Night of Knives

after all. And Temper had to admit it was hard to swallow that he’d just disappear to let Surly — or anyone — usurp it. If he was yet alive, that is.

Pure blind bullshit. Or in this case, hound shit. Come dawn, their predicted millennium would fail to appear and they’d fade away, like so many cults before them. Temper had never been a religious man himself. The old standby patron gods of soldiers, Togg and Fener, had always been more than enough for him. The rest of that dusty theology just made his head numb: Old versus New; the rise and fall of Houses of influence; the eternal hunt for Ascension. Still, it was troublesome to see someone as clearly sharp and organized as that robed fellow swallowing it all.

He turned north onto Grinner’s March. Rampart Way rose into view through the mist, making Temper smile. That, and the thought that he now had a ship-load of questions for Corinn when he found her. He counted on getting answers from her. Hood’s bones, she owed him an explanation. I saw, she’d told him; seen the breaking of the Sword. Why? To shock him into cooperating? He sent a short prayer to Togg that somehow she’d managed to escape all this.

As he laid a hand on the cold granite wall of Rampart Way, he turned to his two escorts. They’d stopped a few paces back, side by side.

‘What? Not coming?’

The slim one’s hood rose as he peered up at the Hold. ‘You’ll find only death there tonight.’

Temper wanted to laugh that off, but the man’s words sent a chill up his spine. He waved them away. ‘Maybe. Run back to your master and let him know where I went.’

‘He knows.’

Temper watched them. They remained motionless. He stared back for a time longer, then, snorting his impatience, started up the steps.

Grumbling, Temper strode up the wet stones. What a pack of moonstruck fools! As if there was anything to all that charlatan cant about a Return. It was damned embarrassing, that was what it was. A bunch of spoiled aristos probably. None of whom had ever shed a drop of blood in the fields. Never saw Kellanved murder thousands when he brought down a city wall, or his pet T’lan Imass warriors slaughtering entire towns. Good riddance to that wither-legged Dal Honese elder and spook of a partner, Dancer! In his career Temper had met and fought a lot of men and could honestly say: none scared him as much as those two did.

Dassem spoke of the Emperor rarely, but when he had, it was always with the greatest care and wariness. He had told one story of entering a dark command tent during the Delanss pacifications to inform Kellanved of the dispersal of the troops. While the two spoke an aid brought a lit lantern into the shadowed tent and Dassem discovered himself alone. Later, he learned from Admiral Nok that on that day the Emperor had been at sea, on board the Twisted. Dassem said this was characteristic of the old man: no one should ever be certain where Kellanved stood — in anything… or on anything.

Temper had seen him now and then, distantly, during marshalling of the troops: a small black man with gnarled limbs and short grey hair. Or so the pretence. At first glance he looked like nothing more than a withered-up old gnome. Yet one look from him could be enough to drive anyone away as if struck, or if wished, crush them to their knees. Temper had to give him that much.

But Dassem, Sword of the Empire, he had looked out for the men. By the Queen, the army literally worshipped him! All those others — Surly and the rest — knew it too, even then. He’d seen it in their eyes the times he’d accompanied Dassem to briefings. Surly and the other lackeys knew only the rule of fear. But Dassem, with praise here, or a chiding word there, could capture a man’s heart. And he led from the front; in every battle. Soldiers shoved each other aside just for the chance to fight near him.

At a switchback Temper paused. The night closed in on him, black, hollow, and surprisingly cold — a chill that seemed to broach his soul. Downhill, the fog obscured the slopes and hung over the town. Icy rain brushed him and he wiped at his face. Damn, it was raw! His bones ached. What time was it now? Four bells or five? He couldn’t remember hearing the mole lighthouse for some time now. Gods, he was weary. Leaning against the wall, he wondered just what it was he hoped to accomplish. He stared out into the lazy wisps of mist and the strangely dull stars, and he remembered that other night. The night close to a year ago when he and Dassem died.

He’d awakened in an infirmary field tent. An officer’s facility, small and empty, unlike the ones they stuffed with regulars while the overflow simply stacked up outside. Ferrule sat beside him on a travel chest, as short and hairy and vicious-looking as ever. He wore a thick leather vest over a cloth jerkin. Two dark shapes stood at the closed flaps: Claws.

‘Back with us, hey?’ Ferrule grinned, slapping his leg. With his left hand, hidden by his body, he signed: they’ve made their move.

Temper answered with a faint nod, smiled. ‘Yeah, whole again.’ Their move. The six of them had always known it would come. They had spoken of it, planned for it, dreaded it. But now they were only two. Two against all Surly’s Claws.

‘Where is he?’

Ferrule jerked his head to the flaps. ‘Taken for special treatment. Tried to stop them, but…’ He shrugged.

‘The wound?’

‘Damned bad. Worst yet.’ Ferrule opened his vest a fraction revealing the hilts of two knives. We have to get to him. ’How do you feel? I made them heal you up. Raised Togg’s own stink about it,’ he laughed. Can you make it?

Temper signed to Ferrule: I’m with you. ’Feel like a new-born kitten. Help me up. We have to check on him.’ He’d exaggerated only a bit. Surgen had pretty much cut him up into a walking corpse. Forced healing and bone knitting was wondrous, but it was just as traumatic as the wounds themselves: he felt as if he’d been tortured for weeks. He bit back sour vomit. Sweat beaded all over his body, trickled down his face. Yet he was alive, and he had sworn his life to Dassem. If the Claws were behind this attack, then as far as he was concerned they had made a huge error in not killing them all immediately. Surly’s hands were probably tied — too many must have witnessed their survival.

Ferrule grunted, ‘Don’t faint on me,’ and passed a knife while helping him off the cot. Temper leaned on Ferrule’s shoulder, both for effect and because his knees shook, barely able to support him.

Flanking the entrance, the Claws exchanged glances. Both were male and dressed for combat rather than in the loose black cloaks they always wrapped themselves in when allowing themselves to be seen. Their unofficial uniform consisted of dark dyed cloth, tall leather boots, trousers, loose jerkins, vests and gloves. Their long hair hung gathered down their backs. Each carried an arsenal, but concealed in pockets and folds. The tiny, understated silver Claw sigils glittered at their left breasts.

Temper shuffled across the tent on Ferrule’s arm, exaggerating his weakness, though probably fooling no one. Ferrule’s rock-like solidity reassured him. It would be good to have him at his side for what was to come. They’d given the hairy, muscular Seti plainsman the name Ferrule because he preferred to fight in close. After any battle the blood literally ran from him.

The Claws shifted to stand side by side. ‘You’re to remain. Recuperate. The Regent’s orders.’

Ferrule slowed. ‘We’re leaving, lads. Stand aside.’

’Orders, soldier. Don’t challenge her authority.’

Under his arm, Temper felt Ferrule flex, readying for action. ‘Stand aside,’ he warned, his voice level, ‘or we’ll carve through you like we did the Holy Guard.’

The Claws exchanged one quick glance. The one who’d spoken flicked his hand.

‘Spell,’ Ferrule snarled. He snapped out the hand he’d held behind Temper’s back and a knife flew. Temper flung himself ahead and to one side. Something clipped his arm, the dressing ripped. He rolled, came up where the Claws had stood and though dizzy, snatched out in time to grab an ankle of one as he tried to call up his Warren. Losing his balance, the man fell and lost control of the forces he’d tried to summon. Wracked by lancing pain, his vision darkening to a tunnel, and just plain furious, Temper stabbed the man in the groin then lunged for a lethal throat jab. But the Claw wriggled aside and Temper’s blade merely nicked the man’s chin.

Amazingly, the Claw stood. Temper was slowed because he’d discovered his right side was smeared in fresh blood, and something long and sharp stuck entirely through his upper arm. How in Hood’s name had that got there?