The Crippled God

soldier near the gate. Gods below! Fucking Perish! Kalam paused, his mind racing, sweat suddenly trickling beneath his garments. They turned on us? Krughava? I can’t believe this – soldiers of the Wolves. Gods, who else could they have been? Kalam, you idiot. Hood take me, Hood take us all .
    But … if Krughava’s here, it’s no wonder the defences are bristling .
    All right, woman . He began moving forward once more. Betray us and you get what you deserve .
    The gateway was barred, with projecting spikes, all blackened iron. The lowest row of spikes, ankle-high, jutted a hand’s length beyond the higher ones, except for a matching row at eye level. There was alone Perish sentry standing behind the gate, visor lowered, heavy spear leaning against one shoulder.
    Ten paces away, Kalam slipped down from the road, made his way along the drainage ditch, and down into the moat. At the bottom, short wooden spikes were jammed between sharp-edged rocks. The bank furthest from the wall was soaked in pitch. Firewall. Nothing nice here, nothing at all. Hope you’re close, Quick Ben. Hope you know what I’m going to have to do here .
    He carefully picked his way across the moat. Waited a moment, and then whispered the chain-word the wizard had given him. Sudden weightlessness. Reaching up, he made his way up and over the wall. At he touched ground on the other side, the weightlessness faded. Well, no alarm yet. So far, Quick’s promise of being able to hide magic seems to be holding . Ahead, more guards, but widely spaced enough for the assassin to slip easily between them. He set out, made his way into the camp.
    Past the squad circles, the soldiers still praying, to an empty marshalling area in the centre, and opposite it, two command tents, the one on the right surmounted by a wolf skull atop the centre pole. Grey Helms all right. But … this can’t be all of them. Unless Tavore made them pay dearly for the treachery. But if she did, then she’s probably dead. She never got her chance .
    Well then. If vengeance is all we have left, let’s get started …
    The other tent was larger, of the same style as those in the besieging camp outside the keep. It was lit from within and two guards flanked the front flap, both Kolansii.
    Drawing two throwing knives, Kalam advanced on them, moving fast. At five paces away, he raised both weapons and threw them simultaneously in a single fluid motion. Each found the base of a throat. Bodies buckled, blood splashing down, but before they could fall Kalam had reached them, grasping the knife grips to hold both men up before carefully settling them to the ground.
    How much noise? Oh, who cares?
    Leaving the daggers where they were, the assassin drew his two long knives, slashed the flap’s draw strings, and then bulled through.
    He clearly caught the Pure by surprise – nothing stealthy or subtle in this approach after all – and collided hard with the Forkrul Assail. One long knife plunged deep directly beneath the heart. The other, moving up to slash across the throat, was blocked by a forearm hard as iron. Even as the Assail stumbled back, his hands lashed out.
    The first blow caught Kalam high on his right shoulder, spinning him off his feet. The second one slammed into his chest on the left side, crushing chain, breaking at least two ribs and fracturing others. Theimpact flung the assassin backwards. He rebounded from the tent wall to the left of the entrance.
    Half stunned with pain, Kalam watched the Assail pull the long knife from his chest and fling it away.
    ‘Oh,’ he gasped, ‘did I make you mad?’
    Snarling, the Assail advanced on him.
    The ground disappeared beneath his feet. With a howl, the Pure plunged from sight. There followed a thud.
    Quick Ben materialized just on the other side of the hole. Drew out a small round ball of black clay. Leaned over to peer down. ‘Compliments of the marines,’ he said, and dropped the ball.
    The wizard had to lunge backward as a gout of fire shot from the hole, and all at once the tent ceiling was aflame, and Quick Ben was nowhere to be seen.
    Swearing, Kalam retrieved his long knife – he’d somehow held on to the other one – and leapt for the entrance.
    Rolling clear, groaning at the blinding agony exploding in his chest, he staggered to his feet. On all sides, Perish soldiers were rushing to the burning tent. He saw them drawing their swords.
    ‘Quick Ben! I’m invisible, right? Quick Ben!’
    He heard a hiss: