“Leave him to me, Harad!” called out the swordsman. The black-bearded peasant hesitated.
Corvin raised his saber in mock salute. “Ah, you intend to duel with me?” he asked the slim man.
“No, I shall merely kill you.”
Corvin smiled. There was that familiar arrogance again. He glanced at the curved sword the man carried. It was similar in shape to Decado’s treasured weapons. Indeed, the man also wore a scabbard across his shoulders. Corvin could see the ivory hilt of a second sword contained in it. I will be the envy of the regiment when I return with these, he thought.
Stepping forward, he slashed the air to left and right, loosening the muscles of his shoulder. His opponent stepped in. Corvin knew he should finish the duel swiftly and then kill the clumsy axman, but such moments were too sweet to rush. He looked into the sapphire eyes of his opponent and wondered how they would look when the light faded from them.
Their swords touched. Corvin stepped back.
“Show me what you have,” said the swordsman.
Corvin launched a careful attack, testing the skills of his opponent. The man had speed and good balance. He blocked and parried with ease, and offered no counterattack that would open him up to a riposte. Corvin increased the tempo, his blade slashing, plunging, and cutting with bewildering speed. Again all his attempts were blocked. Twice more he attacked, using techniques that had won for him in the past. The man merely parried them, or stepped smoothly aside.
Corvin leapt back and reached for his dagger. He stopped. If he drew it then his opponent would bring his second sword into play.
The man smiled. “Pull your blade,” he said. “I would like to see how well you use it.”
Corvin drew the dagger. Far from increasing his confidence, the new weapon seemed to leach it away. The swordsman was waiting calmly. “I do not need it!” said Corvin, hurling the dagger aside.
“You certainly need more than you have,” replied the swordsman.
Corvin swallowed hard. A sense of unreality gripped him. This could not be happening. He was Corvin, the great duelist. He attacked again, taking more and more risks, coming closer and closer to the death blow. One lunge missed the man’s throat by a hairbreadth. Just a few moments more and victory would be his. Their blades clashed. A sharp pain erupted in his groin. Corvin sprang back. And staggered.
He had not realized he was so weary. All strength seemed to be fading from him. His right leg felt warm and wet. He looked down. His dark leggings were stained. Corvin’s legs gave way and he fell to his knees. There was a deep cut in the cloth over his groin. Dropping his sword, he pulled open the cloth. Blood pumped over his fingers. The femoral artery had been severed.
Pushing his hand against the wound, he struggled vainly to stem the flow.
“Help me,” he begged his killer. “Please help me.”
The man gazed around the burning settlement. “Men like us are beyond help,” he said. “We are the Damned. I fear you will not enjoy your time in the Void.”
R unning was not an activity Stavut enjoyed, but then enjoyment was the farthest thought from his mind as he sprinted after the long-legged huntress. He had followed her down to the edge of the settlement and had seen the Jiamads, the fires, and the bodies. That had been enough for Stavut.
“Let’s get out of here!” he said, grabbing her arm.
Askari shook herself loose and stepped out into the open, nocking an arrow to her bow. Her face in the moonlight had looked hard as stone. Stavut watched in horror as the Jiamads saw her. He had followed the flight of her arrow, seeing it punch through a Jiamad skull.
Then she had turned and run back past him. For a moment only Stavut had remained where he was; then he, too, ran for his life. Stavut was slim and young, but years of riding wagons and avoiding physical labor had taken their toll on his stamina. Even so all it took to give him fresh strength was to glance back and see the bestial creatures following hard, their lupine jaws gaping, their golden eyes gleaming with feral hate.
Once into the woods he almost lost Askari as she leapt fallen trees and swerved through breaks in the undergrowth. Stavut did not dare look back now. He had no idea if the creatures were farther behind or so close as to almost touch him. His lungs were burning, his calves on fire. He could no longer feel the toes of his right foot.
Up ahead he saw a massive wall of rock. Askari reached it and immediately began to climb the sheer face. There was no way Stavut was going to follow her. Then a blood-chilling howl came from somewhere close behind—and Stavut found a way. He ran to the rock face and scrabbled for a hold, heaving himself up. He climbed on, not looking down, his heart hammering in his chest. Above him Askari levered herself onto a ledge.
“Move faster!” she said, swinging around to look down past him.
Before he could stop himself Stavut glanced down. A Jiamad was climbing just below him—so close that he could almost reach out a taloned hand and drag Stavut from the rock face. But it was not the Jiamad that caused Stavut’s hands to clench hard to the rock. It was the height he had reached, some ninety feet above the ground. He began to feel dizzy, and the cliff seemed to sway against him. Unreality gripped him and his mind began to swirl.
An arrow slashed past him, and he heard a grunt from below. Looking down again he saw a black-feathered shaft jutting from the Jiamad’s neck. A second shaft thudded into its head and it fell, its body spinning to crash into the rocks below.
“What are you doing, idiot?” Askari asked him.
Anger roared through him. The dizziness was swamped by it. Stavut surged upward, clawing at the handholds until he heaved himself onto the ledge alongside the huntress.
“What am I doing? It wasn’t me who shot one. It wasn’t me who caused these creatures to come after us. We could have just slipped away. But no, you had to be the warrior woman.”
Askari leaned out over the drop. There were no other Jiamads climbing. “We couldn’t have slipped away,” she said. “The wind was changing. They would have picked up our scent.”
“Well, they didn’t need our scent, did they? Not after you showed yourself.”
Askari sighed and sat back. “They have killed my friends and burned my home. You think I would let them walk away unscathed? I will hunt them and kill them all.”
Stavut suddenly grunted in pain as a cramp struck his right calf. He swore loudly and tried to massage the twisted muscle. “Lie back,” said Askari, laying aside her bow and kneeling beside him. Her fingers dug into his calf. It was agonizing for a moment, and then the cramp eased.
“You are not very fit,” she said. “Your muscles are soft.”
As she continued to rub his leg he realized, with a sudden rush of embarrassment, that at least one part of his anatomy was no longer soft. “That’s fine! That’s fine!” he said, easing himself back from her, hoping that the sudden erection would pass unnoticed.
She laughed. “The old hunter told me that danger and arousal always came together.”
“Nothing to do with danger,” he snapped. “I usually get excited when women rub my leg. Anyway, what are we going to do now that they’ve gone?”
“Oh, they haven’t gone,” she said, brightly. “I would imagine they are taking the long path up to the cliff top. Within the hour they will be both above and below us.”
“And there is a reason you are reacting to this so cheerfully?”
“I don’t want them gone,” she said. “If they go it will be harder to kill them.”
“Are you insane? These are Jiamads. They are bred to kill. There are twenty, maybe thirty of them.”
“There are fourteen still following us,” she said. “I have enough arrows left—and more close by. We will survive.”
“You are insane.”
“I have already killed two,” she pointed out.
“True. One was shot before he realized you were there. The second was hanging on a rock face. These creatures can tell where you are by scent alone. How will you hun
t them down? How will you get close enough to pick them off? One mistake and they will be upon you.”
“I do not make mistakes.”
“So now we move from insanity to arrogance. Everyone makes mistakes. It is part of life. I watched Alahir and his men go after a few Jiamads. The Legend people are great warriors and fearless. Three were killed. All it would take for you to die would be one misplaced arrow.”
“I do not miss.”
“There you go again. It took two shafts to kill the beast climbing below me. If he had been on level ground, and charging you, then that first miss would have seen it reach you and rip your arms off.”
“I missed because I was trying to shoot around you.” She sighed. “But there is truth in what you say. So tell me your plan?”
“My plan? What plan would that be?”
Askari took a deep breath and stared at him hard. “You don’t want me to fight them, so what do you think we should do? At the moment they are looking to surround us. I know a way through the rock face, but that will only bring us out onto open ground again. There they can come at us in a group. So what do you advise?”
Stavut sighed. “I’d go for prayer, but I don’t think the Source likes me. Perhaps we could sit here and hope they go away.”
She laughed then, the sound rich and infectious. “Oh Stavut, were there ever any warriors in your family?”
“I had an uncle who liked to get into arguments in taverns,” he said. “Does that count?”
Askari leaned out over the ledge and scanned the ground below. Then she looked up. Clouds were gathering, but at that moment the moon was bright in the sky. “When the clouds cover the moon,” she said, “I want you to follow me.”
“And where would we be going?”
“Into the cliff. There is an entrance farther along the ledge. It leads to a series of caves and tunnels. I camp here sometimes.”
“Will it be safe?” he asked.
“There are other entrances from above. However, the tunnels are narrow, and they can only come at us one at a time. I should be able to kill them as they seek us.”
“Good. More killing. More terror.”
She laughed again. “Do not be so downcast, Stavi. It is lucky you brought me this bow. It is shorter and easier to use than my longbow. Especially in the confines of the tunnels.”
“Are you not frightened at all?” he asked.
“What difference does it make? Would an increase in my fear bring us closer to safety? I am Askari. These creatures do not scare me. Nothing that lives or breathes can escape death, Stavi.”
“That is the second time you have called me Stavi. I prefer Stavut.”
“Why? Stavi is more . . . friendly.”
“My mother called me Stavi. I do not see you in a maternal role.”
“I see. What does your friend Alahir call you?”
“He has taken to calling me Tinker. I don’t like that either.”
“And I shall call you Stavi—because I like the sound of it. I think it fits you well.”
A sudden darkness fell upon the cliff face. Askari stood and, taking Stavut by the hand, moved along the ledge. It began to narrow. Within a short distance they were edging along a shelf of rock less than a foot wide. Stavut began to sweat. It dripped into his eyes. Askari squeezed his hand. “Not much farther,” she said. Stavut’s legs began to tremble, but he found the touch of her hand reassuring. They inched on. He saw Askari glance up at the clouds. The moon was almost clear. Then they came to a crack in the rock face no more than two feet wide. Askari edged into it. Stavut followed. Within it was pitch black.
“Keep hold of my hand,” she said. “We will need to move slowly.” He could not see her. He could not see anything. Yet such was the relief at being away from the high ledge that he was relaxed as they made their slow way through the darkness. She stopped often, and subtly altered the line of their advance. Stavut did not ask why. He just followed her into the cold, gloomy depths of the cliff. After a while they halted. “We will wait for moonlight,” she whispered.
“Moonlight?”
“Yes. We need to climb again. Be patient. It will come.”
Stavut did not know how long they were standing together, but at last a faint light began to glow above them. He saw there was a crack in the rocks, and moonlight was seeping through it. He could just make out Askari’s face. She was standing alongside another sheer rock wall. “Up there,” she whispered, “is another cave. I have tools there, and a few items we might find useful. It is an easy climb. You go first. I will follow and guide your feet as you climb.”
“Gods!” whispered Stavut. “Do we have to climb again?”
“If you want to live,” she said.
Stavut climbed. The rock face here was heavily pitted, and, as she had promised, the climb was not difficult. Toward the top, however, the holds were smaller. Askari braced herself beneath him, supporting his feet. Finally Stavut dragged himself onto yet another wide ledge. Askari came alongside him, then moved on, crawling along a narrow tunnel into a wider cave. Here there was another jagged opening in the wall, some twelve feet high—a natural window through which moonlight shone. Weary now, Stavut stumbled into the cave. There was wood here for a fire, and an old lantern stood on a shelf of rock. A quiver of arrows was lying nearby, and a long spear with a leaf-shaped iron head. There were also three blankets and some clay pots.
“Very homey,” said Stavut. Askari gestured for him to remain silent. Stepping in close she whispered in his ear.
“Sound travels far in these caves. Let us not speak.”
“How many ways in?” he replied, his lips close to her ear.
“Just the way we came. The Jiamads are too large to crawl through. You will be safe here. Get some rest. I shall scout.” She pointed up to a narrow shelf of rock just below and to the left of the window in the cave wall. “Take a blanket and climb up there. I doubt your scent will carry to them from there.”
This seemed sound advice to Stavut. Taking her bow, Askari returned to the entrance, dropped to her stomach, and eased her way into the low tunnel. Stavut wandered across the cave to where the blankets lay. Then he glanced at the spear. Hefting it, he practiced a few stabbing motions. It would probably be useless against a Jiamad, but he felt more comfortable with it in his hands. Taking blanket and spear, he returned to the far wall. At this point he realized he could not climb to his hiding place with the spear in his hands. He tied the blanket tightly around his waist. Then he slid the spear, haft-first, between his shoulder blades and under the blanket. The spear was six feet long, which meant that the iron point jutted above Stavut’s head. Satisfied the blanket would hold the spear in place, he began to climb.
Everything went well until he tried to lever himself over the lip of the shelf. The jutting spear point scraped against the rock. Stavut had to bend and twist in order to tumble onto the shelf. The area he found himself in was no bigger than a large bed. The roof was low, and there was certainly no space to use a spear. It took an age to squirm around and untie the blanket, pulling the spear loose. “Gods, you are an idiot!” he told himself.
S kilgannon moved past the dead officer and knelt beside the wounded villager. Harad came alongside. “This is Kinyon,” he said. A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a series of rolling thunderclaps. The skies opened and rain began to pour down on the burning village.
“Help me get him inside,” said Skilgannon. “Careful now—that wound might open further.”
With great care they lifted the burly villager, who groaned. His head sagged against Skilgannon’s shoulder, and he tried to speak. “Stay quiet, man. Conserve your strength.”
Carrying him into his house, they laid him on a table in the dining area. Skilgannon untied the leather apron the man wore, pulling it clear. He had been stabbed just below the heart, and he was bleeding profusely. Skilgannon took a lantern from the wall and bade Harad to hold it over the wound. There was a long tear to the skin, indi
cating the dagger blade had slid against a rib. There was no way of knowing how deep the wound was, but it had missed the heart; otherwise the villager would have died some time ago. There was no blood on his lips, and no major swelling around the wound itself. With luck the blade might also have missed the lungs, or only nicked them.
“See of you can find some wine and honey,” Skilgannon told Harad. The logger laid the lantern on the table, then moved off toward the kitchen. “Can you breathe deeply?” Skilgannon asked Kinyon. The man gave the merest nod. “I think you might be lucky, though it probably doesn’t feel that way just at this moment. Do you possess needle and thread?”
“Back room,” whispered Kinyon. Skilgannon moved away to the small bedroom at the rear of the house, searching through drawers and cupboards. Finally he found a length of white thread and several needles. He also uncovered a pair of scissors. Taking a sheet from the bed, he cut strips from it for bandages and returned to the dining room. Harad was beside Kinyon when he returned. Carefully Skilgannon stitched the long wound, then smeared honey over it. With Harad’s help he sat Kinyon upright and bandaged his chest. Lastly, he poured wine over the area of the wound, watching as it seeped through the bandage. Kinyon’s face was gray. Skilgannon fetched a goblet and filled it with water. “Drink,” he said. The villager sipped at it, then sank back.
Touching his fingers to the man’s throat, Skilgannon took his pulse. The heart was fluttering wildly, but this was as likely to be as a result of shock and terror as the wound itself. He and Harad helped Kinyon to his bed. Outside the rain was lashing down in a torrent, thunder constantly rolling across the sky.