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angry Dassem was by the extravagance of that gesture and the way he scowled
his disgust.
He kicked Jade across her head, tore a weapon from her hand and pulled it
across her throat. The other Claw guard lay where he'd fallen, stunned.
Possum tried to access his Warren, but broke off to dodge the knife Dassem
threw. The two closed and Possum met Dassem with daggers in either hand. They
circled, Possum feinting, Dassem weaving, dodging. Temper had to admire
Possum's form; it was the best he'd seen, but the man had made a fatal mistake
in not breaking off the instant Dassem revived. Arrogance, perhaps.
Dassem closed, yielding a cut across his side to grab one hand. They spun,
pivoting on that fulcrum and again Temper was amazed by Possum's moves. But
Dassem's skill, strength, and speed, though all sapped, still proved too great
for Possum's will and razor-honed training. Dassem broke the wrist, twisted
the arm around, and jammed Possum's own blade onto his chest. He collapsed,
and camp sounds returned to the tent.
Temper smiled at their victory and gave in to the cold hard darkness that
pulled at him like the embrace of deep water.
As the night progressed he fluttered into consciousness now and then. Pain in
his stomach jabbed him awake once and Ferrule, his face close, strained and
pale, motioned for silence. He saw tents and wagons once, dark, unmanned.
Later, a field of tall grass whispered and hissed as pain shocked him awake
again and Dassem, wearing a broad cloak, examined him, smiling his
encouragement.
Travelling only a few leagues each night, they escaped. They walked north
through passes of the Thalas Range to the coast and stole a small fishing
launch. This they sailed by turns night and day, north-east out to the Sea of
Dryjina, then south. A month later they landed, thin, sunburnt, bearded, on
the Seven City coast south of Aren. Here they parted ways. Temper and Ferrule
planned to take the boat south to Falar. Dassem did not intend to go with
them.
They had stood together on the rocky shore, none wishing to speak. They wore
loose robes now over trousers and tunics. White home-spun cloth scarves
wrapped their heads and masked their faces. Of his former life, Temper carried
only his helmet wrapped in his blanket bedding. Dassem had presented it to him
when he awoke.
Temper stood with arms crossed, fixed his sight on a distant mountain range.
'So,' he said to Dassem, 'it has to be alone, does it?'
Dassem gave a tired nod. It was an old argument.
'What will you do?'
'Travel. Head west.'
'What in Togg's name could possibly be out there?' Ferrule snapped, furious as
usual when thwarted in anything. Dassem's smile cut at Temper's soul, so
wintry was it. 'Something. Something's out there. Maybe what I'm looking for.'
Temper cleared his throat. He thought of Dassem's own whispered words and the
rumours he, Point, and Edge kept track of, regarding a purge among the highest
levels of the cult of Hood. 'I'd wish you luck, but I'm not sure you should
find what you're looking for.'
That got a sharp look, but Dassem relented with a pained expression that
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seemed half-agreement. 'I suppose we'll see.'
'A pox on all of it!' Ferrule snarled, and threw himself into the surf. He
lurched out to the anchored boat. Grasping the side, he shouted back, 'If you
must travel half of creation, look me up on the Seti plains.'
Dassem waved farewell.
Temper stepped up and they embraced. At the shore he tried one last appeal,
though he knew it was useless. 'Retire with us. Set your feet up.'
'There are things I must do.'
'Yeah, well. Be damned careful.'
Dassem laughed. 'I will.'
'You ain't got us to watch your back no more.'
'I know.'
Still Temper could not bring himself to part from the side of the man he had
sworn to give his life for. 'I could refuse, you know. Follow along.'
Again the sad smile. 'I know' He squeezed Temper's shoulder. 'But you will die
if you remain with me. This I know. Stay with the fight, Temp. There is a good
chance you will live a very long while yet.'
Temper's breath caught. 'You have seen this?'
Dassem released his shoulder, motioned him on. 'Go. That's an order.'
Temper pushed his way out through the surf. Ferrule and he set the sail. As
the dusk gathered between the boat and the rocky shore, they waved farewell.
Dassem raised an arm in one long continuous salute. Finally, the dim figure
turned away from the shore and disappeared among the trees.
After a time, while they sailed along the coastline, Ferrule asked, 'What in
Fener's tusks is so damned important? Why can't we go with him?'
'I think he's going where we can't follow.'
Ferrule peered back over his shoulder at Temper as if won-dering just how
serious he was. Temper wasn't sure himself.
It wasn't until weeks later on the island of Strike that they heard the
official version of that final day at Y'Ghatan. It seemed that the three
surviving members of the Sword, weakened by their wounds, died in a night raid
by fanatical Holy City Falah'd, who after withdrew to the city, taking
Dassem's body with them.
That same night Surgen died in a manner never fully explained. Three days
later the city fell. By all accounts High Fist Choss acquitted himself well.
Dassem's body was never conclusively identified and the Empire never did get
around to appointing a new First Sword.
At the top of Rampart Way Kiska found the Hold's towering iron-studded gates
closed. No lantern or torchlight shone from the slits of the machicolations to
either side. Normally, the glinting barbed tips of crossbow quarrels would
have tracked her movements and the watch captain would have hailed her long
ago.
Cut into the timbers of the left-hand gate, the tiny thieves' door stood ajar.
Something lay jammed at its bottom. Kiska slid along the timbers until level
with the opening. A forearm, bloodied palm up, stuck out as if offering a
macabre greeting. She peered through the gap. It belonged to one of
the mercenaries who had kidnapped her. He was dead, the leather armour at his
back stitched by cuts. From the way he lay he must have been trying to escape.
Darkness obscured the entrance tunnel and she knew she was now outlined by the
moonlight glowing behind her. Slipping in, she stepped to one side and stopped
dead, listening.
Nothing but the faint and distant surf. The stink of blood and voided bowels
filled the enclosure. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, the twisted
shapes of two other mercenaries distinguished themselves from the
cobbled lane. Perhaps they'd been left behind to guard the gate and since
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