You win some, you lose some, Kali mused. It was a week later and she was halfway down her third tankard of ale, draped at the table by the captain's chest in the upper nook of the tavern, the affair of the Spiral — despite a lingering nag about her vision — fading from her mind. Time to think about what to do and where to go next — there was, after all, enough choice out there. The Lost Canals, as she'd mentioned to Merrit? Uummm, maybe — she didn't yet know. But it was something that she intended to plan out, here, at this very table, over the next few days.
While at the same time getting some serious drinking done.
She quaffed the rest of her ale in one and signalled Aldrededor for another — no, make that two. The swarthy, grey-haired and ear-ringed Sarcrean winked and blew her a kiss as he set the golden brews down, pleased to have her back where she belonged. Behind him, down a small flight of bowed, skewing steps, business in the Here There Be Flagons was busy and lively, the air thick with laughter and banter, and a cloying mix of pipe, rolly smoke and sweat whose strength could still not mask the heady aroma of Dolorosa's Surprise Stew. The stew had been on the menu — was the menu, in fact — for as long as Aldrededor and his wife had been at the Flagons, and the surprise about it was the reaction anyone got if they were stupid enough to enquire what was in it. "Why you wanna know?" the tall, thin and equally swarthy woman would demand loudly. "You think Dolorosa trying to poison you, ah? You think maybe she cook witha the weebleworm anda the flopparatta poo? Well, Dolorosa tell you, iffa Dolorosa wanna you dead she would sticka the cutlass inna your belly and she woulda laugh! Like-a this — ha-ha-ha-ha-haaar! Now go! Getta outta theees taverno! Go away, go, shoo, go, go, go…"
Kali smiled. Dolorasa's more… unusual approach to business was, along with the captain's chest in a tavern landbound for leagues in every direction, a clue to the fact that before the elderly couple had fetched up here, they had pursued their own, long career on Twilight's roiling seas. Exactly what that career had been she had never felt the need to ask, because as far as she was concerned the ear-ring and the cutlass and the hearty laugh said it all.
It was what she loved — had always loved — about this place — the mixed bunch all of them were. Looking down towards the bar, she could see Fester Grimlock and Jurgen Pike engaged in a game of quagmire, the merchant and the thief staring daggers at each other as usual. There was Ronin Larson, the local ironweaver, and Hetty Scrubb, the herbalist. Between them weaved Peter Two-Ties, who had prepared the render for her expedition to the Sardenne. And then there, perched on his groaning and perpetually buckling stool, as he was perched every day — but only during the day — was Red Deadnettle, the flame-haired giant of a man who was the reason she was here in the first place.
All of them had made her welcome over the years, and all of them were friends, but to Red she owed it all. Kali knew nothing of her parents or her origin, only that she had been found, twenty-two years before, abandoned and naked as the babe she was, by an unknown adventurer exploring an Old Race site — a site she had never since been able to find. The becloaked adventurer had rescued her and walked the roads on a storm-lashed night, looking for somewhere or someone to take her in. That someone had been Red, who, seeing dawn coming, had brought her here. The rest, as they said, was history — and the adventurer had never been seen again.
A number of shadows darkened the outside of the small, whorled-glass windows of the tavern, before continuing on towards the door. Kali would not normally have given them a second thought — more customers — but their bulk and the way they had skulked for a second outside gave her cause to suspect something might be amiss. Sure enough, a second later, five half-uniformed thugs entered the tavern and headed straight for Red. They were heavies for hire, guards in the employ of local landowners to protect their interests on their estates, and while they had every right — at least in the eyes of the law as it had conveniently been written by their employers — to apprehend people on their land, they had no right to do so in a public place such as this.
"Mister Deadnettle?" their somewhat obese leader enquired. "Mister Red Deadnettle?"
Still hunched at the bar, his back to the man, Red did not move or respond to the question in any way. The thug swallowed and thumped him on the shoulder.
"Deadnettle, I know it's you. I insist you — "
There were sharp intakes of breath — warning hisses, really — from the others seated along the bar, and then a slow and universal shaking of their heads. The hubbub of the tavern quietened as Red rose from his seat, dwarfing the hulks before him as his fists balled.
Kali sighed. She was tempted to let Red continue but if she didn't want her relaxation — and indeed the Flagons itself — ruined by the earthquake that would suddenly and inevitably come, she knew she had better intervene. She leaned down and opened the captain's chest Aldrededor let her use, pulling a small blackjack from beneath a pile of maps, diagrams, schematics and other Old Race paraphernalia, just in case. Then she picked up her ale, descended the steps, and with a slow lowering of her hand bade Red sit down. That done, she tapped the guard on the shoulder.
"Is there a problem, officer?"
"No problem," the guard said tiredly, without even looking at her. "This gentleman and I needs a little chat, that's all. A matter of a small misdemeanour."
"He was taking a short cut across your boss's fields, unless I miss my guess," Kali said, though she knew full well that Red had been poaching again — it was in his blood. "Don't you think misdemeanour is a little strong?"
"It's the law of our lands, Miss. Or do you think that folk should just be allowed to wander wherever they want, eh?"
"I do, actually, yes. To wander… and explore." She gestured outside, beyond where the ramshackle tavern was slumped like a knackered cat beside Badlands Brook. "To see what's out there."
The guard turned and looked Kali up and down. She'd only got back to the place an hour before and, having spent a chunk of that time stabling Horse and reassuring him that Dolorosa's stew did have bacon in it, as yet hadn't changed, and the guard took in her sap-stained and torn clothing, the general dishevelment of her appearance. He sniffed as he saw the toolbelt at her waist.
"Oh, you're one of those. Take my advice and stay out of this, adventurer," he said with undisguised disdain. "Our business with Deadnettle is no flight of fancy — and no concern of yours."
Kali immediately railed at his attitude. She had never understood how people such as him could live on a world such as theirs and not be curious about it. As Merrit had said, their lives were mired in the mundane, obsessed with petty issues and their own selfish concerns. When all they had to do was look up at Kerberos and wonder -
Hells. She would have given him a lecture but he wasn't worth the bother. "Red is a friend of mine," she said.
"Yeah, he looks like he would be. Now off with you before I have the innkeeper eject you from the premises."
Red said something for the first time, then, leaning down to whisper quietly in the guard's ear. It was still a rumble. "That might be difficult, Mister Policeman. 'Cause Miss Hooper, she owns the place."
The guard guffawed and looked Kali up and down again. "Don't make me laugh. A strip of a girl like her owning a grub's den like this in the back of beyond. Why would she want to do that?"
Kali took a sip of her ale and stared at the guard measuredly. What Red said was true — the tavern had hit hard times a few years ago, and so, when she'd had the funds, she'd bought it, simple as that. But she hadn't changed anything. Except the name. You just didn't with this place. The year before one of the local gentry had objected to the fuggy atmosphere and had suggested it became a non-smoking tavern. After the laughter had died down — a non-smoking tavern? — Red had dragged the man to Bottomless Pit and thrown him in. After setting him on fire.
"It relaxes me."
Fatso guffawed again. "Bet that don't take much, either. Size of you, it'd only take a thimbleful before you was off your bloody head!"
"And ready for a good time, eh?" Kali said, calculatedly.
The guard's eyes narrowed, and he smacked his lips. "Tell you what — why don't we put that to the test?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"A little competition. You, me, a few drinks. And if you're the one that remains standing, I let Deadnettle off the hook. Whaddya say?"
Kali slipped the blackjack back into a pocket, relieved she hadn't needed to use it. "You've got yourself a deal."
"Whoa, careful, little lady," another of the guards interjected. "At the Dead Duck in Miramas they call Sarge the Ale Whale."
Kali stared at the Ale Whale, hardly surprised. "Phoo. Well, it won't be a problem, then, will it?"
"'Ere, Sarge," another said. "You're supposed to be on duty."
Kali smiled her most girlish smile. "Surely he can hold his own against me? A thimbleful and I'm gone, remember?"
"Go orrrn, Sarge," one of the other guards snickered dirtily. "'Old your own against 'er, eh?"
"Why not, eh?" the sergeant cackled. "Why not indeed."
Kali looked at the bar but Dolorosa was ahead of her, having the first drinks lined up in readiness — four flummoxes with ale chasers. She dipped her head towards Kali as she swept them up.
"Poor bastardo," she whispered.
"Hush, woman."
Kali and the Sarge retired to the nook, and it began. One drink. Two drinks. Three drinks, four. An hour later, the Sarge's mates had lost count.
"'Ere, jush 'ang on a mo'," the Sarge said at last, slurring and straightening himself none too successfully in his chair. He made circles with his tankard, spilling great slops of ale over the side. "If thish is your hosteryl… your hotslery… your hoslerurry…" He hiccupped and frowned, determined to get something out. "If this is your pub, how am I to know your shour-faced wench ain't sherving you shome speshal watered-down muck?"
Kali looked down at her own ale, a thwack, triple the strength of his own. She'd tired of flummox and, besides, liked a challenge.
"Taste it for yourself," she said, smiling and proffering her tankard, which he took and quaffed greedily. All that was left, just to be sure.
"Okay?" she asked.
"Ish very nishe, yesh. Blup. Orf."
Nodding, Kali motioned to Dolorosa to bring two more of the same. None too keen on being referred to as a sour-faced wench — or, indeed, any kind of wench at all — the concavity of the tall woman's cheeks clearly signalled she was sucking up to deposit a small present into the guard's beer, until Kali shook her head subtly. Dolorosa shrugged — okay, maybe the man was suffering enough — and instead slammed his tankard down hard, soaking his lap with beer. The guard looked down vaguely, his head bobbing, as the ale penetrated the cloth of his pants.
"Gawds, ah fink arve gone un me pished meself."
"No need to waste time going, then, is there?" Kali observed as he giggled. She raised her refreshed tankard to show she was still willing and able. "Come on, Sarge, drink up."
"Wha — ?" the guard said, startled. "Oh, yeah. Cheershh!"
The Sarge raised his tankard to his lips and stared hard at Kali. Or at least as hard as he could when he had finally managed to pull her into focus. Almost got her now, he thought to himself. Ah mean, look at the state of the bloody woman… so betwattled she's blurred and swaying all over the place. Ey up, she was bringing on a reserve now, and all — another one who looked just like her. Nah, stood to reason that, as a gentleman, like, he was gonna have to say something for her own good, or she'd be off the bleedin' chair.
"Wimmin," he bemoaned to himself. "They jush can't take their drinksh."
"Dolorosa!" Kali called. "Another!"
"Dolorosha," the sergeant repeated. "Godsh, sheesh uggle… uggloo…" He gave up and jabbed a finger across the table — jabbed it everywhere, really, including into his eye. "But you, Mish," he warned, "youse pretty an' oughts to givvup before youse lose your looksh… ow, bloody 'ell." He looked stunned, suddenly, and then added, "Oh gawds… oh, bluurrrfff!"
Kali's tankard froze in mid-air as the sergeant's head hit the table with a thud. She sat back with a smile then motioned to his men to take him away, which they did, bundling him out of the door while their heads shook in disbelief.
Another triumph for the Tavern Tot, Kali thought.
She bounced down the steps and slapped the now reseated Red on his back. "Next time," she advised, "wait 'til longnight, eh? Dolorosa, get this man another ale. Me, too, while you're at it. Please."
"You musta be hungry? You wanna some Surprise Stew?"
"Don't know. What's in it?"
"Oh, the beer hassa made the bossgirl funny, now! Hey, why not washa that outfit of yours because you steeeenk. Anda while you at it, sew uppa the pants because your bum it sticka out! Hoh, she smiles! Aldrededor, where issa my sharpeeest knife?"
Kali was halfway back up the steps when shadows darkened the windows again. Another group of men entered, clothed in common travellers' garb, but she recognised the leader of them immediately.
New recruits but same old story. The Munch Bunch.
But something was different. From the shapes that were barely concealed beneath his and his men's cloaks it was clear that they were more heavily armed this time. It wasn't the weapons themselves that worried Kali but the fact that their Final Faith talismans were absent from their sleeves, too. Munch and his cronies had obviously gone to lengths to distance themselves from looking like agents of the Final Faith, and that could mean only one thing. The gloves were off.
"Miss Hooper," Munch said. "You have been really quite difficult to track down."
"I like it that way. How's tricks, Stan?"
"They will be better when I have recovered what belongs to me. The key, Miss Hooper? Please?"
"The key? Oh, that key. Little difficult — I don't have it any more."
"You… don't… have it." Munch repeated, slowly.
"That's right. I threw it away."
Munch laughed out loud, spun to face the watching locals in the tavern. "Did you hear that?" he shouted. "She doesn't have it! She threw it away! Oh, well that's all right, then — we'll all just leave and go home to — "
Go on, Kali thought. Say it. Say Scholten and give yourself away. Let all these people know who you thugs really represent. But instead of continuing Munch slammed his fist down on the bar and with a roar swept away the drinks standing there. "Hey, watch out there," Red said, and made to move on him, but in under a second Munch had whipped a shiny new gutting knife from under his cloak and held it to the big man's throat. He pressed the point into Red's flesh until he was forced to sit back down.
Munch turned back to Kali. "Go home?" he said again, as if pondering. "No, I don't think so."
"I already told you, I don't have the key," Kali said. "Now, why don't you just leave before I tell everyone here who you are?"
"That would not be wise," Munch said. "Because then we would have to kill them all." As one, his cronies took crossbows from beneath their cloaks and trained them on the regulars.
"Miss Hooper, if you really do not have the key then I fear I have no choice but to change my plans again. This involves causing you great pain. Do you understand? Oh, and if you are thinking of fleeing from us as you did from the Sardenne Forest, I'm afraid that without the means that might prove a little problematic." Munch smiled coldly. "But if you doubt me, why don't you take a look outside?"
What the hells is he talking about? Kali wondered. Automatically her mind flicked back to her flight from the Spiral, the escape from its conflagration, the gallop away on Horse. No, she thought suddenly. No!
Surely even this bastard…
Kali pushed past Munch and his cronies and burst out of the door of the tavern into the stable-lined courtyard beyond. There she stopped dead. Horse was being led towards her by another of Munch's men. But something was wrong. Very wrong. Horse stumbled as he came, sweating, whinnying sadly, his eyes rolling as they always did, but this time in pain. As Kali fought to take in what it was that was wrong with him her eyes were drawn to the reason for Horse's weak and unsteady gait. The fetlocks on both of his hind legs had been cut almost through. Sinew and cartilage dangled from raw and sliced wounds that bled freely and left a trail behind them, like red ribbons on the ground. The trails, Kali saw, led back to his stable, where this vicious deed had obviously been done, for there a puddle of blood the size of a small pond had already begun to soak into the straw. With that much blood gone and the wounds that he had, it was a wonder that Horse could walk at all. Kali already felt sick enough but then the true cruelty of what had been done to him — and to her — became clear. Horse's fetlocks had been sliced with an almost surgical precision, to the degree where they were held together only by the finest threads of gristle and tissue, and the fact that he was being forced to walk towards her now was providing the strain that would finish them off. As Kali watched in horror, the remaining threads of the fetlocks snapped away and, with a loud whinny of pain, Horse collapsed, dropping onto his rear, the blood beginning to run from him more freely than ever.
Kali roared and attempted to run to him, but Munch had stationed two more of his men on either side of the tavern door and they each grabbed one of her arms, holding her back. At the same time, more of Munch's men appeared on the roofs of the stables, aiming crossbows down. Munch stepped casually through the door behind her and said, "The nag was old. If the strain of fleeing once again hadn't killed it, the knacker's yard would have finished it soon enough." He stepped around to Kali's front, and smiled. "Trust me, Miss Hooper, I was doing you a favour."
Kali spat in his face, and struggled anew in the hands of her captors. Over Munch's shoulder she saw Horse fold down onto his front legs and then, with a winded and tremulous expulsion of breath, collapse heavily onto his side, his legs kicking spasmodically. Blood began to pool there, too, and he began to shake, soaked in his cold sweat. His dazed large eyes — as innocent as a child's eyes — rolled in confusion, for there was no way he could understand what was happening to him.
But Kali knew what was happening, and she couldn't believe it.
Horse was dying right in front of her.
"Let me go to him," Kali said. "Please."
Munch laughed. "The interfering adventurer shows her softer side. A compassion for all living things, all… creatures great and small. What a wonderfully pious attitude." He chuckled and, leaning in, whispered, "Perhaps you should consider joining our church?"
"Damn you!"
"The Lord of All knows my cause is righteous."
Behind her, the others were bundled out of the Flagons. Munch signalled his men on the rooftops to train their weapons on them.
Red and Aldrededor and Dolorosa stared grimly out at the scene before them, the woman raising her hand to her mouth. "Oh, no, no, no… oh, all the gods," Dolorosa said.
"'Ere, wosh goin' on out here?" another voice enquired, and the Sarge, his head looking as though it had been dunked in a bucket of water, strode from a stable, his men following behind. Munch scowled, and with a flick of his head ordered his men to lower their weapons. Idiots these men might be, but they still represented what passed for officialdom in these parts and, obviously, it was Munch's intention — perhaps his orders — to keep the situation as unofficial as he possibly could.
Unfortunately for him, it seemed to have already gone too far. The sergeant squinted at the dying Horse, then the restrained Kali, his brow furrowing. "'Ere…" he said again.
"There is nothing here to concern you," Munch said. "A tragic accident, that's all."
The sergeant pulled down his tunic, hiccupped and stared at him. "Looksh a bit more than that to me," he said. He gestured to his own men, who laid their hands on their weapons. "I'm afraid, sir, I'm going to have to ashk you for your provincial papers."
Munch scowled, considering the situation, and then actually smiled. But he made no move for papers of any kind. The poor fool confronting him had no idea how far he had just stepped out of his depth.
"Sarge, don't," Kali called to him. "Stay away."
But it was too late. Munch signalled his men and a rain of bolts took the sergeant's men down. Only the sergeant himself was left unscathed. For him, Munch had reserved something special.
It was over in seconds. Munch grunted as he forcefully levered his gutting knife from the chest of the sergeant fallen before him, and Kali could see him fighting the dull tugs on his bones as the roughened edge of his vicious blade grated and snagged between the dead man's ribs. Pulling it free of the corpse, he took a breath — a very satisfied breath — and then slowly turned and plunged the still-dripping blade into one of the gasping, weeping men who had survived his men's bolts. He did not go for a quick kill, instead impaling the man's guts and then twisting the hilt with both hands so that the end of the wide blade began to gouge a hole the size of an infant's head in the stomach of his screaming and helpless victim. The bucking man tried to grab the blade with his own hands, as if this would somehow ease his agony, but Munch pressed the sole of his boot onto them, slicing the grasping palms down the blade and, fingerless stumps now, into the gaping wound itself. As the man spasmed and uttered a final, guttural sob, Munch swiftly withdrew the blade, spewing a rain of intestinal matter onto his face and ending him.
Munch turned away from the corpses, wiping his knife on a patch of grass, but not replacing it in its sheath. It was clear to Kali that he hadn't murdered these man the way that he had just for fun. He had been performing for her — showing her how good he was.
How much of a challenge she was about to face.
Across the courtyard, Aldrededor knelt by the fallen Horse and trembled in helpless fury. Kali could see in his eyes how much he wanted to help her, to launch himself at Munch and his men for what they had done, and to kill them. But after his years of travelling the world Aldrededor was no fool — he knew the realities of life, of greater numbers, and of age. Instead, the old man stroked the neck of Kali's quickly fading companion, doing what he could to make the last minutes of Horse's life comfortable amidst the carnage. For his part, Horse's eyes were trained on Kali, perhaps wondering why it was she did not come. Wanting her badly to come.
"Arrrrgh!" Kali screamed, straining against the grips of her captors.
"She's mine," Munch shouted to his men. "Let her go."
Her captors released her, and Munch beckoned her to him, the courtyard having become his arena. Kali's first instinct was to charge at the bastard, to rip him limb from limb, empowered by the rage that had built — was still building — inside her like a volcano. But that would be foolish, she knew. She was no fighter, she just threw the punches she had to and, unless she was careful, Munch would likely skewer her before she could land a blow. Instead, she went halfway, starting to circle Munch in a half-crouch, ready, when her opening came, to spring. The trouble was, Munch was far too good a fighter to give her an opening, and as he too circled, expertly swinging his knife in a criss-cross defensive pattern, she knew that any such opening would likely be a feint, designed to draw her in. She had to play him at his own game, let him come to her.
"Something the matter, girl? Don't you hunger for my blood?"
"I'd prefer to just watch it leak away."
"Well, here's your chance," Munch said.
He raced at her, roaring loudly, swinging his knife diagonally right and left. The blackjack in her pocket useless to counter him, Kali knew she would have to rely on agility and speed to survive, and allowed herself to fall backwards to the ground. As his knife sliced above her, she rolled neatly out of his way and let his momentum crash him into a stock of barrels behind. Munch righted himself with another roar, and she quickly flipped back to her feet, beckoning to him, their positions reversed.
Munch came again, this time slicing his knife out in a wide arc before him, a manoeuvre that caused the air through which it passed to thrum.
Kali jumped back, jack-knifing herself at the waist so the tip of Munch's blade swept by her abdomen a few inches away and then, as it completed its arc, somersaulted forwards beneath Munch's plane of attack, slamming her soles into his gut. Munch buckled, winded, and, as he staggered back, Kali came upright again, grabbed him by the arm and, by sheer momentum alone, managed to spin him around. Once again Munch careered into barrels and, dizzied, collapsed to one knee. It was obvious he needed a second to recover but Kali had no intention of giving him the chance, and booted him in the face, knocking him onto his back.
Munch struggled to get back up. If his roar had been loud before, then now it was deafening, and purposefully not pressing her advantage — knowing Munch would use every dirty trick in the book and try impaling her from his prone position — Kali smiled. This was exactly what she wanted — to get the bastard angry, because if he was angry then he would start to make mistakes. Panting, she bounced on the balls of her feet like a pugilist, her fists clenched, waiting for him to come again.
Munch did, but quickly and with surprising agility, and Kali felt a surge of panic. She had known this was never going to be easy, but it was only at this moment she realised how hard her survival was going to be. Caught off guard, she flung herself desperately to the left as Munch's knife pierced the air in the spot she had stood a half-second earlier. That she had avoided, but unexpectedly Munch also rammed his elbow into the side of her head as he moved. Stunned, her head ringing, Kali felt herself weaving away and supporting herself on one of the beams holding up the stables, without a clue as to where her assailant would come from next.
The knife slammed into the beam hard, sending a chunk of wood and splinters flying into the air, and Kali felt the whole structure vibrate. Had the wood not been in the way, she would have been missing half her skull. With a gasp, she stumbled back into the stable proper, Munch wrenching his blade from the timber and following.
"Where's the key, girl? Tell me before I slice you in two!"
"Go to hells, you bastard!"
A distraction, she thought. She needed a distraction. Then, on the stable floor, she spotted the patch of straw into which Horse had first bled and, swallowing at its warmth, plunged her hand into it, flinging it in Munch's direction. Under normal circumstances it might have bought her a second before it was batted away, but with Horse's blood causing the straw to stick to Munch's face, it bought her two. Kali used the time to reorientate herself and ran back towards the yard.
"Come here, girl," Munch called from behind. No longer playing by his own rules, he signalled to two of his men to block her path. She spun to face two more, blocking the way she had come. And Munch came relentlessly on between them.
Kali spun where she stood, double-taking on any possible escape route, anywhere she could run to buy more time, but there was none. But then something clicked in her head. Whether it was her rage or the booze coursing inside her, she couldn't say, but she was seized suddenly by a rush of… well, she didn't know what it was, only what it made her do.
Surprising herself as she had at the Spiral, Kali ran straight for the nearest of Munch's men, and as he raised a sword to stop her she leapt upwards, using his sword arm as a platform to leap onto his shoulder, and from there onto the stable roof, the recoil from her heel sending the man staggering forwards onto his face. One of the men on the roof came at her and Kali spun, bringing her leg up and around, impacting with the side of his head and sending him flying from the roof, crashing into another of Munch's men on the ground. Another came and she ran straight at him, clutching his chest and flipping herself over and above him, maintaining her grip so that as a result he himself was flipped as she landed, slammed down, dazed. Working her way around the roof — kicking, throwing and punching any man who stood in her way, despatching them into the air until none were left above — she manoeuvred herself until Munch was directly below, staring up at her in some amazement amidst the chaos she'd caused. Kali panted and stared back, and she hoped her message was clear. Get ready, you little bastard. Because I'm coming.
She only wished she knew how, because she was making this up as she went along.
But so too now was Munch. Snarling, he flicked an arm at those men still standing, ordering them towards a stack of barrels that reached to the lip of the roof, and they began to clamber up towards her. Kali didn't give them a chance, booting the highest barrel down at them, scattering them aside. She booted another, and then another, and as they arced through the air, leapt out between them, landing and rolling in the midst of those who meant to do her harm. The first of the barrels had already crushed a man to the ground, and the second, come to a stop on its side, she booted again, rolling it into the legs of her nearest assailant, buckling the man over it, onto his back, where she leapt and knocked him cold. As another came at her, she dropped to her haunches, curled her fingers under the rim of the third, upright barrel and, with strength she hadn't known she possessed, spun it end over end, sending it smashing into his chest where he instinctively caught it, dropped it, and screamed. Kali didn't let it go to waste. Seeing another of the men coming straight at her from behind his broken-footed comrade, she ran forwards, heaved the barrel up and then kept going, using it as a battering ram to crush him up against the stable wall. The barrel shattered and, with a groan, the man slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Kali spun, panting and sweating, ready for the next.
But that was it — other than the men guarding Aldrededor and the others, she'd done it.
Now it was just her and Munch.
He stood there, his knife held in readiness by his side, smiling, waiting. Why the bastard hadn't attacked alongside his men, she didn't know. Maybe he wanted to use them to tire her out. Maybe he just wanted to see what she'd suddenly become capable of. It didn't matter, because all she could see, behind him, was a weeping Aldrededor and her now dead Horse.
Kali roared, and disregarding the caution she had felt when the fight had begun — knowing somehow that whatever move he made now she'd cope with — ran straight for Munch.
He raised his knife. But she didn't give him the chance to use it.
Kali used her speed to leap upwards, pirouetting in the air and sweeping her leg around to catch Munch with a sickening kick to his jaw that knocked him sideways. She landed, rolled and rose, spinning up from a crouch to bring her other leg around and deliver an equally numbing blow to his opposite side. Turn the other cheek, you bastard, she thought — they teach you that in church? Munch spat and grunted, as much with surprise as with pain, and, double-whammied, staggered about like the drunks he had slaughtered. Kali gave him no time to get his bearings, racing in at him and grabbing his knife hand by the wrist, at the same time bringing up her knee so that it impacted with his underarm, numbing his nerves and forcing him to release his grip. The gutting knife clattered to the ground and Munch stared at her, mumbling something incoherent. Kali didn't care what it was, using her leverage on his arm to twist him towards her and then ramming her elbow, hard and again and again and again, into his face. Munch grunted with each blow, blood spouting from his nose, and weaved backwards, totally stunned. As he did, Kali booted him first in the crotch and then the chest, and finally under his chin, sending him crashing backwards to the ground. She bent over him, panting, hot with rage, and pulled back her fist.
She was about to deliver the first of what she intended to be a volley of blows when it happened again. A vision. Only one much more painful than before. She suddenly couldn't punch anything, and all she could do was slam her hands to the sides of her head.
The last thing she saw of her home and her friends was Munch rising, snarling, and reaching for his knife.
And then agonising pain plunged her into blackness again.