Night of Knives

‘’Ware the cold, human. ‘Ware the ice that grips. The frost that silences.’

Temper heard, distantly, a growl from the Jaghut, followed by an explosion as if the barrier was under assault once more. His head was heavy and his chin had sunk to his breastbone. He opened his eyes to see that a sheath of ice now encased his legs up to his knees, and that his feet had disappeared within a block of jet-black ice that seemed to have grown like a crystal from cracks in the very bedrock itself.

Something within Temper shieked an ancient terror. A firestorm of energies burst to life over him. Instead of burning his flesh and sloughing the metal of his armour, it made his limbs sing, and he snapped his blades up to parry twin blows from Jhe

Jhe

The landscape shimmered, the night sky brightening to a pale slate. From behind the Jaghut the mounds and trees reappeared, and the House frowned down once more on Temper.

Distracted, he was nearly decapitated by a lightning assault. A head swipe caught the top of his helmet. It bit at the iron and snapped his head back, dazzling him with sparks. Stu

Jhe

In that split-second Temper crouched and managed to gather himself. Jhe

Temper knew he was dead. Involuntarily he tensed and caught his breath. But the blade never touched him. Instead Jhe

She sat motionless for a time, blades resting on the ground. ‘I am finished, human,’ she slurred. ‘I have nothing left.’ She chuckled, low and throaty. ‘Now you will see how the House rewards the treachery of its servants.’ Slowly roots gathered, twisting and worming from the soil. They coiled about the Jaghut’s legs. She strained against them but the tightening cords dragged her to her side. Fist-thick roots wrapped around her torso. As she was yanked ever deeper into the steaming earth, she offered Temper a mocking smile. ‘Careful, human, or this too will be your fate.’ The golden eyes held his as if to pull him along even as her head sank beneath the crumbling dirt. Her arms and hands slipped down last, still grasping the smoking swords.

Temper blinked away the sweat ru

‘It’s dawn,’ Cori

‘Dawn?’ he croaked. He mouthed the word, uncomprehending. Dawn. Cori

CHAPTER SIX

T

HE RICH SCENT OF STEWING BROTH TEASED THE TAG-END of Kiska’s dreams. She smiled, stretched, then hissed as pain flared from almost every limb. Something touched her shoulder and she flinched awake. A pale, fat man yelped, jerking away.

‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

Smiling nervously, he pointed under her. ‘My apron. You’re lying on my apron.’

She recognized him: Coop, tavern-keeper of the Hanged Man I

‘Told you she’d wake up,’ someone observed from across the room.

Kiska realized she was wearing somebody else’s clothes: a thick wool sweater of the kind she hated because it made her look like a child, and a long skirt of layered patched linen. She swung her legs down and rubbed at her eyes. She was in a private dwelling, ground level. Its door appeared to have been smashed from its hinges. Beyond, a sun-washed street lay empty. A boy with dirty bare feet scrubbed at dark stains on the wood floor while nearby a man sat at a table, his kinky black hair in his eyes, sopping up stew with a crust of bread. Coop backed away to the door, bowing his thanks for his apron.

‘See you later, Coop,’ the man called, waving the sodden crust.

Coop bowed again. Nervous laughter burst from him and he hurried out of the door.

Kiska tried to stand, hissed at the flame of pain from her knee and fell back to the bench. She limped to the table and grasped it to remain standing as her vision blurred and her heart raced. She squeezed her side. The pain there threatened to double her over.

The man jumped up and eased her into a chair. ‘Have a care,’ he warned – rather late, she thought.

She sat, wincing. ‘Thanks. What’s the matter with him?’

‘Oh, when you arrived last night you gave him something of a fright. I understand you had a bit of a scare yourself.’

She laughed. ‘Yes, I-’ She stopped herself, glared about. ‘Where are they?’

‘Who?’

‘Tay – the men I came in with.’ She jumped up, groaned as her side knotted. ‘Are they gone?’

The man drew her down again with a touch of his hand. ‘Relax. I’ve a message, and there’s hot stew over the fireplace. Have some?’

‘Who are you? Oh. You’re the medicer aren’t you? Yeah, I’ll have some.’

‘Seal’s the name. Yours?’

‘Kiska.’ She plucked at her sweater. ‘Why the clothes?’

‘Ah, sorry.’ Seal shrugged an apology. ‘Best I could do. Your old clothes I had to burn.’ He leaned to the black pot, ladled out a bowlful.

Burn? Kiska wondered. Did he really have to burn them?

‘Well, Kiska. Speaking of frights, you gave me an ugly one last night.’

She took the bowl of steaming stew, tore off some bread and started stuffing it into her mouth. She hadn’t realized how famished she was. Seal watched her eat, a smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Where are they and how are they?’ she demanded around a mouthful.