her vision as surely as smoke. From close by came cries, screams, the clash of arms. She heard a woman shout something – her name?
She hunched, ready for combat, a hand groping at the billowing curtains. ‘Corinn?’
‘Here.’
Kiska spun, could discern nothing but fog. Was she back in Malaz? But where? She circled, peering uselessly.
‘Corinn?’ she whispered, louder. Carefully, she drew the curved fighting knife.
’Quiet,’ a distant voice cautioned.
Had that been Corinn? What kind of game was this? ‘Where are you? Show yourself!’
‘Right behind you,’ came a taunt at Kiska’s ear.
She swung: empty vapour churned and curled. Kiska bit down on her panic, clenching her hands so tightly her nails bit into her palms. Never mind what may or may not be happening: remain calm. This was a war of nerves and she was losing.
Listen girl, she challenged herself. Listen. What do you hear? She strained, attempted to sort through the background of muted shouts and screams to discern nearby hints, scrapes and whisperings. There! A footstep to her right. And either very distant, or somehow muted, a roar of outrage. Lubben?
Again, the scuff of leather on stone. Behind her now, closer. Not waiting for another mocking whisper Kiska launched herself, arms outstretched. Coarse woven cloth brushed her right hand. She clutched at it, pulling it close.
The cloth was loosely woven, dyed grey. A cultist.
A cold blade bit at Kiska’s shoulder as the assassin’s sleeve brushed her neck. Recognizing the thrust and her opponent’s stance, she reacted automatically. She clinched the arm, smashed her elbow into her assailant’s throat, then thrust at the chest. Her opponent tumbled to the ground.
Kiska threw herself upon the body, clamped a hand over the mouth. She listened. Satisfied they were alone, or at least giving up trying to detect another’s presence, she lowered her face. It was a young woman. Perhaps her blow had broken the spell of disguise, or the fall had done it, but in any case the woman’s face was bared and the hood lay flat upon the cobbled street. A few small bubbles rose and fell on the woman’s lips as she struggled to breathe. Her hair and complexion were light, the cheekbones high and thin – refined. Talian perhaps, rich-looking. Kiska gently lifted the dagger from her hand. The nails were clean, manicured, the palm soft. The woman’s eyes followed the thin blade as Kiska brought it up between their faces.
‘Why?’ Kiska whispered.
The woman’s breath wheezed shallow and moist. A howl tore through the fog like a scream in Kiska’s ear. She couldn’t still the flinch of her muscles. The woman smiled at that. The smile bespoke a victory over Kiska, triumph at her betrayal of fear.
Snarling, Kiska pushed herself up and scanned the churning curtains for the hound. Was it coming for her? Perhaps the cultist’s mission had been to delay her long enough for it to arrive. Thus the games, the hide and seek. Kiska damned herself for cooperating, hanging about like a fool, reacting rather than taking the initiative. She’d played into her hands.
A low chuffing cough brought her around. There, off in the mist, hung two green eyes. Green – a different one this time. Not that it mattered. Having seen one of them up close, Kiska despaired. It had smashed through a door and chewed armoured men in half. Now the only choice she had left was to be pulled down from behind running, or be struck down fighting. Screaming her rage at the unfairness of it, the naked blade in her hand, she charged the eyes.
At the sixth step, she stumbled. Her leading foot caught on a rise of uneven ground. She rolled forward into an explosion of noise – a deafening firefight of crackling power, shouts in a multitude of languages – smacking her head against a wall. She lay dazed while rippling phosphorescent energies played above her.
Stepping out of the House’s doorway, the giant stooped to avoid the lintel. Alien, ornamental armour of bronze plates and embossed, tooled leather gleamed at its chest, arms and legs. A gold sash wrapped its inhumanly broad shoulders, and from another at its waist hung two swords. Its face was hidden by a war helm of polished iron gilded in bronze spirals, and bronze-scaled gauntlets covered its hands.
Temper backed away, sparing a quick glance to his rear. Trenech blocked the frail gate, pike-axe levelled. As the apparition stepped down from the porch the stones of the walk sank beneath its feet. Temper heard shouts of dismay