Blood sprayed as he tugged the weapon free and darted into the tent’s doorway.
Wards collapsed around him.
Within the threshold he reloaded the crossbow and affixed it in the brace on his wrist-beneath the voluminous sleeves. Then did the same with the other one on his left wrist.
The main chamber before him held but a lone occupant, a grey-robed assassin who spun at Kalam’s arrival, a pair of hooked Kethra knives flashing into guard position. The face within the hood was expressionless, a narrow, sun-darkened visage tattooed in the Pardu style, the swirling artistry broken by a far heavier sigil branded into the man’s forehead-a talon.
The grey-clad assassin suddenly smiled. ‘Kalam Mekhar. I suppose you don’t remember me.’
In answer Kalam drew out his second long-knife and attacked.
Sparks bit the air as the blades clashed and whispered, the Pardu driven back two steps until, with a sweeping backslash, he leapt to the right and sidestepped round to give himself more space. Kalam maintained the pressure, weapons flashing as they darted out, keeping the Talon on the defensive.
He had skill with those heavy Kethra knives, and both quickness and strength. Kalam’s blades took blocking blows that reverberated up the bones of his arms. Clearly, the Pardu was seeking to break the thinner weapons, and, well made as they were, nicks and notches were being driven into the edges.
Further, Kalam knew he was running out of time. The diversion continued, but now, along with the crack of sharpers ripping the air, waves of sorcery had begun rolling in deafening counterpoint. Whatever the nature of the squads attacking the Dogslayers, mages were giving answer.
Worse yet, this Talon didn’t enter here alone.
Kalam suddenly shifted stance, extending the knife in his left hand and drawing his right hand back to take guard position. He led with the point, evading the parries, and, in increments, slowly retracted his left arm, beginning at the shoulder. The faintest pivoting of hips, drawing the lead leg back-
And the Pardu closed the distance with a single step.
Kalam’s right hand shot across, beating aside both Kethra blades, simultaneously lunging high with his left hand.
The Pardu flung both weapons up to parry and trap the thrust.
And Kalam stepped in still closer, stabbing crossways with the long-knife in his right hand. Punching the tip into the man’s lower belly.
A gush of fluids, the edge gouging along the spine, the point then plunging out the other side.
The parry and trap had torn the long-knife in his left hand from its grasp, flinging it to one side.
But the Talon was already sagging, folding over the belly wound and the weapon impaling him.
Kalam leaned closer. ‘No,’ he growled. ‘I don’t.’
He tugged his knife free and let the dying man fall to the layered rugs of the tent floor.
‘A damned shame,’ mused a voice near the back wall.
Kalam slowly turned. ‘Kamist Reloe. I’ve been looking for you.’
The High Mage smiled. He was flanked by the other two Talons, one of whom held Kalam’s second long-knife and was examining it curiously. ‘We’ve been expecting a strike by the Claws,’ Kamist Reloe said. ‘Although an attack by long-dead ghosts was, I admit, not among our expectations. It is Raraku, you understand. This damned land is… awakening. Well, never mind that. Soon, there will be… silence.’
‘He holds an otataral weapon,’ the assassin on Kamist’s right said.
Kalam glanced down at the blood-smeared long-knife in his right hand. ‘Ah, well, that.’
‘Then,’ the High Mage sighed, ‘you two shall have to take him in the, uh, mundane way. Will you suffice?’
The one holding the long-knife flung it behind him and nodded. ‘We’ve watched. He has patterns… and skill. Against either one of us singly we’d be in trouble. But against both of us?’
Kalam had to agree with the man’s assessment. He stepped back, and sheathed his weapon. ‘He’s probably right,’ he rumbled. With his other hand he drew out the acorn and tossed it on the floor. All three men flinched back as it bounced then rolled towards them. The innocuous object came to a halt.
One of the Talons snorted. Kicked it to one side.
Then the two assassins stepped forward, knives flickering.
Kalam raised both arms, twisted his wrists outward, then flexed them hard.
Both Talons grunted, then staggered backward, each impaled by a quarrel.
‘Careless of you,’ Kalam muttered.
Kamist shrieked, unveiling his warren.
The wave of sorcery that struck the High Mage caught him entirely unawares, coming from one side. Death-magic closed around him in a sizzling, raging web of black fire.
