The Dark Defiles (71 page)

Sees that Risgillen, the top half anyway, is still somehow alive, writhing and thrashing on what’s left of its belly, trying to rise on downward pressing arms alone. The lower trunk and limbs lie twitching to one side, already shriveling back toward more human form and dimension, but even the massive damage he’s done doesn’t seem to be enough. Somehow she turns herself over, and the eyes burn up at him.

He steps in. Reverses the Ravensfriend in his right hand.

I’m sorry about your brother,
he finds himself unaccountably saying.
Sorry I couldn’t be Cormorion for him, or for you.

You just chose the wrong hero, is all.

He plunges the Kiriath blade down. Two handed, his full weight behind the blow. Down through rib cage and heart, into the Earth beneath. Risgillen hisses once, softly, through her fangs, and the demonic glare in her eyes goes finally out.

With it goes the last trace of Seethlaw he’ll ever see.

hey came with the dawn.

Two dozen riders, silhouetted against the pale rise of light in the eastern sky, and spread out on approach. They were spike helmeted and looked to be wearing some form of lightweight chest armor. Clearly visible against that sky, even at distance—the way the bowmen among them reached up and back for arrows from the quiver as they spotted the camp.

“See anyone you know?”

Marnak, lying alongside her in the grass, squinted and nodded. “Ershal’s in the van. The one with the horsehair plume on his helmet.”

So far so good. “And the shaman?”

The Ironbrow screwed up his eyes again. Shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. The old fuck rides no better than a Yhelteth harem girl, I’d know him in the saddle a mile off. He must be hanging back till Ershal sends word.”

“Yeah, sounds like a fucking holy man.”

Short tempered growl in her voice. They’d been waiting all night, spelling each other for what sleep they could snatch on the cold, unyielding ground without bedroll or fire. Marnak seemed to manage fine, but the vigil had left Archeth stiff and irritable. She hoped this was going to go according to plan, because she was in no mood for anything more complicated.

Cries from among the riders, calls back and forth.

Marnak grunted. “They’ve seen the bodies.”

So far so good.

It had gone against the grain for the Skaranak to leave their dead lying out for whatever scavenging animals might show up, but Marnak had talked them around. The imperials were more sanguine—they’d come up on stories of the war, and they understood recovery of the slain for the occasional luxury it was. Archeth, seeing to the distribution of the corpses where they would do the most good, felt a stab of betrayal for Selak Chan. She’d sworn to take him home, and she would see it done. But by morning, his eyes would likely be gone.

Sure enough, she saw a sparse rising scatter of wings—kites and ravens flapping skyward, cawing and screeching protest as the riders drew close and spooked them from their breakfast. One of Ershal’s vanguard slid lithely down out of his saddle and stomped over to examine the nearest of the corpses the birds had been feeding on. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if he was prodding the body with his boot. He turned and called back to his mounted colleagues. Some rough laughter. The Skaranak in the horsehair plumed helmet barked across it.

“Telling them to check the wagon,” Marnak muttered.

“Eager little fucker, isn’t he?”

“Can’t afford to show fear of the comet. The shaman’s grip is already strong, Ershal won’t want it any stronger.”

Archeth eased Bandgleam from its sheath, held the knife loosely in her hand. Her mail clinked a little on her forearm with the motion. She froze again, watched the lead Skaranak mount back up and nudge his horse forward. Ershal came after, bow and nocked arrow held casually across his lap. Now she saw the family resemblance, the hint of the Dragonbane in the lines of jaw and brow. She looked past him and tracked the remainder of the riders, saw them funnel slowly inward toward the wagon and its load. The procession went warily still, but she heard them talking to each other now, heard more of the laughter, and the bows were all lowered … 

“Don’t seem too upset about their clansmen dying,” she whispered.

Marnak curled his lip. “These are Ershal’s personal guard, or the shaman’s men. Kinsmen and trusted retainers. No love lost between them and us. Now?”

“Now.”

Already moving as she spoke. Hard shove with both feet and the heels of her palms, up out of the prone position in the cover the wagon gave. She came around the side of the driver’s board, a scant dozen yards in front of the lead rider. Saw him gape in disbelief, try in vain to bring his bow to bear—

She whooped and put Bandgleam in his eye.

He went backward out of the saddle without a word. Archeth was already moving, grabbing the riderless mount for cover, tugging its head around. She heard yells go up across the early morning air. An arrow sliced past her head. She moved with the skittering horse, snuggled in against it. Snatched Wraithslayer free in her left hand.

“Volley!”
she bawled in Tethanne.

From behind the wagon and its load, from out of the grass on the fringes of the camp where they’d lain as false corpses among the slain—imperial archers and their counterparts among Marnak’s men sprang or rolled upright and loosed their shafts. Three every count of five, from a dozen different bows, into the horseshoe-shaped killing ground, indiscriminate of target, horse or man. The air filled up with the hush-thump sound it made, and then the screams. Horses reared and threw their unwary riders, or brought them down tangled in the stirrups as they stumbled and fell. Some of the cannier warriors in Ershal’s party leapt to the ground before they could suffer the same fate, but the archers found most of them as well. Archeth saw ten men dropped in half as many seconds.

She ducked out from behind her commandeered horse, looking for Ershal.

Found him—
shit!
—right on her. Helmet aslant on his face from where he’d come off his horse, but he had his short sword out and raised. He shrilled something at her in Majak, aimed a wild hack at her head. No time to draw a second blade and he had her wrong-handed with Wraithslayer. She flinched aside, slashed blindly at him as he passed. Felt her blade connect but couldn’t tell if it went through the boiled leather cuirass or not. Egar’s little brother grabbed her by the hair from behind, yanked her off her feet, laid her out in the grass. She rolled frantically away, but he was gone. No follow up, no boots or killing blow with the sword. She came up in a crouch, looked for him again. Saw him grab the reins on the horse she’d had hold of, swing up into the saddle and kick the beast into flight. She drew back with Wraithslayer, left-handed, awkward with lack of custom, lost line of sight as Ershal put the wagon between them.

Drum of hooves through the earth as the horse hit the gallop.

She ran round the side of the wagon, but Ershal was already gone, right through the jaws of the ambush and out the other side. Terror in mount and rider united in a flat-out stampede towards the horizon. She squared up for the throw, Wraithslayer jumping smoothly across the air from left hand to right, hefted the knife—already knew she was too late.

She screamed frustration at the sky. Swung about, slammed into Marnak. They both nearly went down with the impact. He gripped her by the shoulders for a moment. Looked in her eyes and let go again, as if she was red hot to the touch. He raised a hand.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. He’s still in bowshot, we can—”

“Forget it,” she snarled. “Just mop up here. I’m going after him.”

Then she turned and stalked out into the killing field, in search of a horse they hadn’t managed to murder yet.

S
ETTING THE AMBUSH HAD ROBBED THEM OF MOUNTED CAPACITY—THEY’D
had to drive off their own remaining horses, all bar one they’d sacrificed to create a halfway convincing array of corpses; no chance the steppe ghouls would have taken an entire encampment without bringing down at least a couple of mounts before the rest stampeded clear, they had to have that horse body in among the dead men, real and faked. No one liked the idea, anymore than leaving their dead comrades out for the crows, but finally, stone-faced, the Upland Free scout chose one of the imperial horses, led it away from the others, talking gently to it the whole time, nuzzling at the side of its face until it calmed, and then he opened the artery in its neck with his knife. They all stood and watched, under a glowering sky, as the doomed animal bucked and snorted, broke loose, and made a dozen stumbling steps before it buckled to the steppe and bled out.

Beside Archeth, one of the Skaranak spat and cursed.

She’d felt pretty unclean about it herself.

And now—arrow fire had most of Ershal’s horses crippled or dying amid the general slaughter, as the imperials stormed in with drawn blades to finish the rout. She saw dazed and wounded men hacked down whether they offered resistance or not, prone bodies stabbed through or maced repeatedly just to be sure, a couple of knots of actual fighting where defiant Skaranak had gathered back to back in pairs or small groups to die hard, and—

There!

A rider on the fringes, both legs spiked through with at least one arrow, clinging to his mount’s neck, wavering on his feet and desperately trying to haul himself back up into the saddle. The horse pivoted like a weathervane in high winds, was clearly terrified, but looked to be unharmed. Archeth sprinted flat out, got there just as the injured man managed finally to get his body up and across the horse’s back. She grabbed him by the shoulder, hauled him back off. He yelled—some flailing attempt at a blow, fended it impatiently off, cut his fucking throat, and dump him aside. She swung up into the saddle, grabbed the reins, and wheeled the horse about.

Found Ershal immediately, a dot on the brightening horizon to the southeast. Fucking idiot was arcing back around, by the look of it, maybe trying to head home. She squinted for a bearing, a line to intercept him on. With luck she could get up on his flank before he even realized she was there. She nudged with her heels, and the horse needed no second urging. Out through the chaotic, last-stand savagery of the skirmish—she kicked a desperate Majak in the face as he tried to grab and drag her down, felt the crunch of boot heel into nose, shook him loose—heading for the open steppe. Her mount went to a full gallop in seconds. Bandgleam—calling to her as she passed, out of the blood-glutted eye socket of the first man she’d killed. She slammed Wraithslayer away in the upside-down sheath, flung her right hand out and back. In her mind’s eye, she saw the slim knife twist stickily free, skip up and across the air in a long, flat arc. Opened palm, and the butt dropped into it as if from a great height. She curled her grip, put Bandgleam away in its sheath as well. Plenty of time for steel once she caught up.

Out across the steppe, leaving the fight behind.
Don’t look now, Ershal—here comes your big brother’s last will and testament.
She laid herself down against the horse’s neck, urged it to greater speed. The rhythm of the chase asserted itself. Thudding of the horse’s hooves, the drumbeat of it up into her belly and chest, wind through the shaggy mane and over her face like a cooling hand. A weird, undramatic calm settled in. As if the steppe rolled out forever, and she had nothing left to do in her life but ride its limitless expanse. She thought, for one wild moment, that you could die out here and maybe not actually mind … 

Over her head, the first high-angling rays of sunrise hit the scimitar sweep of the band and edged it in blood.

The vast sky brightened, the gap between riders closed up. Ershal and his mount resolved out of gloom and distance, from dot to tiny figure, then to a man and horse large enough in her view that she could squint through the tears the wind stung from her eyes and make out detail—harness and armor, staff lance slung, the clanmaster’s long hair loose in the wind. She saw the moment he realized she was there, the way he startled and raised in the saddle, stared out toward her. She made a soft noise deep in her throat, gritted teeth on a grin. Swept in on Ershal’s left flank, no drop in her mount’s pace. The clanmaster yelped audibly across the wind, spurred his horse to fresh effort and put on a little spurt of speed. She let him try to outrun her, content to shadow at the distance she had. Let him wind his mount trying to get away, if he was that stupid. She was in no hurry. Majak horses ran shorter and stockier than their more southerly cousins, but they were tougher, too, and their stamina was legendary. She could ride like this for miles.

The sun welled up molten on the horizon ahead. A scant wavering mound at first, but then the light came spilling out over the steppe. It drove out the predawn gray wherever it touched. Gilded the nodding grass, painted every blade in the same faint tones of blood it had left on the band above. Washed her face with warmth, dazzled her eyes, broke up her vision in dancing blotches of orange and dark—

Out of the dazzle, Ershal came riding right at her.

Upright in the saddle, bawling something in Majak, war-cry, challenge, maybe there were words, maybe not. Staff lance unslung now, brandished in the air like a spear. She had splinters of a second to feel admiration for his horsemanship—no mean feat to get his mount around so fast and come right back at her like that, in behind the blinding advantage of the morning sun’s rays before she even noticed … 

Then he hurled the lance.

She tried to jerk her horse aside, get somehow out of the way. With Idrashan, she might have managed, but the Majak mount wasn’t having any of it. A flat-out gallop she wanted, a flat-out gallop she could have. She careered in at Ershal without let, and the staff lance hit her squarely in the side.

She grunted and clutched convulsively at her horse’s neck. Vision, already dazzled to pieces, went suddenly black and sparkle-veined. She heard the clanmaster whoop in triumph, somewhere back in the wind of their mutual passing. She fought not to throw up from the force of the blow he’d dealt, clung sickly on as the horse’s gallop slowed. Tried to
think.