When he’d entered the Hold’s main gate Temper had drawn his twin curved longs words at the sight of the four corpses. He recognized them as members of Ash’s rag-tag platoon and noted there were no ex-Bridgeburners among them. Ash was obviously holding his best close to hand. He hoped fervently that Corinn counted among those.
He paused at the door to Lubben’s quarters, wanting to see if the hunchback still lived, but reconsidered. If alive, there was a chance Lubben might recognize his helmet. There was no telling — the old souse was pretty damned canny in his own way. So Temper passed by the door, stepped out into the empty bailey. He thought of checking the barracks, but dread of what he might discover urged him away. The Claws had perpetrated worse atrocities in their history than the slaughter of one small garrison. After jogging across the bailey, he pushed open the keep’s door with the tip of one sword. More dead chaff here. The Claws, and perhaps even Ash, were thinning their ranks of expendables. He could just imagine Ash figuring that, Twin’s chance, the boys might actually get lucky and kill a Claw or two. Pausing, he tightened his helmet strap, adjusted the frayed rag-ends of gauntlets and shook his shoulders. This was it. Upstairs was the ‘High Official’, her Claw bodyguard, possibly a friend, and perhaps two spectres from his past who had yet to answer for a betrayal they did nothing to prevent. He concentrated, emptied his mind of everything but the objective at the top of the tower.
Ten heart beats later his old fighting calm slipped over him like a familiar protective cloak. He felt good. Damn sore, but strong. He started down the entrance hall, knees bent, weapons ready. He didn’t have far to go. At the main reception chamber he felt a prickling of warning and threw himself against the wall. Something disturbed the air only to disappear, swallowed by the shadows. He began sliding along the wall for a corridor that led to the stairs.
A shape rippled into view at the centre of the chamber. A Claw — female — her chest slashed by savage wounds, blood soaking her pants. She stood before him empty-handed, staring glassy-eyed.
Through the forward sweep of his cheek-guards, Temper frowned. As he edged along the wall he wondered if she even saw him. When only a few paces separated them, the Claw began weaving her hands in front of her. The distant lamp flames guttered and a cold wind brushed Temper’s face while a pool of impenetrable night grew before the woman. Horrified, he recognized a summoning of the Imperial Warren. At any moment anything could emerge: Claws, an army, or a demon. Temper launched himself forward to the floor and slashed the Claw’s feet out from under her. She collapsed and the portal snapped shut. Rolling, he straightened and thrust down. Both blades tore their way into the Claw’s bloodied chest. Still silent, she pawed futilely at Temper’s blades, weaker and weaker, until she sighed and her arms fell.
His heart racing, Temper pushed himself to his feet. Gods! Though half dead that Claw had almost finished him. He swivelled to cover the chamber. Why not a more active use of the Warrens? It occurred to him that perhaps this night, during the Shadow Moon, drawing upon them might be the greatest risk of all. Sensing himself alone, he wiped his blades across the body and continued on.
Carried by pale smoke a familiar stench drifted down the stairs. It transported Temper back to the countless battlefields he’d strode. No matter where the war, in forest or desert, the smell of death was always the same. As he stepped up onto the landing he felt he’d arrived home. As if the brotherhood hadn’t been shattered. As if he still campaigned with the Sword. He almost sensed their presence at his back like a firm hand urging him on.
Two more dead Claws lay among what looked to be the majority of Ash’s remaining company. It must have been an ugly knife-fight that ended when one of the Bridgeburner veterans touched off an alchemical anti-personnel Sharper or explosive concussive right in everyone’s faces. Those boys always did play rough. He didn’t see Corinn or Ash among the bodies.
Up the hall past the wreckage Temper thought he saw movement on the stairs ahead, but it might’ve been the oil lamp’s flickering flame. He paused, flexed for action: the Claws had disputed this stretch of hall before so perhaps they’d-
A thrown weapon hit and deflected from his back. He struck a sideways guard position: one sword high to the front, the other low to the rear. How many of the damned murderers could be left? A normal Claw cell numbered five. Leaving two. But if that was a Fist upstairs, or someone of even higher rank, she wouldn’t have travelled with less than two cells in attendance.
A Claw appeared before him and he knew instinctively that another had come out behind. But he looked back anyway, confirming it, because he didn’t want them to suspect his knowledge of their tactics.
The front one closed a few paces, two parrying gauches out. There was something eerily familiar in his walk and carriage, but Temper ignored that for the moment, thinking through his options. Having passed the aftermath of an old-style drag-out brawl, he felt inspired. These two probably expected a dumb-grunt lunge up the middle, so he’d be accommodating. He gave them that, then reversed, charging flat-out. The rear Claw hesitated, thrown for an instant. Temper overtook him, headbutted, sliced him across the middle and began to turn back in the same motion but wasn’t quite quick enough. A thrown dagger slammed low into his side.
The wound staggered him, but he gave a show of shrugging it off. He must be facing a Claw commander — damned few people could throw a weapon through a thumb’s breadth of bone stripping and boiled leather.
A commander, and familiar! He’d heard that beady-eyed bastard still lived. Temper rolled his shoulders, partly to try to dislodge the knife, partly to think of his next move. He needed time, so Twin’s luck, he might as well try it. He pointed to the Claw.
‘I’ll have your head this time, Possum.’
The Claw laughed, acknowledging their mutual recognition. ‘Then come. I’ll await you above.’
Well, gods below. He’d guessed right.
Possum took one step to the rear, as if putting his back to a wall, then slipped into the gloom and disappeared.
Temper held himself utterly still. Had that been a mere distraction? Would he come for him through another shadow, like that blasted hound? He let a breath hiss through his teeth. No sense worrying. What would come, would come. He limped to a wall to try to pry out the damned knife. Luckily, the armour had absorbed most of its thrust. At a joint of the wall’s stones he felt the hilt catch. He slid sideways and bit back a shout as it pulled free.
Damn that hurt!
He thought he heard steps on the stairs and wondered if that disappearing act had been for show, and only now did Possum run up the steps. That would be funny: Possum scurrying off like a rat. Temper chuckled, sucking in air, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. He clashed his swords together to hurry the bastard on.
Gathering his breath he straightened, crossing the hall and climbing the stairs, all the while testing every space before him with a blade. He hesitated at the landing. So far he’d hoped to avoid going all the way up. He thought he’d have come across Corinn by now, dead or alive. Had Ash and his company made it all the way to the upper floors? He had to admit that he thought it unlikely. Were they hiding in a side room? Probably not. Ash had struck him as a fanatic, not the least troubled by the odds he faced.
Unhappy about it, Temper decided to push on. Wary of Warren-anchored traps, he slashed the air at the next stair-way. Shadows over the steps rippled like heat waves. Temper backed off, swords raised. He prayed to Fener it wasn’t another hound.
A shape took form, that of a slim figure, male or female, in a hooded robe like the Shadow cultists in town, only of finer material that seemed to shimmer. It stepped lazily down the stairs and in those few movements Temper recognized whom he faced. Rarely had they met, but Temper knew him beyond a doubt from the tired, almost bored stance — the carriage of absolute arrogance. It was Dancer, Kellanved’s co-conspirator, bodyguard, and the top assassin of the Empire.
This could be it for him. No one could match Dancer. The man was an artist at murder. In fact, so subtle was he that many had forgotten that Kellanved had a partner. The worst kind of killer: the kind no one notices. And the slippery bastard was supposed to be dead, too.
Temper decided to break the stand-off. ‘Are we going to go a round?’
Dancer gave a nonchalant wave that utterly dismissed Temper as if he weren’t worth the trouble, and reminded him that he had much more important matters to deal with.
‘You wouldn’t agree, Temper,’ he said in that soft patronizing voice, ‘but we’re on the same side.’
