The Novels of the Jaran (59 page)

Petya reined his horse aside by Kirill. A few words sufficed.

“Turn around, everyone!” Kirill shouted. “Back to the shrine. Mikhailov’s jahar is ahead of us.”

They had all pulled up their horses. Yuri suddenly grabbed Tess’s reins and jerked Myshla’s head around, kicking his horse.

“Yuri, what—?”

“He means it. Ride!”

Myshla broke into a canter. Tess glanced back. What she saw almost stopped her heart. First two, then four, then ten riders cleared the far swell of grass, pausing to survey the group below.

As one, the eleven riders turned to follow Tess and Yuri. Tess kicked and Myshla galloped. Gods, there could be nothing worse than this. If they could gain the shrine—

Then Konstans appeared from the south. His pace as he cleared the rise in front of her and galloped down toward them was fueled by fear. “Kirill!” he cried. “Mikhailov is behind us. He’s blocked the trail down to the shrine—” Then he caught sight of the riders beyond. He jerked his horse to a mincing halt and stared, horrified.

“Cut loose the remounts,” shouted Kirill. They turned in their saddles, sabers out, and sliced through the leads that held their extra horses.

A second group of riders, too many to count in one glance, appeared from the direction of the shrine. Myshla fought against the tight rein. Beside her, Yuri cursed under his breath.

“Petya and Mikhal at point. Tess and Yuri right behind them, and the rest behind them, with me.” Kirill’s glance touched her for an instant, searing, before he looked past her to Mikhailov’s jahar. Up beyond their scarlet-shirted figures, a lone bird circled. Kirill studied the movements and positions of the jahar with astonishing swiftness. “We’ll break east. Wait.”

Two men conferred on the forward rise, gesturing, staring down at them. Above, three feather-light clouds, high and white with a hint of blue, edged the sky.

“They’ve got men east already,” said Mikhal. Tess was amazed at how calm his voice was.

“Damn them,” said Kirill. Briefly, a cloud covered the sun. “West. Now!”

They broke.

It was a mad race. Immediately riders from the south and north galloped to cut them off. Tess gauged her speed and theirs, and guessed where they would converge.

“We’ll make it,” she gasped.

And then, from behind, Kirill shouted: “Let Yuri and Tess through! Petya, home!” Petya and Mikhal split off, and Myshla stretched out into a full gallop, Yuri’s Khani easily keeping up. Tess threw a glance back over her shoulder. Gods, how could she not have known: Veselov’s riders had no better horses than Mikhailov’s men. Already two men were fighting, sabers flashing in the sun. All along, Kirill had meant to get her free if he could not save the others.

“Damn it, Tess!” Yuri shouted. “Ride! There’s ten men headed straight for us.”

Behind, the race had disintegrated into a ragged line of skirmishes, trailing after Tess and Yuri like so much flotsam. She was just leaving them behind.

“Tess!” Yuri cried.

She hunched down over Myshla’s back and rode after him.

Except that Mikhailov had long since encircled them. She had a moment to reflect on that before Yuri whipped Myshla’s rump with the end of his reins, causing her to shy left, while he veered right, straight into the oncoming clump of riders.

“Yuri!” she screamed. The others—oh, God, the others she could leave behind but not him. She jerked Myshla hard around and rode after him.

The ten riders scattered from his charge, but a few sliced at him as he plunged through. She saw him sway, and then she was on the first one.

He cut at her, and she parried. His eyes went wide with shock as he realized she was a woman, and she threw a wild sweeping backstroke that cut across his chest. Then he fell from his saddle, and she could see Yuri again. Yuri, parrying desperately against three men. Something struck her from behind, a stinging flash, but she kicked Myshla toward Yuri, drove up behind him, hard against one of the riders, jarring him off his stroke. She thrust her saber at him almost blindly. Another man closed beside her, shouting.

“Move off!” a man yelled.

Suddenly she and Yuri sat alone, side by side. His face was white. Silence had descended on the field. She had an instant’s comprehension of every position within her sight: that was Mikhailov, not five meters from her, Vasil and Leotich on either side of him. Other riders she did not know flanked them, poised to advance. Farther on, she saw Kirill and Konstans and a few of Veselov’s riders. Kirill was holding his saber in the wrong hand. His face was streaked with blood. Halfway between the two groups, a fair-haired man lay still upon the grass.

Yuri swayed in his saddle. His face looked as if all the blood had drained from it. “Damn you, Tess,” he whispered. “What good is it if you don’t get free?”

“By the gods,” said Dmitri Mikhailov, “it
is
the same woman.”

“Damned fools,” snarled Leotich. “Doroskayev said Bakhtiian had a woman with him, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“No matter,” said Mikhailov. “It’s the cousin I want now. Kill him, Vasil.”

“I won’t,” said Vasil. “He’s never done you any harm. Let him go.”

Far away a voice hailed them, shouting something about another jahar.

Yuri swayed again. His head lolled back, and blood trickled from his mouth. Slowly at first, then tumbling, he fell from his horse.

Wind stirred in her hair. From above, a bird called, a loud, raucous cry.

“Make sure he’s dead,” said Mikhailov, and began to turn his horse away.

Sheer, cold rage obliterated everything else. She drove Myshla forward. She would kill him—

Someone shouted a warning. He turned. She raised her saber and cut. Two things hit her at once. Myshla lurched and plunged beneath her, toppling. She fell hard on her side, breath expelled from her lungs, and scrambled to her feet.

Only she did not get there. A body slammed against her. Pain tore deep into her side. Far away, a man screamed her name.

“Khaja pig, I’ll kill you!” cried Vasil, and the weight was dragged off her. “She’s a woman, curse you to Hell.”

“Veselov! Let him go!”

The flurry of movement confused her. When it cleared, she saw only Vasil, standing over her. His hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight.

Her vision blurred in a haze of light and shadow, and then darkened.

She breathed. Grass tickled her nose, and she sneezed. Pain lanced through her. The day was silent. Everyone was gone. She stared up at the white trail of a cloud far away, and the bright, high, solitary sun. A bird called, once, twice.

She forced herself up onto her hands and knees. Noise pounded in her ears, shouting and horses all mixed until it made no sense. She crawled, dragged herself forward because she knew he was here, somewhere close by.

Then she was there, kneeling, staring down at him.

“Yuri.” Her voice sounded distant, detached. He lay utterly still. There was a transparent cast to his skin, to his pale lips, as if his purity were infusing his mortal form. The tears ran down her face, falling on his lips and on his cheek. His eyes fluttered and his lips moved, moved again.

“Tess.” It was the barest whisper. She bent down close to him. The scent of blood and grass drowned her. He lifted one hand and held it, wavering, searching for her. She caught it before it could fall back, pressed the dry skin to her lips, kissing it again and again as if her kiss could heal him.

Suddenly, his gaze focused on her. He blinked once, slowly. “Don’t cry,” he said, puzzled. “Live.”

“Yuri. Yuri.” Even her tears did not wake him. She put her cheek against his lips but nothing stirred. “Yuri!”

“Tess! Oh, gods, Tess.”

“Where is she?”

“There. There. Gods, look at the blood. Vladi, help her up.”

A hand closed on her shoulder.

“Leave me alone!” she cried, and she swung wildly to dislodge it. Lost everything in the pain that ripped through her side. She slumped forward over Yuri’s body.

“Leave her alone!” That voice she knew. She stirred weakly. “Make Kirill lie down. Gods, he’ll die where he’s standing. Petya says you were ambushed.”

A few gasping breaths, and then Kirill’s voice, weak and strained. “Mikhailov’s jahar. We rode straight into them.”

She felt a hand come to rest on her neck. By the way it felt, gentle and implacable at the same time, she knew it was
him.
“Come, my wife,” he said in a voice so strangely cool that she wondered why he spoke so oddly to her, “you must move now.” His hands shifted her, and she choked down a moan and was suddenly cradled in his arms, looking up at him.

“Ilya,” she said. And then she knew what was the only important thing in the world. “Mikhailov.”

“Tess, don’t speak.”

“No. Mikhailov. Wanted Yuri. Dead.” His face changed. Looking into his eyes, she felt fiercely that what they shared now would always bind them.

“I’ll kill him,” he said. “I’ll kill him myself.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and because she felt safe, held by him, she let pain wash her into oblivion.

“You love her,” said Kirill. His voice rasped with pain.

Bakhtiian simply sat, holding Tess against him as if he meant never to let her go. Blood leaked onto his fingers. He stared at her face, and if he had heard Kirill, he gave no sign.

“Vladimir,” said Niko. “We need tents for the wounded. We need fires and hot water. Send Anton Veselov here and send Sergei Veselov with riders to track Mikhailov.”

“But, Niko, shouldn’t we carry the wounded back to Veselov’s tribe?” Vladimir asked.

Niko glanced at Kirill, who stared white-faced at Ilya and Tess from where he lay on the ground, and then at Yuri’s slack body, and farther, at the other riders strewn like so much wreckage across the field. “For those who can, yes. But some of these won’t live so long. Now go.” Vladimir nodded and ran off.

Niko knelt beside Kirill. “Let me see, boy,” he said brusquely. “No, don’t argue with me. This is a bad cut here but mostly blood.” Kirill gasped and clutched at Niko’s arm. “Yes, that one’s to the bone but it’s clean. But what happened to this shoulder?” Tears came to Kirill’s eyes as Niko probed the wound, and his breathing grew so ragged that Niko pulled away.

“I can’t feel my right arm,” Kirill whispered hoarsely. “Nothing.”

“Gods,” Niko sighed under his breath. “Well, young fool,” he said roughly, “if you’re still alive so far, I think you’ll live to regret it. Just lie still. I’ll bind those two wounds and then I’ll leave you until I can look to the others.”

“Tess—” Kirill whispered.

“Don’t you mind Tess. Anton!”

Anton Veselov knelt beside Kirill. “Let me bind those,” he said. “I’ve cloth.”

Niko moved to crouch beside Yuri. He laid a hand on Yuri’s throat, searching for a pulse.

Anton worked on Kirill as he spoke. “Ivan Charnov is dead. Matvey Stassov and Mikhal Yakhov will be dead by morning. Three of Mikhailov’s men are dead. Five others of both jahars badly wounded. The rest—” He gestured with his head. “As you see them. They’ll live. Sergei has taken twelve riders after Mikhailov.”

“So few?” Both men started round. It was Bakhtiian who had asked the question.

“Sergei,” said Anton, “does not believe Mikhailov will attack him.”

“She got Mikhailov,” said Kirill in a low voice. “Tess, I mean. Damn.” He shut his eyes. “I don’t know how badly but, by the gods, she got him.” He said it fiercely, with glee. “Aren’t you done yet, Veselov?”

“Let me bind that shoulder up,” said the other man evenly. “Then I’ll let you rest.”

Niko sighed and moved away from Yuri. “Ilya, I must look at Tess. Put her down. Ilyakoria.”

Niko’s voice was sharp enough that it got Bakhtiian’s attention. He hesitated, and then, carefully, expressionlessly, he laid her down on the grass.

“I don’t want you watching me,” said Niko severely.

Ilya stood and walked over to Kirill. For an instant, he stood above him, staring down as Anton Veselov bound Kirill’s shoulder and arm into a sling.

Kirill opened his eyes and, with an effort, focused his gaze on Bakhtiian’s. He grinned weakly. “She may choose you in the end but, by the gods, she chose me first.”

“Yes, you won that fairly. But you were always too damned charming for your own good. I always envied you that, Kirill.”

Kirill’s eyes widened. “Did you! Gods. I never knew.”

“Anton,” said Niko impassively, “can you help me here?”

Anton glanced at Kirill, then at Bakhtiian, and retreated to assist Niko. Ilya so forcefully did not look after him that it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to know what they were doing. Instead, he knelt beside Kirill.

“So Mikhailov is injured?”

“Yes. I don’t know—let me—”

“Don’t get up. That you’ve gone this long with those wounds astonishes me. He left five men for dead, and if he’s wounded, he’ll be forced to run and wait for now. Gods, I’ve got to get those khepellis to the coast before the winds change. Damn them. I’ll deal with Mikhailov when we return.” He hesitated. Beyond, a man began to scream in pain, and then, mercifully, the cries ceased. “You did well, Kirill,” he said softly.

“By the gods,” said Kirill in a faint, mocking voice; it was all that was left him. “Are you praising me, Bakhtiian?”

“Here is some water,” said Ilya, giving him a few swallows from his pouch.

Suddenly, behind them, Tess moaned and shifted away from Niko’s grasp, struggling toward Yuri’s body.

“Don’t burn him,” she whispered. Niko captured her and shook his head roughly at Ilya to go back. “Don’t burn him. Don’t burn him.” As abruptly, she fainted again.

“Damn you, Niko,” said Ilya. “I’ll wait no longer. Will she live?”

“It’s a deep knife wound. We’ve staunched the bleeding as well as we can. She has other wounds but it’s this one—I can’t say, Ilya. It’s low in the abdomen. We can only wait. I’m sorry.”

Vladimir ran up. “Tents, blankets. Petya has gone back to the tribe to bring their healer. There’ll be enough fuel for a small fire soon but the great fire will have to wait until nightfall.”

“Vladi,” said Ilya, “bring me Kriye.”

Vladimir blinked and obeyed.