He could count on one hand the number of men he knew who could read, besides himself. And he’d never seen a woman do so. Whatever could she be reading? One night, it was unusually warm. She left the window ajar when she went to her bed. He continued to cling there, hearing her breathing fall into the slow steady rhythm of sleep. Easing the window aside, he slipped silently in to her tiny room. He crept to the table where she studied and glanced over her books in the moonlight. Books on magik, every one of them. She studied to be a witch! One of that unholy breed whom he had attacked and who had crushed him, leaving him in this horrid and twisted state. Rage burned within him. Suppressing the snarl that formed in his throat, he turned towards her bed prepared to extinguish her life with one swipe of his talon tipped hand. But as he did so, he saw her sleeping. A sweet light seemed to radiate from her face. He saw her smile, as if in some pleasant dream. He could not touch her. He. Some distance up the main street was the compound of the warlord Trimon. Even from this distance the assassin could make out at least four men on the flat roof armed with bows or crossbows, only their heads and shoulders visable above the parapet as they kept watch. Two more guards stood outside the main door, halting and searching all who entered. On the occasions that the Akkadian had seen the door open, more guards were on the other side, only unbarring and opening the thick door when those outside had cleared the visitors to Trimon's lair.Trimon's death would be a difficult one to accomplish, but the harder and more perilous the killing the greater the rewards. The Akkadian grinned to himself as he imagined the reward. He had worked for the sorceress before, eight who had rivalled or displeased her in the past had fallen to his blades and three or four times that number in guards or henchmen of his targets. Despite being the most thoroughly evil bitch he knew the Sorceress always.
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