Foretellers (The Ydron Saga Book 3) (24 page)

Bedistai’s gaze went from the man’s eyes to the fine black leathers he was wearing before they alighted on the bow in his hand. A slow burning filled him as his eyes returned to the man’s face and recognized him. It had been months since he had shamed him in the ravine a few minutes to the east, months since he had single-handedly defeated the ten thugs this man had sent to kidnap Darva.

“Harad,” said Bedistai.

“So nice to see you again.”

“Shoot me,” said Bedistai.

He looked from Harad to Darva, where his eyes rested a long loving moment, then back again.

“I’m an easy target. You have enough arrows. Shoot and be done with me.”

Harad shook his head.

“It would give me no pleasure,” he said. “And that is the essence of revenge, is it not? The pleasure of satisfaction? What satisfaction would I get from your sudden demise?”

Again, Bedistai looked from Darva to Harad and said, "You clearly enjoyed this easy death.”

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m getting all the pleasure I need from watching you. Under different circumstances I would have drawn out the lady’s agony. I would have enjoyed watching her beg for her life as, perhaps, I twisted the knife while her blood flowed from her veins. If you remember, the bitch caused me weeks of pain.” Harad laughed. “Given a choice, I would have preferred to have chained her to a wall and drawn out her agony for as long as I could. That would have been real satisfaction.”

Bedistai had begun to rise, lifting Darva’s body from his lap and setting it aside.

“That’s right,” Harad goaded. “You’re beginning to understand. Come to me. Let’s see how bravely you can die.” He giggled and said, “I’ll reunite you.”

Harad dropped his bow and metal sang as Harad unsheathed the sword at his hip. Even in the half light provided by the overcast, the blade gleamed with remarkable brilliance. As Bedistai rose to his feet, his hands fumbled first at one hip, then the other and he remembered dropping his knife. He realized his must have lost the battle axe as well.

“Try that one,” said Harad, pointing at Darva’s sword with his own. “I don’t want this to be too easy.”

Bedistai glanced at the place where he had been sitting and saw the blade lying across a soldier’s body.

“Good,” said Harad. “That’s it.”

Corpses were everywhere, so there was no easy footing. Stepping carefully, eyes darting between Harad and the next clear place to plant a foot, Bedistai bent to take up the sword, then rose.

Pointing at Bedistai with the sword in his right hand, Harad beckoned with his left.

“Please don’t keep me waiting,” he said, his teeth bared in something more vicious than a smile.

A soldier with an ax buried in his forehead tumbled into Bedistai, then fell to the ground before him. Bedistai sidestepped, hardly noticing the distraction, so focused was he on the one who stood before him.

“Once I’ve finished with you,” said Harad, “I’m going to the caves where your people believe they’ve hidden Miened and her spawn and do away with them as well. Such a pity Peniff isn’t here. As it is, my revenge will almost be perfect.”

Bedistai leapt through the air at Harad, but swung futilely as Harad ducked the attack without effort. Twice more he came at him, but each time Harad avoided his blade easily.

“You can do better than that,” Harad taunted and again Bedistai thrust without effect.

The next time he swung, Harad met his blade with his own and Bedistai saw the notch taken from it.

“Superior metal,” Harad gloated, raising his own unmarred weapon. “Superior swordsman,” he said as he parried Bedistai’s blade almost casually, leaving another chink in its edge. He tapped his forehead with the tip of his index finger and reminded the Haroun, “I know what you are thinking.”

He grinned.

Bedistai launched a flurry of attacks and each time he thrust or swung his sword Harad met it, damaging the blade further.

“How do you defeat an enemy who can anticipate your every move?” he asked.

His smile disappeared and he launched himself at Bedistai. It was all the hunter could do to avert Harad’s thrusts. Several times its edge narrowly missed a shoulder, an ear or, one time, his head. On one of these attacks, its tip drew a line across Bedistai’s chest.

“First blood,” cried Harad. “If we were just playing, the match would be mine.” His face grew dark and he said, “Too bad for you, we’re not playing.”

He came with a new series of attacks, driving Bedistai backward. Tripping over one of the fallen, Bedistai rolled, narrowly avoiding the flash of silver he saw coming toward him, returning to his feet in time to block another hacking blow. But when he parried a second time, another chunk of his blade flew through the air and his sword broke in two. Harad leered.

“What are you going to do n… ?”

Bedistai flew at him, cutting the question short as he drove his shoulder into the man’s middle. Eyes wide, Harad fell backward, landing on a corpse. He cried out in pain as Bedistai extended a hand to clamp down Harad’s sword arm while driving a series of blows to his face with his other. He did not stop after two or three punches, nor after five or even more. Bedistai continued until Harad’s face began losing shape as bones broke and blood flowed under the barrage.

Grinning savagely, with no trace of humor, Bedistai stared into Harad’s one open eye and said, “It’s an old Haroun discipline. We turn off our thoughts and fight on reflex alone.”

The hand that had held the sword from Rutan lie open, the black leather-wrapped hilt resting on its palm. As Bedistai rose to his feet, he took the weapon away and spent a moment admiring the Rutani craftsmanship before turning the blade downward. Grasping the handle with both hands, he raised the weapon high above his head and pointed it.

“This is for Darva,” he said, then drove it through Harad’s heart until he felt the crunch of metal penetrating soil.

Blood and dirt caked Rodic’s face and sweat stung his eyes. He had watched as the Haroun hunter struck Harad down. He had not been surprised—disheartened perhaps, but certainly not surprised. An admitted opportunist to the core, Rodic had followed Harad because of the promise he had offered—the chance to better himself and step into a position of power—but he had never believed Harad would last. How could he? He had been a rogue, a scoundrel, a kidnapper and a brigand, but never had he been one to command. Overconfident and reckless to a fault, against Rodic’s advice Harad had left his cavalry with the supply wagons when their captains had determined No’eth’s terrain made it impossible to deploy their troops as they were accustomed. The troughs and valleys between its hummocks would have put horse upon infantryman and increased the likelihood of mutual injury, the captains had argued. On the other hand, Rodic had argued for deploying the cavalry and infantry units separately. He explained that while the infantry were making a direct assault on Mostoon, the horse brigades could be sent in a more circuitous route, coming upon the village from the west. An infantry assault would be sufficient in and of itself, Harad had declared, and put an end to the argument. Events had proven otherwise.

Rodic’s dismay stemmed from the void Harad’s demise had created. He had left his advisors in charge of barakMis during his absence and Rodic believed it unlikely they would acknowledge him as Harad’s rightful successor. Even though he had been second in command, he suspected the land would revert to its earlier chaotic state once Harad’s death became public. Once that occurred, the man who controlled the greatest number of troops would rise to power, so he resolved to prevent Harad’s advisors from learning anything.

The moment Harad died, Rodic had fled. Smart enough to recognize a lost cause, he grabbed those fighters around him he knew were Monhedeth’s finest. They had survived because, like him, they fought with surpassing skill. Like him, they had been armed with Rutani swords.

The Haroun did not follow, preoccupied as they were with finishing off the remaining incompetents and carrying off their own dead. While the greatest portion of the fallen had belonged to Harad, the hunters had suffered losses of their own.

On the run for more than a day, sore to the bone, food stores depleted, Rodic and his men had survived due to the network of rivulets, creeks and small streams that coursed through No’eth’s Expanse.

Foot weary and exhausted, they had ascended the long winding hummock that demarked the Expanse’s northernmost extent, expecting to find the cavalry had broken down their tents, then packed up and returned home. Rodic’s eyes had grown wide and hope had infused him when, having attained the hummock’s crest, he saw the stockades still intact and the rows of tents standing. Encouraged by this unexpected blessing, the urgency that had driven him here seemed to evaporate and he and his men settled down, either sitting or reclining atop the wind-blown rise.

Although Rodic intended to take command of the remaining brigades, he did not go to them immediately. Understanding how he might use them to his advantage, but also knowing that hope without a plan to back it up is naïve folly, Rodic turned to assess the men who had come with him. Almost at once, his eyes settled on Faul, a man in his early thirties. Faul was respected by his comrades, ambitious, honest so far as Rodic needed him to be and reliable. If Rodic were to find unwavering loyalty among any of the ten, it would be with this man.

“Faul,” said Rodic, in a confidential tone as he dropped down beside him. “I need your assistance.”

Faul turned and cocked his head.

“If we are to stand any chance of surviving after we return to Monhedeth, whatever we say, whatever we do when we arrive at that encampment… ” Rodic tilted his head toward it. “ … is of the utmost importance.”

Faul nodded, engaging Rodic’s eyes with his own.

“No one down there can know Harad is dead, at least for the present. We need their unquestioning loyalty.” He explained his rationale. “I have an idea that will keep us in command, but it requires the discretion of each of us.”

He inclined his head toward the remaining nine.

“They won’t pose a problem,” said Faul. “I can assure you. Let me know when you are ready and I’ll have a word with them.” Clearly grasping where in the chain of command Rodic was placing him, he asked, “What do you have in mind?”

… … … … …

Outposts intercepted Rodic and his companions as they approached and escorted them to the tent where Major Zenn, the horse brigade’s commandant, was poring over maps with a coterie of officers. A sergeant announced their presence.

“Field General Rodic and his commanding officers,” the sergeant said.

Zenn’s expression transformed from curiosity to shock at the sight of them and asked, “Do any of you require medical attention?”

Rodic knew how they appeared: bloody from head to foot, uniforms torn in several places.

“Thank you, but no, Major. We could all use a bath and a change of clothes… certainly a meal. But aside from that, I and my officers are fine.”

“Sergeant,” said the major and the sergeant snapped to attention. “While the general and I are conferring, see that baths and meals are prepared for them. Changes of uniforms as well, if you can manage.”

The sergeant saluted and exited the tent.

The major glanced at the space behind the party and asked, “Did Lord Harad not accompany you?”

Rodic shook his head.

“He and the rest of his forces have continued south to Borrst where he intends to join forces with Garmak En, and eventually with Hath Kael. He instructed us to return here to take command of the cavalry, then ride to Miast where we are to join forces with Ben Haro. Have you a pigeon that will return to him?”

The major’s face fell at the mention of Harad’s journey south, but he nodded.

“I do.”

“Good. I need to notify Lord Haro we are coming.”

Rodic smiled and clapped a hand on the major’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Major. Your command’s not in danger. While I will instruct you as Harad has ordered me to do, you will continue to be in charge of the brigade. Captain Faul and the nine other captains who have accompanied us will take charge of the various units beneath you.”

The major appeared less disturbed but asked, “When did these men attain captaincy?”

“They were promoted in the field.”

The major nodded and said, “I assume, then, that the campaign went as planned.”

Rodic nodded, pleased that the major was accepting his story. If he could keep Major Zenn away from his talks with Lord Haro, he hoped to inform the warlord he was now in command and convince him that Monhedeth and Miast should join forces with Kael. In his brief acquaintance with Sabed Orr, he had learned that Kael, who had his own agenda, wanted allies to help him attain dominance. Despite the relatively small number of troops Rodic would be providing—the ones here and those Harad had left behind in Monhedeth—it was Rodic’s hope that enlisting Ben Haro and adding his forces to the mix would elevate him sufficiently in Kael’s eyes to persuade him that he, above anyone else in the north, would be his most worthy and reliable ally. If he succeeded, none of Harad’s advisors would dare refute his authority. It was a delicate game, and not without serious risk, but wasn’t risk-taking what had brought him to this very point?