Skilgannon rose from his chair and moved swiftly along the wall of the tavern, halting just beyond the doorway.
‘What’s it worth?’ he heard someone ask.
Skilgannon heard the rasping of metal, and guessed a weapon had been drawn. ‘You get to keep your eyes, you slug!’
‘No need for that,’ said the man, his voice suddenly fearful. ‘He just went inside there.’
Shadows flickered across the entrance. Skilgannon’s stiffened fingers slammed into the first man’s belly. He doubled over, a whoosh of air exploding from his lungs. Before the second could react Skilgannon’s fist cracked against his chin, spinning him from his feet. The third man lunged with his knife. Skilgannon grabbed the knife wrist, stepped inside and hammered a head butt to the man’s nose, shattering it. Half blinded, the assassin dropped his knife and staggered back. Skilgannon followed in with a straight left and a right cross. The man hit the floor and did not move.
Scooping up the fallen knife Skilgannon turned back towards the first man, grabbing him by his long, dark hair and dragging him into the tavern. The innkeeper, Skilgannon’s jug of ale in his hand, stood by anxiously. ‘Just put it on the table,’ said Skilgannon pleasantly.
‘You’re not going to kill him, are you?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Probably.’
‘Would you do it outside? Dead bodies tend to upset my customers.’
The man Skilgannon had hauled into the tavern was gasping for breath, his face crimson. Skilgannon lifted him by his hair into a sitting position.
‘Lean forward and breathe slowly,’ said the warrior. ‘And while you are doing that think on this. I am going to ask some questions. I am going to ask each one once only. If you do not answer instantly I shall cut your throat. Say my name!’
Drawing back the man’s head, he laid the blade of the knife on the assassin’s jugular. ‘Skilgannon,’ said the man, between gasps.
‘Excellent. Then you know that what I have told you is no idle threat. So, here is the first question. How many are waiting for me at the stable?’
‘Six. Don’t kill me.’
‘How many bowmen?’
Two. I have a wife and children…’
‘Where are the bowmen hidden?’
‘In the alley, I think. But I don’t know. Servaj will have positioned them.
We were just told to follow and cut off your retreat. I swear it.’
Skilgannon released the man’s hair, then struck him sharply on the back of the neck. The Naashanite slumped forward, unconscious.
Skilgannon sliced away the man’s money pouch and opened it. There were a few silver pieces inside. He tossed the pouch to the tavern keeper.
‘Something for your trouble,’ he said.
‘Very kind,’ said the man sourly.
Skilgannon rose and walked to the entrance. One of the other assassins was beginning to move. The man groaned. Skilgannon knelt beside him and hit him in the jaw. The moaning ceased.
Checking the third man he saw that he was dead, his neck snapped.
The innkeeper leaned over the body. ‘Oh, this is pleasant,’ he said.
‘Another corpse.’
‘At least he’s not bleeding.’
‘Not exactly a silver lining though, is it?’ said the man. ‘Corpses are not considered good business for an eating establishment.’
‘Neither is having no food.’
‘You have a point. Does he have money in his pouch?’
‘If he does it is yours,’ said Skilgannon, rising and walking outside. A small crowd had gathered.
‘What went on in there?’ asked a round-shouldered, balding man.
Ignoring him, Skilgannon walked to the end of the street and stood by the corner, scanning the buildings close by. Locating the stable, he strolled towards it. The man in the red shirt was in the loft, watching from a hay gate. As soon as he saw Skilgannon approach he ducked back inside.
Skilgannon broke into a run, cutting to the left and vaulting the fence around a small corral. As he landed he heard a thunk from behind him.
Glancing back he saw a crossbow bolt jutting from a timber. Surging forward, he sprinted across the corral, swerving left and right. Another bolt hit the ground and ricocheted past his leg. Then he was at the stable doors. Drawing the Swords of Night and Day he dived through the open doorway, and rolled to his feet. Three men rushed forward.
And died.
A fourth remained sitting on a bale of hay. He was a thin man, dark-haired and balding, and he wore no weapon. ‘Good to see you again, general,’ he said affably.
‘I know you. You were an infantryman.’
‘Indeed so. I have a medal to prove it. The Queen gave it to me herself.’
Skilgannon moved across the stable, eyes scanning the empty stalls.
Then he paused with his back to a sturdy column. ‘To use such fools as these against me is most insulting.’
‘You are not wrong. Speed, they said. It’s never a good idea. But do they ever listen? Do this, do that, do it now. Makes you wonder how they reach such high positions, doesn’t it? I take it you killed the others?’
‘The three who were following? No. Only one. The others will be waking up soon.’
‘Ah well, not entirely a bad day then.’ Servaj levered himself upright. His sabre was hanging from a hook on the wall. Strolling over to it he drew the blade. ‘Shall we end this, general?’
‘As you wish.’ Skilgannon sheathed the Sword of Night. ‘You are remarkably calm for a man about to die. Is this because of some religious belief?’
‘You fought Agasarsis with my sword. This sword here. I watched you.
You’re not that good. Come on. Let me give you a lesson.’
Skilgannon smiled, took one step away from the column, then spun and dropped to one knee. The crossbowman hidden in the far stall reared up.
Skilgannon’s right hand flashed out. The tiny circular blade sliced into the bowman’s throat just as he loosed his bolt. With a gurgling cry he fell back. The bolt flashed past Skilgannon, burying itself in the calf of Servaj, who swore loudly then dropped his sabre. ‘A poor end to a bad day,’ he said. Looking up he shouted: ‘Rikas, can you hear me?’
‘Yes, Servaj,’ came a muffled voice.
‘Forget about your bow and go home.’
‘Why? I can still get him.’
‘You can still get yourself killed. Just do as I say. Remove the bolt, loose the string and come down.’ Skilgannon stood ready as a crossbowman descended the loft ladder steps. He was a young man, fair-haired and slim.
He glanced at his wounded leader, then at Skilgannon. ‘Just leave, Rikas.’
The young man walked past Skilgannon and left by the rear door.
‘Why did you do that?’ asked Skilgannon.
‘Ah well, there are some tasks which are more onerous than others. To be honest I always liked you, general. And now that I’m dying I don’t feel much like completing my mission.’
‘Men don’t usually die from a bolt in the lower leg.’
‘They do if the bolt is poisoned.’ The man’s speech was beginning to slur and he slumped back to the hay bale. ‘Damn. It would be amusing if it wasn’t so bloody tragic.’ His body arched forward. He groaned, then he pitched to the ground. Skilgannon retrieved the circular throwing blade, cleaned it and tucked it inside his belt. Then he moved back across the stable and knelt beside the assassin. ‘May your journey end in light,’ he told the
