With dawn’s false glow ebbing, Gaskaral Traum drew a knife and slit the side of the tent beside him, then silently edged out into the wet grasses, where he laid motionless for a time.
Then, seeing at last what he had been waiting for, he rose and, staying low, made his way across the sodden ground. The rain was still thrumming down on the old seabed of Q’uson Tapi-where waited the hated Awl-and the air smelled of sour mud. Although a large man, Gaskaral could move like a ghost. He reached the first row of Edur tents, paused with held breath for a moment, then edged into the camp.
The tent of Overseer Brohl Handar was centrally positioned, but otherwise unguarded. As Gaskaral came closer, he saw that the flap was untied, hanging loose. Water from the rain just past streamed down the oiled canvas like tears, pooling round the front pole and in the deep footprints crowding the entrance.
Gaskaral slipped his knife beneath his outer shirt and used the grimy undergarment to dry the handle and his left hand-palm and fingers-before withdrawing the weapon once more. Then he crept for that slitted opening.
Within was grainy darkness. The sound of breathing. And there, at the far end, the Overseer’s cot. Brohl Handar was sleeping on his back. The furs covering him had slipped down to the floor. Of his face and chest, Gaskaral could see naught but heavy shadow.
Blackened iron gleamed, betrayed by the honed edge.
Gaskaral Traum took one more step, then he surged forward in a blur.
The figure standing directly over Brohl Handar spun, but not in time, as Gaskaral’s knife sank deep, sliding between ribs, piercing the assassin’s heart.
The black dagger fell and stuck point-first into the floor, and Gaskaral took the body’s weight as, with a faint sigh, the killer slumped.
Atri-Preda Bivatt’s favoured bodyguard-chosen by her outside Drene to safeguard the Overseer against just this eventuality-froze for a moment, eyes fixed On Brohl Handat’s face, on the Edur’s breathing. No stirring awake. And that was good. Very good.
Angling beneath the dead assassin’s weight, Gaskaral slowly sheathed his knife, then reached down and retrieved the black dagger. This was. the last of the bastards, he was sure. Seven in all, although only two before this one had got close enough to attempt Brohl’s murder-and both of those had been in the midst of battle. Letur Anict was ever a thorough man, one prone to redundancy in assuring that his desires were satisfied. Alas, not this time.
Gaskaral lowered himself yet further until he could fold the body over one shoulder, then, rising into a bent-knee stance, he padded silently back to the tent-flap. Stepping to avoid the puddle and the upright pole, he carefully angled his burden through the opening.
Beneath overcast clouds with yet another fall of rain beginning, Gaskaral Traum quickly made his way back to the Letherii side of the camp. The body could remain in his tent-the day now approaching was going to be a day of battle, which meant plenty of chaos, plenty of opportunities to dispose of the corpse.
He was somewhat concerned, however. It was never a good thing to not sleep the night before a battle. But he was ever sensitive to his instincts, as if he could smell the approach of an assassin, as if he could slip into their minds. Certainly his uncanny timing proved the talent-another handful of heartbeats back there and he would have been too late-
Occasionally, of course, instincts failed.
The two figures that suddenly rushed him from the darkness caught Gaskaral Traum entirely by surprise. A shock blessedly short-lived, as it turned out. Gaskaral threw the body he had been carrying at the assassin on his right. With no time to draw out his knife, he simply charged to meet the other killer. Knocked aside the dagger stabbing for his throat, took the man’s head in both hands and twisted hard.
Hard enough to spin the assassin’s feet out from under him as the neck snapped.
The other killer had been thrown down by the corpse and was just rolling back into a crouch when, upon looking up, he met Gaskaral’s boot-under his chin. The impact lifted the man into the air, arms flung out to the sides, his head separated from his spine, and dead before he thumped back onto the ground.
Gaskaral Traum looked round, saw no more coming, then permitted himself a moment of self-directed anger. Of course they would have realized that someone was intercepting them. So in went one while the other two remained back to see who their unknown hunter was, and then they would deal with that hunter in the usual way.
‘Yeah? Like fuck they did.’
He studied the three bodies for a moment longer. Damn, it was going to be a crowded tent.
The sun would brook no obstacle in its singular observation of the Battle of Q’uson Tapi, and as it rose it burned away the clouds and drove spears of heat into the ground until the air steamed. Brohl Handar, awakening surprisingly refreshed, stood outside his tent and watched as his Arapay Tiste Edur readied their armour and weapons. The sudden, unrelieved humidity made iron slick and the shafts of spears oily, and already the ground underfoot was treacherous-the seabed would be a nightmare, he feared. In the evening before, he and his troop had watched the Awl preparations, and Brohl Handar well understood the advantages Redmask was seeking in secure footing, but the Overseer suspected that such efforts would fail in the end. Canvas and hide tarps would before long grow as muddy and slippery as the ground beyond. At the initial shock of contact, however, there would likely be a telling difference… but not enough.
