Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (21 page)

A rifle cracked. Maldynado or Jomrik firing. Ashara did not see if anyone was hit. She doubted it. The intruders were still two hundred meters way. She could barely make them out among the trees and undergrowth.

She leaned out again, picking the spots where she would hide if she were staging an ambush. That copse over there? It was only a hundred meters away and the leaf-filled saplings might let someone sneak close to Maldynado and the others without being noticed. She pointed her nocked arrow at it, searching for the movement she thought might come.

The hairs on the back of her neck stirred, and she winced. It might be her imagination, but it might mean Tladik was nearby working his magic too. She almost shifted her aim away from the copse to look for him, but she caught the movement she had anticipated. Someone stepped out from behind one of the thicker trees and aimed at Mahliki.

Ashara fired. Her arrow sprang from her bow, whispering through the air and pegging the archer in the throat before he could loose his own weapon. The man tumbled backward, rattling the branches in the copse. Maldynado and Jomrik, alerted to the threat, fired indiscriminately. The archer was already dead, but another figure raced out of the back of the copse, alarmed by the gunfire.

Ashara had the better angle. She shot him between the shoulder blades. He tumbled forward, a braid of red hair dancing in the air before settling to the ground. The hyper alertness of battle charged through her veins, making her react rather than experiencing deep thought, but the fleeting realization that she was killing her own people crossed her mind. She didn’t know what to do about that. The first arrow had come in her direction. Still, with a sick certainty, she knew there would be consequences.

More gunshots came from the men—Mahliki was firing, too, but to the rear of their group. She must have spotted someone trying to circle around them. Fortunately, she had dropped to her knees behind a log, so she was protected from both sides. Good, because Ashara feared she was the main target here. Tladik must have figured out that she was the one with the potential to solve the blight problem. The intruders might be shooting at Ashara, Maldynado, and Jomrik, too, but only because they needed to get through them to kill Mahliki.

More crimson-fletched arrows flew from the trees, and Ashara ducked again. She shifted so that she could lean out on the other side of her boulder. That was when she spotted a warrior coming at her from upstream, from the direction of the lake. No more than ten meters away, his moccasins glided soundlessly over the rocks, any noise he might have made muffled by the gurgling water. In one hand, he held a big axe, and in the other a smaller weapon, a tomahawk. It was poised to throw.

Though her nerves jangled with alarm, and it was all she could do not to flail in her attempt to nock another arrow quickly, experience and the knowledge that she had survived countless battles guided her hands, keeping them steady. She rolled sideways, splashing into the creek at the same time as she nocked her arrow. She came up in the water, aware of the tomahawk buzzing past and clacking off a rock. The man was less than five meters away when she fired. It was far enough. The arrow took him in the chest. He staggered and toppled into the stream, but not before her second arrow joined the first, to ensure he would not rise again.

As Ashara turned to check on the others, an invisible force wrapped around her neck. It felt like huge, rough hands pressing into her throat, cutting off her airway, but nobody was there. Instinctively, she clawed at her neck, as if she could tear the person’s grip away. But logically, she knew that this was a shaman’s attack, and that the practitioner might be a hundred meters away.

Panic welled in her chest, and her lungs strained, trying to gasp for air, but she did not drop the bow. She pulled another arrow, wincing as the pressure grew stronger, harder. In addition to denying her air, it created pain. A flash of fear ran through her at the thought of her windpipe being crushed, of being like Basilard, unable to ever talk again.
If
she lived.

She lifted her bow over the boulder, an arrow ready, though an irritating tremble plagued her hands. She willed them to still even as she searched for the shaman. If she found him and shot him—or even distracted him enough so that he released his hold—her body could have all the air it wanted.

There. The firefight was still raging between the rest of her group and the archers out in the woods, but she spotted a solitary figure without a weapon raised. He stood behind a tree for cover, but part of his torso and his head leaned out. It was not Tladik or anyone she recognized. It did not matter. He was staring at her—targeting her.

With her arms burning from the effort of holding the bow taut—and from the lack of air flowing to her limbs—she loosed the arrow. He raised a hand, and it bounced off an invisible barrier a foot in front of him.

Ashara slumped against the boulder. The pressure on her throat had lessened for an instant, but it returned again right away. She didn’t want to give up, but she hadn’t been able to inhale so much as a tiny gasp of air.

She lifted her arm to reach for another arrow, but her numb, fumbling fingers couldn’t grasp one. Blackness edged her vision as dark dots swam through it. The shaman blurred. She looked toward Maldynado and the others, as if they could save her, but they were busy defending against the archers. She tried again for an arrow. The shaman smiled slightly and shook his head. Bastard.

But then he jumped, glancing down, as if a snake had appeared at his feet.

The invisible hands grasping her throat disappeared. Ashara had no idea what had happened, but she gasped in air at the same time as she drew the arrow that had eluded her. Even as she readied her bow to fire, the shaman’s head was jerked back. For an instant, she thought someone was standing behind him, but the figure disappeared before she glimpsed more than a dark arm. She loosed her arrow, but soon realized it had been unnecessary. The shaman was already toppling forward, a bloody gash across his throat.

Not sure who her new ally was, but thinking Basilard must have returned to help, Ashara crouched behind the boulder again. She sucked in deep breaths of air as she searched for her next target. There were only a few arrows left in her quiver, so she couldn’t waste them.

But after one more crack from a Turgonian rifle, the forest fell silent. Nothing moved among the trees. A number of Kendorian archers lay dead in the leaf litter.

“Maldynado,” a woman’s voice called in Turgonian from beyond the trees where the Kendorians had been shooting, “we’d appreciate it if you lowered your weapons. I believe we’ve efficiently eliminated the threats from your perimeter.” The speaker paused for a moment, then said, “All right,
I
mostly tripped over roots and stayed out of the way, but my comrade efficiently eliminated threats.”

Maldynado lowered his rifle, the most genuine smile Ashara had seen from him splitting his face. “Would your
comrade
happen to be someone dark, deadly, and phlegmatic?”

“He’s not all that dark. We were down in the desert, and the sun lightened his hair, so it’s even blonder than usual.”

“Did it also lighten his disposition and his wardrobe?”

“Ah, not considerably, no.”

The woman—and whoever was dark and deadly—was camouflaged well. Even with her speaking, it took Ashara a moment to pick her out of the foliage. The dark-haired woman’s face was smeared with dirt, an effect that might have been deliberate or the result of long days on the road, and she wore brown trousers and a vest over a green shirt that blended into the forest. Her hair was back in a bun, and when she stepped out from behind the tree, her weapons were visible, a short sword, a pistol at her waist, and a crossbow slung across her back, along with a rucksack. She walked toward Maldynado, an arm lifted in greeting. Ashara searched for the second person, but did not see him yet.

“Who parked the steam lorry in a stake-filled pit, Maldynado?” the woman asked as she approached.

“Why are you looking at me and saying my name as if you’re certain
I
was responsible?” Maldynado leaned his rifle against a tree, hopped the stream, and strode toward her, his arms spread.

“You’re the only one I know who crashes steam vehicles regularly.”

“Only when you’re at my side, directing me to do so. I have no idea why
I
always get blamed.” Maldynado embraced the newcomer, lifting her off the ground with his enthusiasm.

Mahliki and Jomrik had stepped out from their hiding spots. Neither seemed surprised to see the woman.

Ashara stood, debating whether she should join the group or go retrieve her arrows and search the bodies for orders or information as to how many more might be about. If these were the same people with the wagons, they had left them behind for the attack. She suspected they only represented a small subset.

She glanced upstream, thinking to start with the tomahawk-wielding Kendorian, only to spot someone already crouching over the body. She flinched in surprise, reflexively reaching for an arrow.

The man in black stared at her, no hint of alarm in his hard, dark brown eyes, but there
was
a warning there. And a throwing knife rested in one of his hands, one he could probably hurl before she could shoot an arrow.

Ashara lowered her hand, realizing this must be the comrade the woman had spoken of, for his tousled blond hair did have a sun-kissed look about it, or maybe it was the contrast of the olive skin that made it stand out. From the hair coloring, Ashara might have guessed him a Kendorian, but his darker skin and angular facial features seemed more fitting for a Turgonian. As did his plethora of weapons. She didn’t see a firearm or bow, but the hilts of throwing knives and daggers of various sizes stuck out of arm sheaths, belt sheaths, and calf sheaths. She wagered the man never had trouble finding tools to wrangle a tough steak into manageable pieces. She also wagered not many people made him put those knives to use; he had an aura of danger about him, his face cool and flinty, giving nothing of his thoughts.

“All right, put me down, you oversized hat rack,” the woman said with a laugh. “You know Sicarius gets jealous when I let other men fondle me.”

Sicarius?

Ashara might not have recognized the face, but she recognized the name. He had been—or maybe he still was—an assassin, one who had plied his trade in Kendor, among other places, in past decades. Her people believed he had worked for the old Turgonian emperor, killing key personnel to keep the empire’s enemies squabbling internally instead of combining forces and attacking Turgonia. He was one of the reasons the night stalkers had been created fifteen years earlier. The government had wanted a force that could deal with highly trained assassins.

If this was the same Sicarius, he was younger than she would have guessed, based on how long the name had been whispered in her country. He appeared to be around thirty-five or forty.

“Now, Amaranthe,” Maldynado said, setting her down and stepping back, “you know I don’t fondle other women any more, on account of my steadfast and unwavering loyalty to Yara.”

“And because you’re more afraid of her than of Sicarius?”

“That too. Just before I left, we chanced across an instructor of hers from her early days in the Enforcer Academy, one who had been overly familiar with the female recruits. She seemed to have left an impression on him. And some marks. I didn’t get the entire story, because he was so quick to hustle away from Yara with his hands covering his crotch.”

“I’ll bet.” Amaranthe glanced curiously at Ashara, then lifted a hand toward the rest of the group. “How are you doing, Mahliki? And Corporal Jomrik, isn’t it? Tikaya gave us a quick briefing before sending us after you. Without giving us time to bathe, eat, or sleep in a bed.”

“We had sufficient rations,” the man in black said.

Sicarius, Ashara reminded herself. He had finished searching the tomahawk-throwing Kendorian, removing a folded piece of paper and a spyglass, and he walked toward the group. Ashara shifted out of his way, so he would not pass close by.

“Yes…” Amaranthe crinkled her nose. “Sicarius made a fresh batch of his dried meat-and-organ bars before we left on our last assignment. Oddly, there were still some left.” She smiled at him as he drew closer.

Sicarius did not respond to the comment or the smile, other than to eye her briefly on his way past. He handed her the folded paper, then strode toward the shaman’s body.

“You’re right,” Maldynado said. “His disposition is still the same.”

A startled squawk flew out of Mahliki’s mouth. She ran to the stack of gear that she, Maldynado, and Jomrik had dropped off when the group reached the creek. One of the packs was smoldering. Mahliki’s? She tore into it, cursing as something hot burned her fingers, and flung her tools, vials, glass dishes, and notebooks onto the moss. One of notebooks was responsible for the smoke, which wafted from its charred edges. She alternated blowing on it and waving it vigorously. Her efforts only fanned new flames to life. With another agitated squawk, she lunged for the stream and thrust the notebook into it. The water put the fire out, but Ashara did not know how legible the ink inside would be once it dried.

Mahliki lifted her dripping notebook, looking at it with a forlorn sigh. “Basilard’s country is not being kind to me.”

“Did the shaman do that before he died?” Jomrik stepped up beside her, frowning over at the body, and then down at the book. “Or is someone else out there with
magic
?” His mouth twisted into the sneer at the last word. Unlike Maldynado, he had never set his rifle aside, and he looked like he wouldn’t mind shooting someone.

“I hope not,” Mahliki said. “My equipment hasn’t fared well with even one shaman around.” She lowered the book and patted her chest, which was oddly bulky and lumpy at the moment. Glass clinked.

Several sets of eyes turned toward Ashara. Was she assumed to be the expert on the number of Kendorian shamans about? Basilard must have told them about spotting her with Tladik. She debated whether she could get into trouble—
more
trouble—for giving them information. Also, should she be worried about getting into “trouble” with the Turgonians too? She didn’t think Basilard would raise a hand against her, even if he did know she was a spy, but she knew nothing about this Sicarius, except that he probably wasn’t the kind of person to be intimidated by Shukura. Maybe he wouldn’t even be intimidated by Tladik.