I have saved myself; what do I care about that shield? Forget about it; I'll get another one that is just as good.
—Archilochus
I'm going, too. The moment that the words were out of his mouth, Jason Cullinane had known that it was a terrible mistake.
But it had also been expected of him, required of him. Everything was expected of his son. By him, as well as everyone else.
Including Aeia and Valeran. Well, perhaps Aeia would have smiled tolerantly at him, even if he hadn't volunteered, but the old soldier, who didn't seem to approve of much that Jason Cullinane did or was, had responded to Jason's hasty words with a brief nod of approval, the highest praise that the old captain had ever deigned to confer on Jason.
It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. So what if other sixteen-year-olds were expected to use a sword, bow, or gun, to put themselves in the way of flying crossbow bolts and sharp steel edges—why did Jason have to be like everyone else? The others were all so stupid—didn't they know that swords could cut, that bolts could pierce too-weak flesh?
Didn't they know?
* * *
"Easy, boy," Valeran murmured as they crouched in the brush off the trail, waiting in the downpour for the slaver advance to ride by. "This is what Karl would call a 'piece of cake,' " he said, the English words awkward in his mouth.
Valeran's left hand patted the crossbow that the old captain rested easily on his knee. "Just a bit of simple, basic butchery. It will be bloody, but easy—we've practiced and discussed it enough, eh?"
"Yes, Valeran," Jason whispered back, grateful that he had to whisper, knowing that if he tried to use his voice, it would break.
It should have been easy.
Their horses were hidden farther down the trail, all well hitched; it was six from Home against the two advance riders, with a simple plan, one that should have been foolproof. If the main part of the attack had already started—if they heard gunshots from down the trail—they were free to take their pistols from their oilskin wrappings and use them. Otherwise they were restricted to crossbows and swords—and the throttle loop that Jason's old friend Mikyn, crouching in a crooked limb of an old oak, had waiting as a surprise for the slavers.
It should have been easy.
Down the trail, hooves beat against mud in a loud, rapid tattoo.
"Get ready," Valeran said.
The two horsemen rode down the path, the second trailing a full twenty yards behind the first, clearly to minimize being splattered by flying mud.
Gently, like a strand of spider's web floating to earth, Mikyn's noose dropped from the cover of the rain—
—and settled around the suddenly outflung arm of the trailing horseman.
The slaver's reflexes were superb: With a shrill cry, he fastened a gloved fist around the cord and pulled, hard. Mikyn, unprepared, fell from the tree, landing hard on his side in the mud.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
It should have been easy.
The other slaver, hearing the cry, wheeled his horse around, fingers clawing for a weapon.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
Valeran rose to his full height, bringing his crossbow up.
"Shoot the one in front!" he called out, taking aim at the slaver who had pulled Mikyn down, and who now, his sword held out and down, was bearing down on the stunned boy. But doing that necessarily forced the old soldier to ignore the other slaver.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
The slaver drew and threw a knife.
Time lost its forward motion, and froze into an awful moment:
—Valeran, his strong fingers curled around the crossbow trigger, leading the slaver carefully, knowing that this was his only chance at the grizzled man bearing down on Mikyn—
—a flickering of steel as a throwing knife tumbled end over end through the air—
—Jason, his arm reaching out as of its own volition, trying to shout a warning to his teacher and mentor, to the man who had been more of a father than he could ever be—
He had to warn Valeran. He had to. But time was frozen for him, too; he was part of the scene, frozen into the same icy slice of time, not merely an observer.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
And then it all resolved:
—The horseman bearing down on Mikyn looked puzzled as his sword tumbled from nerveless fingers, clumsy hands reaching up to feel at the crossbow bolt buried feather-deep in his chest.
—Two other bolts sprouted from the other slaver; yet another grew from the neck of his now-rearing horse.
—And Valeran slumped back to the ground, a wood-handled throwing knife buried hilt-deep in the bloody mess that had been his right eye.
This wasn't what was supposed to happen.
It should have been easy.
Jason ran. And kept on running.