Stormseer (Storms in Amethir Book 3) (29 page)

As soon as he was in the saddle, his calf began to throb. Yarro shifted in place for several minutes before Aevver realized what the problem was and called a halt.

"Of course, the blood's probably pooling in your leg, like that," she mused, studying him. "Tell you what, let's see if we can prop that leg up some. I know you won't want to ride double with me, so we'll have to get you balanced somehow."

He managed not to shudder at the idea of being pressed against her for however long they rode. It was just another reason he had never told Tish how he felt about her. The thought of touching her wasn't too bad, but the thought of her touching him didn't appeal to him at all. No one would ever want to be in love with him if they couldn't touch him. He fought down a sudden wave of despair and twisted around to watch Aevver taking her bedroll off her horse. She carried it over to him and lashed it on top of his. He didn't see what she did with the ropes and straps, but after a few minutes, she had made a prop for him to lean against while he rested his injured leg across the pommel of the saddle. It wasn't very comfortable, but it was better than letting the leg hang.

"Thank you," Yarro mumbled.

Aevver smiled up at him, her gaze open. "You're welcome, Yarro. Let's see if you can stand to ride an hour or so like that, all right? I promise we'll stop early tonight."

***

It was almost a relief to be leaving Rivarden, Hawk thought. He let his horse pick his own way through the morning crowd. He was running his gaze along the buildings and streets that he used to know. Rivarden was both painfully different and hauntingly familiar. Governor Tarkor did his best to feed the refugees and war orphans, but there were so many, and the food supply only stretched so far. Yet there were still plenty of cocky soldiers on leave, mercenaries looking for the next quick gold, and mine workers in town on rotation.

He shook his head and guided his black gelding towards the gate, the pack horse trailing them. The Diamond Gate had been fortified almost beyond recognition, but he supposed that was better than being sealed up entirely. The guards came to attention as he approached. Most of the traffic so far had been streaming into the city, and it was rare for a traveler to go north on foot. Most took a canal boat up the Kreyden Capital Canal. Hawk could tell the guards were looking forward to a chat about his business, but one look at the royal seal he carried and they went silent. They exchanged a look and the officer waved him through. Hawk gave them a polite smile. No use flaunting his status.

The first few miles went by quickly as Hawk relished his first taste of true solitude in years. Oh, he had often been alone in his cell, but that had never been under his control. It could be forced on him or ripped away at a moment's whim. And while Commander Ayowir had never been cruel, she had not always noticed what her underlings did. Even when Hawk was free again, he had almost always had someone around, either giving orders or asking something of him. Even the ever-present servants had begun to grate on his nerves.

But now, out here in the desert north of the city, Hawk and his horses were truly alone. While he was traveling at the prince's command, he took no one with him, and that was Hawk's choice, no one else's. He put his head back, sniffing at the air, and laughed.

Hawk estimated they had covered fifteen miles when he decided to stop for lunch. When he had been in fighting trim, he'd been able to ride all day and eat in the saddle, but on the ride from Salishok he had noticed that his leg ached if he pushed it too hard. Better to take a break for lunch. He loosened the black's girth and wandered around the small hollow he'd chosen. A few scrubby bushes spoke of the presence of moisture underground, while a pile of rocks twenty feet away hinted deceptively at a spring. Hawk checked and found no spring, but he had plenty of water in his skins.

He alternated bites of dried meat and figs as he paced around the hollow. There wasn't much moisture in the figs, but it tempered the salt of the meat. He would have a better supper, but he was a warrior, used to common fare. At least, he had been.
What am I now? A warrior who lost his war? A king's man who might lose his king?
He shook the thoughts aside and fished another strip of meat out of his pack.

That was when the bandits struck.

A woman with the coloration of a half-blood came at him from behind the cluster of rocks, three ragged swordsmen behind her. Hawk dropped his meat and drew Talon, spinning—but there was a one-eyed man approaching from that side, leading three more bandits. He drew Claw as well and set himself at an angle, watching them both.

"What do you want? I haven't much gold." And he didn't want to part with any of it, but if paying them would avert a fight, he would do it. Eight on one odds might have been manageable when he was at the peak of his fighting condition. It was a ridiculous notion now, with only a few weeks of honing his skills again, not to mention the bad leg.

"We've already been paid, mate," said the one-eyed man. "Someone really wants you dead." As he spoke, the woman attacked, but Hawk had been careful to split his attention. He pivoted, blocking her thrust and pushing it away. The man behind her wasn't as skilled as she was. Hawk's blade tore open his throat. He dropped his sword and clutched at the wound, gurgling. A moment later he dropped to the ground.
Dead
, Hawk tallied, and used Claw to block the woman's next attack.

Not good, Hawk realized. Someone wanted him dead. This would be a fight to the death, whether he wanted it or not, and if he didn't get the upper hand quickly, he might as well surrender and let them execute him.

He flung Claw at the next attacker in the woman's group. It took the man in the stomach. Not where Hawk had been aiming, but it would do. The man dropped to his knees, screaming. Hawk darted away from the woman, who was coming after him again. He kicked the injured man over and stomped hard on the man's knee. He dragged the bloody dagger out of the man's gut, gratified when the man's scream rose in pitch, and spun to face the woman again. She was the greater danger, he judged, than the last of the bandits who had followed her into battle.

"Lail! Be careful!" the one-eyed man shouted. "He didn't say the bastard was an assassin!"

Hawk bared his teeth at them. "I'm not an assassin. I'm a war hero." Gods, he sounded so puffed up and ridiculous. No wonder the woman laughed.

"War Hero or mine slave, I don't care. We were paid to kill him, and we will," she retorted. "Benn! Get in here!"

Damn. Hawk had hoped the man would hang back to cut off his retreat. That was over. Hawk lunged at the last of the woman's support attackers. The man backpedaled and tripped over his own feet. He didn't go down, but it gave Hawk time to close. He punched Claw through the man's chest. The man dropped, dead and silent.

The woman swore. Hawk pivoted on his bad leg to face her. The leg didn't give, but a spike of pain shot up his thigh. It made him gasp and struggle for balance. In that instant, the woman darted in, her short sword slashing through Hawk's sleeve and into his bicep.

Hawk fell back a step. No one was blocking his retreat in that direction, but if he abandoned his horses and water skins out here, he was a dead man anyway. He raised both blades and dropped into a light crouch, transferring his weight to the balls of his feet. He'd slain two of their folk and seriously injured a third. It wouldn't be enough to make them back down, but at least it had evened the odds a bit. The one-eyed man was circling around him, his three swordsmen spreading out in a spaced line.

"We don't have to do this," Hawk said. "I don't know you. I won't seek retribution if you turn around and leave now."

The woman—Lail, the man had called her—laughed. "Retribution? That's a good one, since it's the crown that ordered you dead. Who would take revenge on the crown?"

The crown? Hawk checked his stance and footing. Why would Razem have ordered him killed by bandits? It would have been much easier to simply have him executed. They wouldn't have traded the Deranged Duke for him if they'd wanted him dead. Not Razem, then, and not Marsede.

"You've been deceived," he said. He shifted around, watching the one-eyed man as he circled.

"Maybe, but we've been paid, too," said Lail. "And we're no thieves. We took payment. Now you're going to die."

"I've already killed three of you!" Hawk snapped.

"Two at best, and you're wounded," Lail countered. "Even so, I'd make it quick if you surrender now."

"To the hells with you," Hawk said, and lunged at her.

The one-eyed man attacked at the same time, but he was slow. It was clear the woman was the leader of this group. Take her out and the others might crumble. Hawk swung at her. She managed to block, but she fell back a step. He swung again and she stood firm, but a third swing forced her back another step.

Hawk met the one-eyed man's swing with Claw and pushed him back. His bad leg twinged as he did. It might not hold much longer. He'd better make this quick.

He swung at Lail again, and her block was just a shade too slow. Talon ripped through her throat. She stared at him, reeling backwards. She managed one more swing that opened a cut on his wrist. Then she fell hard into the sand.

"Laaaaaailll!" the one-eyed man screamed. He charged at Hawk.

***

Azmei eased her gelding to a stop. "What was that?" She'd thought she heard shouting a minute ago, but now she was certain. Someone had just screamed in agony. A man.

Yarro jerked upright. "Aevver, help!"

She urged the gelding around. "Is it your leg?" He'd done all right yesterday, but she could tell it was hurting him by the time they made camp. She'd drugged him to the gills last night, and this morning she'd laced a bit of easeall into his tea. She knew he couldn't be comfortable, though.

"Yarro?"

Firefoot was still walking, Yarro sitting atop him like a lump. Azmei guided Sandy back to the bigger horse, wondering if she would have to catch Yarro. "Yarro, are you all right?" she asked. "Is it your leg?"

"Help him—help the other person," he gasped. He bent down over the pommel.

"The other—that man who shouted? Like hells! I'm trying to keep you safe, not pick fights that aren't mine!"

He lifted his head slowly. It was a gesture very unlike Yarro, and sent chills down Azmei's legs. His eyes were blank, staring past her. His mouth was slack.

He'd said these were visions, but to Azmei they looked more like fits.

She cleared her throat. He wouldn't answer her, not if he was like this. She tried to bring Sandy alongside Firefoot, but the bay stallion sidled away. Yarro turned his face towards her.

"This
is
our fight." His voice was hollow, distant. She didn't like it. "Help him, Aevver."

Azmei stared at him. He couldn't mean it. The clash of blade against blade met their ears. That was a fight, no mistaking, and if Azmei got herself involved, there would be questions asked that she couldn't afford to answer.

But he'd said they were visions. He said they told him things. What if they were telling him this?

Azmei swore and pulled Sandy around towards the shouting.

Just then another voice screamed. "Laaaaaailll!" There was grief in that voice as well as rage. It didn't bode well for whoever Lail was—or whoever had hurt Lail. Azmei swore again and closed her legs around Sandy's sides. He leapt into a gallop.

They probably wouldn't hear her coming. Their fight would be making too much noise. But there was no sense charging straight into it without reconnoitering first. Azmei drew Sandy to a halt below a rise. The sounds of the battle were just over the rise. She slipped her hand into a pouch hanging from the pommel. Two throwing stars in hand, she lifted one leg over the pommel and slid to the ground. She landed lightly enough that the thud of her feet wouldn't carry. This close, she could hear some of what was being said.

"—killed her! I'll rip you limb from limb!" That was a tear-filled, crazed voice.

"I offered to parlay.
Twice
I offered to parlay. It's not my fault she refused." The second voice was winded, but calm. Steady. Azmei smiled, not sure why she did.

She crept up the slope, keeping low to the ground. When she saw the combatants, she lifted her right hand, one star at the ready. A skinny man in desert robes stood over a woman's body. He was tall and his black hair was just barely streaked with white. He held two blades at the ready, one long and curved, the other barely longer than a dagger. He was obviously the calm one, despite the blood that soaked his right sleeve. He favored one leg.

The other man—wait, there were more. The leader, then, of the others was a one-eyed man, bearded, with a jagged scar extending beyond the leather patch over his missing eye. He was older than the first man, much grayer, and of a heavier build. His clothing was rougher, too. Azmei took a second glance at the first man and realized that the clothing she had taken for purely practical was still practical, but much more expensive and newer than the second man's.

The other three were clad in even more ragged clothes, wearing loose turbans and cowls to shade their eyes from the sun. One carried a longsword, the other two short swords. None of them looked like they were particularly overfed.