Path of the Sun: A Novel of Dhulyn and Parno (20 page)

“I know my duty,” she said the gooseflesh forming on her arms. “I will stay.”

They were in the saddle, swords loosened in their scabbards and throwing knives to hand, while the approaching riders were still only a sound through the earth.

“Sure we shouldn’t run for it?” Parno asked.

“Run where?” Dhulyn answered, knowing full well Parno didn’t need to be told. What would be the point of fleeing, when they did not even know who approached? They knew nothing of the surrounding land and would be easily run down and caught by those who did. And once caught, they would have to explain why they ran. There really was nothing for them to do but wait, politely, and hope to be given a hearing. Of course, if there were a great many with bows among the approaching riders, she might not live long enough to regret her decision.

“Think they might shoot first and ask questions after?” Dhulyn shivered at Parno’s eerie echo of her thoughts. She was beginning to wish they’d never chosen to walk the Path of the Sun. But that reminded her of the Common Rule.

“The path of the Mercenary is the sword,” she said aloud.

“The path of the sword is death,” Parno completed the chant.

She grinned at him. “In Battle,” she said.

“
And
in Death,” he answered.

The riders were close enough now to see that there were nine of them, riding practically elbow to elbow in a compact group, and that they rode closely, and straight, as though they followed some trail in the grassland that Dhulyn could not see. But there was something else.

“Parno,” she said.

“I see it.”

Though it was late in the day here, the sun still shone, and it showed clearly the colors of the clothing of the riders coming toward them. And, unmistakably, the blood-red color of their hair, identical to her own. Not possible. Her mouth formed the words, but no sound escaped her lips.

“Red Horsemen,” Parno said.

D
HULYN AND PARNO had done many hard things since they’d left their Schooling, but sitting still and watching as the Red Horsemen rode closer and closer was perhaps the hardest. Finally, Parno twisted in his saddle until he could push up the flap on his left saddlebag; he reached in and took out four crossbow bolts.

Dhulyn shook her head, patting the air between them with her left hand. “Let’s not appear more hostile than necessary. It may be they are merely riding in this direction. Perhaps the Path signals them somehow when it has been used.”

Parno shrugged, but he slid the crossbow bolts into the tops of his boots, as if he were unwilling to put them away now he had them out. “That will be useful for us, if they know who has come through and when.”

They knew the moment the Red Horsemen sighted them. With no break in stride or speed, four of the approaching riders split off from the main group, two to each side, spreading out in what was clearly a flanking maneuver. When the central group had advanced perhaps a span, one of the riders raised what looked at this distance like a spear and the Horsemen came on faster.

“Demons,” Parno said. “They’re not slowing. So much for not showing any overt hostility.” He snatched up his crossbow from its hook on his saddle and cocked it, forcing the string back by hand until it hooked over the trigger, pulled out the two bolts he’d slid into his left boot.

“Centaur
Shora
,” Dhulyn said. “No blood. Some one of these may know something about our missing Brothers.”

“Blessed Caids, woman.” Parno lowered the crossbow, but he didn’t uncock it. “Are you trying to kill us?
They
have bows.”

“And spears too, and they haven’t used them yet,” Dhulyn pointed out. “Nor are they likely to. There is no honor in killing us at a distance.”

“Blooded Outlanders,” Parno said, though his tone was lighter than his words. “We’d have no such scruples, were the situation reversed.”

“Ah, but we’re Mercenary Brothers, not blooded Outlanders.” Dhulyn smiled her wolf’s smile. “What? There are only eight of them.” She pulled her best sword out of its scabbard across her back and her second-best sword from where it was strapped along her saddle under her right knee. As she was testing her grip, Parno suddenly twisted, turning Warhammer partly around, and cut an arrow out of the air, the broken shaft falling practically under Warhammer’s hooves.

“I thought you said they wouldn’t shoot,” he growled, as two more arrows fell short.

“They’ll avoid hitting the horses.”

“I’m not worried about the horses,” he said, but he was grinning as he said it, and Dhulyn found herself grinning back. Fighting was always easier than waiting.

There was a whisper of displaced air, and Dhulyn knocked aside two more arrows. Only the riders who had split off from the rest were shooting, having ridden far enough that they would miss their own men. The five central Horsemen came straight on, four in front, one behind, swords swinging over their heads, hooves thundering an accompaniment to high-pitched cries. Dhulyn felt her heartbeat slow and readied her blades, holding them in the opening position of the Centaur
Shora
. Bloodbone and Warhammer did not spook, though a volley of arrows fell close to their hooves.

“Ah, I see,” Parno said. “They are only meant to distract while the others come upon us.”

As the Horsemen closed with them, Parno held tight with his knees and shot Warhammer forward, forcing the two riders trying to flank him to pull up sharply lest they crash into one another. Warhammer knew what to do without prompting and whirled immediately to ride down the left-hand horse, using his greater weight and iron shoes to advantage. The rider spilled to the ground and rolled away. Meanwhile Parno leaned backward, still clinging tightly with his knees and, remembering to use the flat of the blade, gave the second Horseman a calculated blow to the side of his head. Already off-balance from his fight to keep from crashing into his fellow rider, the man fell out of his saddle, flailing his arms like a man trying to fly.

As Dhulyn parried the blows of the second pair of riders, she saw out of the periphery of her vision that one at least of Parno’s opponents was already down. Her own attackers were using the agility of their smaller mounts against her, sweeping nimbly back and forth, slicing at her as they passed. But Bloodbone was an old hand at this kind of fighting and dodged and kicked of her own accord, with scarcely more than an occasional shouted command. The riders were good, but they executed their sweeps a little too regularly, and by careful timing Dhulyn was able to kick out and unseat the one to her left. Mindful that these were nomads, she kicked him in the head—a civilized rider might have been unhorsed with a good shove to the chest, but no Horse Nomad could be unbalanced that way. The second man, missing his mate, was just turning to engage her head-on when the four flanking riders came pounding up. A high-pitched whinny, a heavy thud, and Dhulyn realized that Parno was down. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups, vaulted to stand on Bloodbone’s back. One of the new riders turned his spear toward her. She tossed her left-hand sword into the face of another man, grabbed the spear just under the collar of hawk’s feathers that decorated the shaft near the head and used it to swing herself, kicking and striking out with her remaining sword, into the circle of Horsemen that threatened her Partner.

She pulled her dagger out of the top of her boot and braced herself, weight evenly distributed and knees slightly bent.

“Hold.” An old voice, but Dhulyn did not turn toward it. The man who spoke was one of the recent arrivals, the one whose spear she had made use of. From the note of command in his voice, he was likely the leader and therefore unlikely to be the source of the next blow. He was holding his spear in the air over his head, parallel to the ground.

“You did not run,” he said. “You endanger yourself to help your comrade. It is the act of an honorable person.”

Dhulyn’s heart leaped. She could not have been sure with only the one word, but now that the man had spoken more, she recognized the old tongue, the language of her childhood. These did not merely
look
like Espadryni, they
were
Espadryni. She relaxed slightly but did not lower her weapons. Some remnant of her old Tribe they might be, but at the moment they were also an unknown quantity and therefore to be watched with care. Of the other riders, only two let their weapons rest; the others, especially those who had been knocked down and were only now getting back in the saddle, seemed to want to keep their weapons to hand.

Parno rolled to his knees and then his feet. He’d been winded, that was clear, and he was favoring his side where he’d landed on his sword hilt on the Path, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. She grinned. He had even managed to keep his swords in his hands when he he’d been knocked from Warhammer’s saddle.

The man who had stopped the attack dismounted from his horse. He moved easily, though, with a catch to her breath, Dhulyn saw there was a great deal of white streaking his blood-red hair. This was the man of her Vision, clearly a chief or shaman, since only such could have stopped the others with a word. Would they meet with the thin man as well, then? The one who was going to help them?

“He is my Partner,” she said finally, answering the old man in the Espadryni tongue. “His life is mine, and mine his. Do you speak the common tongue?” she asked, switching to that language.

“I do, and I greet you, young one,” he replied, his words accented but clear. “You and your Partner.” Like the others, this man was dressed in loose trousers tucked into boots that came almost to the knees, topped with vests of various colors. This old man wore the only leather vest, and it was closely embroidered with symbols and shapes, some sewn over the others in disregard for any pattern or decoration. A shaman, then, for certain.

“We greet you, old man,” Dhulyn said, half bowing.

“May I touch your markings?” He lifted his hand to his own temple, to show that he meant her Mercenary’s badge.

“Dhulyn,” Parno murmured at her back.

Dhulyn acknowledged his warning with a lifted finger and lowered her weapons slowly, not moving forward, but allowing the shaman to approach her. This might be what she had Seen in her Vision, when the old man had appeared to draw on her forehead. She felt the cool, dry touch of his fingertips on the skin where her Mercenary badge was tattooed.

“This is shaman’s work, very clean, very powerful,” the old man said. “It is not what binds you to your Partner, however, but merely the symbol of the binding. From what Tribe do you come, my child?” Out of the corners of her eyes Dhulyn saw the other riders had not relaxed, though they had heard the shaman address her formally as a kinswoman. Instead there was more shifting of eyes, and exchanging of frowns and glances.

“I am of no Tribe, Grandfather,” she said, addressing him in the same style. “I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar. A Mercenary Brother. I was Schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at the sea battle of Sadron, on the plains of Arcosa in Imrion, and at Bhexillia, with the Great King in the West. I fight with my Partner, Parno Lionsmane.” She indicated him with a gesture, but Parno only inclined his rough gold head without speaking.

“I am Singer of the Wind, Cloud Shaman to the Long Trees People. I do not know these places you speak of.” He reached out again for her badge, and this time touched Parno’s as well. Dhulyn felt a jolt run through her, familiar and yet . . . “As I do not know this magic of yours, though I would like to. You are not the shaman who created these marks, young man?”

“I am not,” Parno said.

Singer of the Wind nodded, as if he had known the answer, and was asking out of some intricate courtesy. “As any eye can see, you are of our blood, Dhulyn Wolfshead. Which
was
your Tribe, if you no longer ride with them?”

“The Tribe of which you ask was called the Darklin Plain Clan,” she replied. “Though once we pass our Schooling, Mercenaries have no ties other than to the Brotherhood. In that sense, we have no pasts.” Though that was easily said, as Dhulyn had come to know. Mercenary Brothers might let go of their pasts, but those pasts didn’t always let go of them.

“That Clan, too, is unknown to me.” His eyes narrowed once more. “This is the season for the People of the Long Trees to attend the Doorway of the Sun,” Singer said. “This place is currently in our charge. You must tell me where you come from, my children. What do you here so close to Mother Sun’s Door?”

So the Horsemen
did
know about the labyrinth. Dhulyn’s shoulders loosened at this confirmation that there would be a way home. But then they stiffened again. Could the killer they sought be among these Horsemen?

“We have come through the Doorway, my Partner and I, though among our people it is called the Path of the Sun.” Dhulyn fell silent as there was another exchange of glances between the Horsemen. One who rode a spotted horse muttered something under his breath. Nothing good, she thought. Singer of the Wind’s attitude did not change, but those few who had laid down their weapons picked them up once again.