It would seem that Ibn-vakir was less of a fool than Anya had taken him for. A dozen men rushed into the small courtyard, leaping down from the high flat celings of nearby building and rushing from the maze of blind twisting alleys. The wore the tawny robes of local peasants, though in many cases the bulged unnaturally, betraying the presence of mail or leather armor beneath. The priest trick saved his life and Anya felt a slight pang of disappointment, she did not despise trickery, for the mind should be as sharp as any sword, but magic in any form made her lips curl.

"Perhaps priestling," she observed, "I should return to Ymirheim and leave you to your reckoning." The assassins milled for a moment before catching sight of her and surging forward.

"But I think, perhaps I won't," she concluded before throwing her head back and bellowing a blood curdling warcry. Without a moments hesitation she ripped her axe from her belt and swept it up through the jaw of the nearest attacker, sending the man twitching and spasming to the round as the life fled from his ruined body along with blood and brain matter. With a flick of her wrist she reversed the grip on the use worn grip of the weapon and hurled it overhanded into the chest of a scraggly bearded rogue with a rusted spear, the impact knocking the man from his feet and filling the air with the metallic rip of shattered mail. In the half second breathing space the throw brought her she pulled her sword from the leather sheath across her back. The bluish metal sang as it slid free of the leather, its point glinting in the moonlight. She didn't unsling the wood and leather shield with its raven device, for the courtyard was too cramped to allow for more than a sword and the will to use it. With a ululating cry she darted forward leaping the bodies which still twitched in the dusty street, planting a foot on a pile of stacked timber and spring boarding high into the air. Another of the attackers lifted his sword to fend of her strike, but the massive double handed blow with all her weight behind it, shattered the cheap iron of the scimitar like a hammer striking ice. Anya's blade struck him on the left shoulder, severing his arm at a downward angle starting at his collar bone in a spray of blood. She hit the ground in a crouch with one hand outstretched to spread the impact, the sword in her free hand slashing her across the hamstring of one of the thieves who had been too slow to react to the unexpected attack. The man dropped to the ground screaming and clutching at his crippled leg, crimson blood seeping between his dark fingers.

Screams echoed through the thieves quarter as Anya straightened, her eyes a light with the exstacy of battle.

"Come rogues!" she bellowed, "let us see if the men of Iridistan are good for anything other than cheating at dice!"