The floor shook beneath him, a girder moaned as it stretched. Tranquility was breaking apart. A group of Yull were looting an overturned stall, stuffing bottles of dandelion wine into a sack. An officer watched approvingly, barking orders and occasionally whacking his soldiers with his stick. Suruk know him at once: partly from his appearance and partly from the aura of arrogance that surrounded him like mist. ‘Vock!’ Colonel Vock looked around and saw Suruk. Vock wore a polished red breastplate and his fur was flecked with blood. There was an axe in his hand. ‘Too stupid to run, M’Lak scum?’ Quietly, Suruk said, ‘I am Suruk the Slayer, son of Agshad Nine-Swords, whom you murdered at the River Tam. My father sends me to do justice unto you. Or at least parts of you. Be afraid, soft furry one, for I shall rip your kapok out.’ ‘ Hwot? You insult me, savage!’ ‘You seek a fight, Vock? Then you must fight me.
