only three? Had they really taken care of so many, or had others simply fled in the wrong direction?

Dewar didn't stop to wonder, but drew the throwing knife from his belt as he ran towards the mounted men, and flung it without missing a stride. His aim was satisfyingly accurate and he watched the knife bury itself between the shoulder blades of his target. The man cried out and slumped forward over his mount's neck, but he didn't lose his seat.

Horses whinnied and reared and pulled at their tethers. Either the fleeing men had released all the steeds, not just the ones they needed, or the mounts hadn't been properly secured in the first place, because suddenly horses were running everywhere and Dewar found himself surrounded by barrelling bodies and threatened by flailing legs and hooves. He did his best to shield his face, smelling warm horse flesh and instinctively closing his ears against the snorts and angry whickering, the sounds of snapping branches and crushed foliage that surrounded him, as he tried to follow the fleeing riders. He saw that one of them had grabbed the reins of their wounded fellow's mount, and the three were quickly away, out of Dewar's reach.

The loose horses had bolted, but two remained, either not freed when the others had been or more effectively tethered. They were skittish and alarmed, but he set about soothing them with quietly spoken words. He approached with exaggerated care, using a constant flow of gently voiced imprecations to woo them.

He would love to lead the pair of them back to the others, but knew how difficult that was going to be with two nervous horses, so settled for doing this one at a time, deciding to begin with the one that seemed most amenable – a brindle mare. After making sure the other was firmly tied, he led the mare back the way he'd come.

Dewar used gentle but firm strength to cajole the horse forward, walking beside her head and talking to her all the while. "Come on you mangy excuse for a horse," he said in his sweetest, softest voice. "The glue pot's waiting to welcome these tired old bones of yours if you don't come this brecking way," he cooed. "It's a long while since I've feasted on horse meat. Roasted over an open fire, on a spit. Lovely." And so on until he and his newly acquired mount entered the clearing.

Kohn was gesturing frantically, trying to attract the assassin's attention. He looked over to discover that the Kayjele had grasped a partially charred stick from the fire, and, holding it by the burned end, had started to carve an image in the ground. First he drew a crude circle, then he marked a cross within it. Dewar stared at the image, determined to understand what the giant was trying to tell him. Kohn pointed repeatedly at the drawing and then forcefully back in the direction they'd come. As he pointed, he grunted repeatedly, clearly agitated.

The lad looked up in puzzlement and obvious consternation, but that wasn't Dewar's problem. He climbed onto the horse without another word – never mind that he hadn't ridden in years and this steed and he were complete strangers; they could get acquainted on the road. Before any such concerns could be conveyed to the horse, he set off, riding hard in the direction of Crosston. Babysitting the boy and his friends could go to hell for the moment. That bastard of an innkeeper had some explaining to do.

Seth Bryant was cursing himself for being a fool. Years of living the contented life of an innkeeper had turned him soft. As time passed he'd started to think like an innkeeper, to be an innkeeper, steadily growing into the persona adopted only as camouflage. The man who first arrived at the Four Spoke Inn would never have worried about protecting an assumed identity and would have done what was necessary without qualm or hesitation. The boy and his companions would have been, should have been, dead before morning. Instead he had made them breakfast with a smile and watched them walk away, knowing they wouldn't find passage upriver and happy to rely on the hired help to hunt them down and do his dirty work. As Seth hurried through night-time streets towards a prearranged meeting, something in the pit of his stomach told him that this had been a calamitous mistake.

Nor did he see any reason to revise that opinion when he entered the disused warehouse by the waterside – a place brimming with the stink of dampness and riddled with draughts courtesy of the rotted and broken timbers that comprised its walls. Only three figures waited for him. They sat slumped on assorted crates and bore the look of defeated men. One was lying rather than sitting, his body spread over two broken crates and his cheek pressed to one of them. The man was clearly injured, most likely close to death.

As the man glanced away, Seth moved. He hadn't let every skill go to seed, and even after all these years he'd kept up his knife work. The blade was out of its sheath and in his hand in an instant, moving through a smooth arc to bury itself to the hilt in the mercenary's side before the man had a chance to register what was happening. A good strike, sliding between ribs and ripping open the heart.

Seth allowed the knife to drop to the ground still embedded in the corpse, drawing instead his sword as he stepped over the body and advanced purposefully on the remaining mercenary, who had come to his feet and was fumbling to draw his own blade. Was this really the calibre of man he'd been relying on to accomplish a task he himself had been charged with? At least the lad had his sword out now, but it was hardly a contest. Seth strode forward with a momentum that would not be denied. The terror in his opponent's eyes only spurred him on.

He feinted to strike high, drawing the lad's blade up in a clumsy attempt at defence, but instead switched with a deft turn of wrist and elbow and struck low, easily penetrating the other's ineffectual guard. Easier than taking money from the gullible Wil in a hand of cards. The blade sank into the lad's abdomen. As his thrust ended, Seth yanked the weapon sideways and out. The young mercenary's mouth and eyes gaped wide as realisation of his own death penetrated. Seth swatted the limply-held sword away and, with one scything stroke, decapitated its wielder, relishing the brief resistance of bone and sinew as the blade swept through. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but a great means of venting frustration and a fitting way to welcome back the person he used to be, the person he had always been, somewhere deep inside.

The blade that had killed him was still embedded in the man's back. Presumably his fellows had either been wary of removing it in case they caused further damage or simply couldn't be bothered. Not a problem anymore either way. Seth pulled the knife free and considered it for a moment. Good weapon – well made and perfectly balanced. He wiped it clean on the dead captain's tunic and tucked it into his belt.

In the language of a distant nation, Ulbrax meant "shining strength", with a strong undertone of implied masculinity. It was also a proper name; one cast aside several years ago by the man who subsequently answered to Seth Bryant. Perhaps cast aside was putting it too strongly; rather, that identity had been submerged, folded up and sunk into the furthest recesses of memory against future need. To accomplish this submersion, a process of determined self-delusion had been applied, a means of persuading himself not to remember certain thought patterns, habits, mannerisms and abilities. However, in recent days the barriers had eroded and Seth had found himself thinking less and less like a Crosston innkeeper and ever more like Ulbrax the subversive, Ulbrax the spy. Ulbrax the killer.

Events in the warehouse had accelerated this reversion, which was now all but complete. The man who strode back towards the Four Spoke Inn was a very different proposition from the one who had entered the deserted warehouse a few moments before. There was little of Seth Bryant remaining, and Ulbrax felt nothing but contempt for the person he had become in recent years and particularly for decisions made in recent days. Now was the time to rectify those mistakes before the situation became irretrievable.

The restoration of his true persona proved timely. Seth Bryant would have stepped into his own room without the faintest suspicion that anything might be amiss, but Ulbrax possessed skills Seth had never even dreamed of. A little rusty, perhaps, but they were still there, as he discovered immediately he crossed the threshold of the room's door. Whoever the intruder might be they were good. There was no sign of a forced entry, nothing overt to arouse suspicion, and there was no sound to give the man away, not even the gentle rise and fall of breathing. Yet Ulbrax could sense him, smell him, feel him – this unlooked for, unwanted visitor.

Ulbrax moved to obey. He couldn't see the intruder but was confident he'd pinpointed him by his voice – a voice he recognised instantly as Dewar's. That being the case, the verbal threat was most likely backed-up by a kairuken, assuming the mercenary's account could be believed.

Even allowing for the intruder's eyes being better adapted to the darkness than his own, vision couldn't be that certain. Had Dewar really seen his hand straying towards the knife or was that just an educated guess? Whatever the truth, Ulbrax knew that he had to act now if he was going to do anything at all.

He bent his knees, crouching slightly as if to allow the sword belt to drop to the floor, but instead converted the crouch into the springboard for a leap which he hoped would take the other by surprise. Not intended as an attack, the leap carried him further into the room, where intervening furniture combined with the darkness ought to make accuracy impossible. Rather than dropping the sword belt he dragged it with him, feeling along its length for the knife he knew to be there even before he'd landed.

His shoulder hit something – a solid thump of pain that travelled down his arm but which he ignored – and sent it crashing over; the table by the sound and feel. His landing was hampered by the impact but he still managed to complete the intended roll, coming to his feet in a squat and casting the now freed knife at the patch of darkness from which Dewar's voice had emanated. If the kairuken had been fired during this it must have gone well wide of the mark, because Ulbrax wasn't aware of any razor-edged discs coming his way.

Predictably, the thrown knife clattered against the wall and then the floor. He'd have been amazed if Dewar hadn't moved, but it was worth a shot. His eyes were starting to adapt to the dark a little, though nowhere near as quickly as he needed them to. Enough, however, for him to make out where the window was. Even as the thrown knife thudded to the ground he was moving, throwing himself at the window, face down and arms raised to shield his head. He felt the impact of glass and then the give of it shattering, followed by the sharp sting of shards scraping his body as he hurtled through. More stung his back as he landed and rolled. Something whizzed by, striking his upper arm just below the shoulder; a glancing blow, but enough to shred clothing and slice into skin as it passed. The kairuken! He was on his feet immediately and running, before his opponent could reload, dodging around the corner of the inn to put something solid between him and the weapon. He didn't look to see if he was being followed, assuming that he would be and knowing that the best chance of survival depended on his acting as if all the spawn of hell itself were at his heels. He knew these streets intimately whereas Dewar didn't, knew where to dodge and turn and climb. Pursuit wouldn't be impossible, but he intended to make damned sure it was difficult.

As he ran, something fell into place in his mind, doubtless nudged there by the threat of the kairuken, and he recalled exactly where he'd heard of a man answering Dewar's description wielding such a weapon before. The shock of revelation struck like a physical blow, causing him to stumble to a halt, hands clasping the rough wood of the nearest building for support as he gasped for breath.