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Chapter Forty-Four



Whether they had similar misgivings, or simply wished not to aggravate their employer, all three of the boat’s crew slept aboard, as did their captain. Jaffet clearly had no desire to do so—the boat was cold, leaky, and routinely beset by the insects that gathered in the shallows—but whether out of loyalty or obligation, he too decided to bed down among the crates and barrels that would be off-loaded at Last Ford come the morrow. But before retiring, he shared the evening meal with the group, helped bank and keep the cook fire going, and helped smother it to embers when it was time to turn in.

As Jaffet walked back to the long plank that traversed the distance from the shore to the square-bowed boat, Druadaen stood and stretched. “Same watch rota?”

Ahearn nodded.

Padrajisse did as well. “I almost nodded off last night. I shall endeavor to do better.”

Which sounded like a fine idea to Druadaen. Of the three two-person watches, the first, or “dusk,” watch was arguably the weakest in that both of the sentinels—he and Padrajisse—were dim-eyed humans. Umkhira patrolled the perimeter during the “night” watch, and S’ythreni remained peering out over her crossbow during the “dawn” watch; the chance of being surprised was low indeed when they were awake. Most enemies waited until the deeper darkness of true night before attacking, so they hoped that the first watch had less need of better eyes—and, in S’ythreni’s case, better ears, too.

Druadaen still felt half-blind as he walked the perimeter in the near-dark, and his mood was not improved by discovering that he could still make out some embers through gaps in the stone windbreak with which they had also meant to screen the firelight. He whispered his discovery back to Padrajisse, who muttered inaudible deprecations as she quickly snuffed the last of them out.

Yet, despite Druadaen’s misgivings, that was the only significant event of the watch, and when it ended, he was ready and eager to crawl into his sleeping roll as soon as Elweyr had rubbed his eyes enough so that they stayed open. Umkhira merely smiled indulgently and rose into the darkness, as ready as if she had never slept. And maybe she hasn’t, Druadaen hypothesized as he became drowsy, hoping that if he did dream, he would not remember it.

* * *

In Druadaen’s dreams, Umkhira cried out, “Attackers!” But in that same instant, he realized: I’m not dreaming! He jerked upright against the resistance of his cuirboulli chest armor, just as Umkhira shouted the warning again.

Outrider training took over. Druadaen dropped back to the ground, spun out of his sleeping roll toward his weapon, adrenaline already surging. Every second counted. He scanned the camp…

And in the first second, saw Umkhira’s silhouette in the dim moonslight, bow in hand, drawing it to her ear as she sucked in another great breath…just as the arrow slipped from her suddenly trembling fingers. Her third shout was barely a strangled croak and as she began to stagger sideways, Druadaen saw a short arrow—the kind made for smaller bows—protruding from her side.

In the next second, he rose into a crouch. Ahearn was up, S’ythreni already over her crossbow, and Elweyr was rising. Padrajisse was doing much the same as Druadaen had: staying low as she reached for her weapon. But unlike him, no training had ever accustomed her to sleeping in armor.

Druadaen completed his sweep during the third second, detected movement around the boat behind them. One figure was already running unevenly up the bank: almost certainly the captain, judging from the gait and size. Druadaen saw as much as heard the activity on the boat itself, saw shadow figures that might be about to follow. Or flee.

Druadaen rolled up out of his crouch, longsword in hand. He couldn’t see the attackers, although as Umkhira toppled over, she was clawing her large hand toward the southeast.

A thin whisper cut through the air between Druadaen and Elweyr, who started as an arrow narrowly missed him…and hit the captain as he charged up behind. The boatman howled, the shaft sticking straight out from his midriff, and fell forward. A sharp snap and louder howl foretold a grim outcome: his fall had broken the shaft and likely driven the arrowhead deeper into his gut.

Druadaen rose into a low sprint toward the perimeter. Behind, S’ythreni uttered a curse and warning to Ahearn, who had also charged outward from the campfire, probably thinking the same thing as Druadaen: Are they Bent? Or do they have some other way to see us? Either way, the Outrider and the swordsman had the same job: intercept attackers before they could get to the mantics. Which would also take them away from any light or heat that might have silhouetted them for archers in the darkness.

Druadaen was about to shout at Padrajisse to confirm that she would soon invoke the miracle they’d arranged for such situations when a rough pop! sounded near Elweyr: an arrow was protruding from the flap of armor that covered the mantic’s thigh. He half fell to his other knee; the arrow had pinned the leather tasset to the flesh of his leg, and he was already rummaging frantically in his alchemist’s pouch.

Ahearn, a charcoal-on-blackness shadow, roared a wordless challenge at some adversary pounding closer on that flank. A moment later, steel clashed on steel. As it did, Druadaen heard the slap of a crossbow and a satisfied snarl from S’ythreni. As if responding to her, a body still out in the darkness fell with a distinctive shhrruunk: mail armor hitting the loam.

Probably not Bent, then. Few of them had human armor. Druadaen glanced toward Padrajisse to see if she had started her invocation—just as the circlet on his wrist uncoiled into the dragon-shaped velene and flew like a silver bolt of moonlight toward Umkhira. From the corner of his eye, he saw Elweyr gulping down the contents of a vial, hand quaking as he did.

“Padrajisse,” Druadaen shouted as he swung back to face out into the darkness, “when are you going to—?”

“You are blocking Thyeru’s miracle, Dunarran!”

By the hells, I’m what’s keeping her from invoking it! In the rush, he’d forgotten to make sure he was out of the path of her intended effect. He darted toward the left flank, shouted, “Moving!”

“I am not blind,” she answered, the instant before she raised an empty hand toward the sky.

Six dim silhouettes shone dimly in the darkness south of the camp. It was as if their bodies were covered with the algae that glow in the wake of passing ships.

They were in two groups of three. Of those closest to Ahearn, one was already on the ground, the illumination already fading, S’ythreni’s bolt protruding out of him like a dark stake. The other two were engaged with Ahearn, who was giving ground slowly. S’ythreni was racing toward them.

The other three enemies were in front of Druadaen about sixty yards away, two well out in front of the third. That one was an archer or perhaps a mantic. He swept a brief hand gesture through the air.

Behind, a loud gasp burst from Padrajisse, but cut off sharply, as if the air had been prevented from leaving her throat.

Definitely a mantic. Druadaen started toward the two who were out front. He drew his long-quilloned dagger in mid-stride and spared a glance toward Ahearn.

Druadaen had never before seen Ahearn facing a swordsman of his own caliber, and only S’ythreni’s entry into the melee kept him from being overwhelmed by the two attackers—until the smaller of the two swung wildly, stumbling.

As Druadaen closed through the final yards, the moonslight revealed details of the two men who were crouched in readiness. They wore loose-fitting clothes, light armor, large bucklers in their left hands, wickedly curved swords in their right. The weapons were the shape of sabers but as light-bladed as shamshirs. Oddly, their very tips did not glimmer like the rest of the blade. They were both dull, as if covered in dust—

—or a powdered toxin, Druadaen realized suddenly. Like the one carried by that hyek raider on Aswyth Plain. He felt other factors rush in to support the possible connection:

—The two protectors’ clothes and armor recalled the kind favored by Caottaluran haideqs, or bodyguards.

—As on Aswyth Plain, the coating on the sword-points was so fine and thick that no light reflected from the metal beneath.

—And while swords often get smeared with dust or mud, the two toward which he was charging weren’t dirty: they’d been carefully treated, the substance ending in a straight line about three inches below the tip.

All of which explained their almost lazy stances: They’re going to hang back and wait for an easy opening, because one flesh wound and I’m done.

But that told Druadaen how they intended to fight and the outcome they expected. Which made them predictable.

Druadaen charged harder. The mantic behind the two of them seemed annoyed, gestured.

Druadaen felt a tingling pulse in the air that was gone the same instant he detected it.

The loose-limbed posture of the mantic snapped into rigid alertness as he tried the same gesture and then took a step back.

As Druadaen closed through the final yards, swerved out to the flank, and bellowed, “Elweyr!”

Either the thaumantic had already been in the process of producing the thaumate, or had been jarred into action by Druadaen’s shout, but the effect was the same: the smaller of the two haideqs wobbled and staggered back unsteadily. The other glanced behind but did not discover his master calling forth further mancery of his own; rather, he was stepping backward, each pace faster than the last.

Druadaen ended his sprint with a leap, his parrying dagger out and ready, his longsword back, hilt level with his waist. The larger haideq turned back to meet him, raising his buckler and aiming a hasty cut at the Outrider’s head; he’d apparently forgotten that even the shallowest cut on an arm or leg would end the battle.

The fellow’s surprised haste was what Druadaen had been watching for. He caught the sword in his dagger’s quillons and rolled his wrist hard, snaring the blade. He pulled on it, the man resisted—and Druadaen let the blade go as sharply as he’d caught it.

The sudden release caught the other by surprise, the haideq staggering back before he could stop pulling—or recover enough to reset his buckler.

Druadaen’s thrust came from his hip as well as his shoulder. The longsword’s point punched through the haideq’s light leather armor, breaking ribs and transfixing the lung behind. Druadaen twisted his wrist as he pulled the blade free.

He spun away from the falling, mortally wounded man, discovered the smaller haideq just shaking off whatever thaumate Elweyr had used upon him. The turn had also given Druadaen a brief glimpse of Padrajisse, now free of the mantic’s power and sprinting—long-legged and gaunt—toward Umkhira.

The second haideq’s disciplined and economical movements confirmed Druadaen’s initial impression: this one was older and better trained. Also, he clearly remembered the dust on his sword; he gave ground generously, watching for Druadaen to become impatient, incautious. So Druadaen obliged.

After a few abortive passes that the haideq warded off with deft parries, Druadaen let slip a few curses, increasing the pace of his cuts until he finally brought his longsword all the way back over his shoulder for a savage strike…and as he did, his left guard dropped as if momentarily forgotten.

The haideq saw the opportunity: his adversary’s left leg was forward and his turning flank was exposed. The smaller man’s lunge was like a dance leap, the tip of his sword licking out toward lightly armored flesh—

Just as quickly, the parrying dagger in Druadaen’s left hand shot up again, but not back into a guard position. It angled into a swift intercept that caught and ran along the other man’s sword until it racked back against the dagger’s wide quillons. Another quick blade-wrapping twist trapped it there. The haideq tried pulling it back, but, realizing the danger from the longsword, abandoned his weapon, allowing it to fall as he brought his buckler up against Druadaen’s incoming blow and grabbed for the dagger on his belt.

Druadaen let his longsword come down in the expected overhand cut, but not quite as hard and swift as he could have; instead, he dropped his elbow as the blade’s arc reached its midpoint. That jinked it suddenly lower—and straight into the haideq’s left leg, just above the knee. The man crumpled, still grabbing after his probably poisoned dagger while screaming in rage and pain. Druadaen finished his opponent with a back cut that bashed aside the weakly held buckler, then scanned beyond the bodies of the two dead haideqs; the presumably Caottaluran mantic was a rapidly dwindling figure in the slightly increased moonlight.

Druadaen’s first impulse was to give chase. Not simply because he was faster than his fleeing enemy, but because the Caottaluran was almost certainly the one who had organized this ambush; he’d known who had instigated it and why. Druadaen started to step in that direction…but the clashing of swords had not abated back where Ahearn was fighting. He turned and ran toward the shadow figures still struggling there.

As he closed, he glimpsed Padrajisse kneeling over Umkhira, and beyond her, Jaffet charging up the bank toward the camp. But his attention was upon the ferocious melee between two very different but closely matched swordsmen.

Ahearn’s opponent was very broadly built, and Druadaen could see military training in the way he used his slightly curved broadsword: consistent, economical, patient. However, that training apparently made him more predictable than Ahearn, whose greater agility favored his polyglot style and habit of watching for split-second opportunities.

S’ythreni was maneuvering, trying to get behind the broadswordsman, dart in for quick strikes against a leg. But again, his training was up to that challenge; he gave ground, turning away from her. And as Druadaen charged closer, she lunged a bit too far and his broadsword flashed out at her.

She had to leap backwards so abruptly that she staggered and nearly fell…just as Jaffet ran past her, charging toward the melee with dagger drawn.

Druadaen sprinted even harder. That fool will get himself killed—

Or so he thought until Jaffet’s charge brought him directly behind Ahearn.

S’ythreni saw the move as she was regaining balance and took a desperate leap to intercept the boatman.

Her reaching shortsword clipped Jaffet in the back as he dove to backstab Ahearn. Instead of plunging into his target’s kidney, the boatman’s stiletto faltered downward and pierced the leather protecting the swordsman’s buttock. He emitted a bark of pain, and Druadaen realized that he would not get there in time to block the enemy warrior while Ahearn struggled to keep his footing and recover from the surprise.

But his square-shaped adversary was unable to take advantage of Ahearn’s sudden vulnerability. In trying to land his cut on S’ythreni, the enemy swordsman had also overextended, tracking so far after her that he was in danger of falling. He twisted sharply at the waist in order to both straighten up and bring his shield around to block the anticipated attack of his adversary’s hand-and-a-half sword.

Ahearn might have been able to dispatch him then, had the stab into his left buttock not made him stumble. Growling, he recovered an instant before his foe and pushed forward, attacking. He wasn’t fully ready, so the blows were wild, but the flurry was so fast that it drove his enemy back, the bastard sword seeking the man’s helmeted head.

But his mail-clad opponent gave ground, thereby buying time to regain a secure stance and get his shield back into position against the swift, high cuts. As the warrior ended his brief retreat, Druadaen could read the steadiness of his head as if it were straight out of his old training manuals: the broadswordsman was preparing to go back on the offense, was assessing the tempo of his opponent’s blows. And as Ahearn drew back for another swing, both arms raising his bastard sword over his right shoulder, his mail-armored opponent drew back his broadsword, hidden behind his shield…

But that carefully timed attempt to put a heavy thrust into Ahearn’s midriff had a cost: committing to a solidly planted stance that indicated his intentions…which was apparently what Druadaen’s comrade had been waiting for.

Ahearn’s last high cut was a subtle feint; it made lighter contact as it grazed across the top rim of his enemy’s shield. As it did, Ahearn slipped slightly further to that flank, his sword coming around more swiftly as a result of his checked swing. The attacker, shield up to protect his head and shoulders, did not see that change of position and attack in time; he thrust hard for Ahearn’s torso—which was no longer where he expected it to be. And as his sword came out beyond the protective plane of his shield, Ahearn brought his own blade down in a forceful chop from the side.

The man’s chainmail sleeve saved his hand from being cut clean off, but the wrist was half severed. Blood sprayed. The man staggered to the side, away from his enemy, then slowed, and finally fell to a knee. He never uttered a sound.

Druadaen skidded to a stop next to Ahearn, who waved off his concern as S’ythreni darted back to her crossbow. “I thought you might not get out of that fight alive,” Druadaen said, panting from the sprint.

Ahearn grinned through a wince. “Thought the same thing a few times. But here I am!”

The crossbow slapped. A quarrel whined away into the darkness. Druadaen shook his head, looked at S’ythreni—the instant before they all heard a distant yelp.

She stood, satisfied. “Live by the vial, die by the vial,” she pronounced.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he just got a dose of his own medicine. Well, toxin.” She returned Druadaen’s stare. “Well, you don’t think I discarded the remaining doses we found in that hyek’s scabbard, do you?”

Druadaen stared into the darkness and shook his head.

She seemed to read his mind. “We couldn’t give him enough time to use more mancery, even though it would have been helpful to…to ‘speak’ to him. He’s a Caottaluran mantic, I’ll wager, and they are masters of spying and evasion. Once he felt safe enough to stop running, he’d likely have brought an effect that would keep us from finding him or his trail. And then he’d not only make good his escape but live to make a report.”

Druadaen nodded. “I know. But it’s regrettable.”

“Agreed,” S’ythreni muttered, “but you and I have different regrets.” The icy edge in her tone left Druadaen with little uncertainty of why she would have liked to take the mantic alive.

Padrajisse’s voice reached toward them. “The nephew is wounded as well?”

“Not a nephew and no friend of ours,” Ahearn shouted.

“Indeed?” she replied, approaching. Beyond her, Umkhira was sitting up, head in her hands.

“Jaffet tried stabbing Ahearn in the back,” S’ythreni muttered, her eyes intent on the groaning boatman.

“Roll him over,” Padrajisse said. “I must inspect the wound.”

“You mean to aid him?” S’ythreni hissed.

“I do. Druadaen, will you help me move the patient?”

He did, glancing at the aeosti. “Very possibly he’ll be our only source of information. One of the haideqs might still be alive, but he’ll be dead before dawn.”

“This one interests me more, anyway,” Elweyr said, pushing into the group.

Druadaen moved aside for him. “Glad to see you’re alive.”

“I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for her,” he replied gruffly, nodding at Padrajisse.

“And your own mastery,” the sacrista added. “That antidote you took; I am unfamiliar with it.”

“Slows all bodily functions. Gave me more time. Which is to say, it gave you more time. Do you know what they put on the arrows?”

“Hyprine,” she answered confidently. “It has distinctive effects. They are counterintuitive.”

“In what way?” Druadaen asked as she expertly cleaned Jaffet’s wound.

Padrajisse’s voice revealed a new side of her: the detached didact. “Hyprine derived from our own liver works to thin our blood. It has few, but important, medical uses. More commonly, it is used by assassins, since it increases the rate of bleeding from any wound and leaves no unusual residues.

“But when the hyprine is derived from certain supragants”—she gestured at Elweyr’s bandaged leg—“the bleeding is not only much more rapid, but apparently startles the body. It releases a rush of the substance that causes blood to thicken and clot. Far too much of it. And not just at the site of the wound but throughout the body.”

“So,” Druadaen speculated, “seizures? Fits? Sudden death?”

Padrajisse nodded. “All of that and worse. Examination of those killed by hyprine shows immense clotting in the arteries, but more importantly, in the smaller vessels that govern our organs and release of special humours, such as adrenaline.”

She studied Jaffet’s wound more carefully. “It is a terrible death. Convulsions, derangement, agony. It can go on for hours or be as swift as those seizures which kill the elderly in an instant. It never follows exactly the same pattern, though, since the action of hyprine differs according to each person’s anatomy, as well as the particulars of how it is introduced into the body.”

Druadaen glanced from Elweyr to Umkhira. “Is she more susceptible or was there more on the arrow that hit her?”

Elweyr shook his head. “No, I just got lucky. The arrow went through my armor; that always scrapes some off. It also didn’t go in very deeply. But I’d still have been dead without Padrajisse.”

“It was not all me,” the sacrista objected as she considered the wound with a frown. “Much had to do with the time saved by the intercession of the velene.” Her eyes seemed to brighten. “You should have seen it,” she said to no one in particular. “When I reached the Lightstrider, the creature or artifact or—well, the velene was straddling the wound. The bleeding had almost stopped.”

“It healed her?” Ahearn’s tone was that of a wonder-struck youth.

“No. It slowed the movement of not only the blood, but all the fluids near the wound.”

Druadaen nodded. “Including the toxin.”

Padrajisse nodded. “It also seemed to make Thyeru’s curative miracles more effective. I have never seen such rapid reknitting of muscle and skin. So I was able to move to Elweyr that much sooner.” She smiled. “It was a blessing to see the power of the velene.”

“Speaking of which,” Druadaen said with a frown, “where is it?”

Padrajisse was studying Jaffet’s wound again. “It did not return to you? Then I do not know. It flew off once I was done with Umkhira.”

“You keep staring at his wound,” S’ythreni muttered. “Is it mortal?” Her tone added, please say “yes.”

But Padrajisse did not answer her directly. “It will not heal on its own. The cut is deep and has touched organs. But I am unsure if Thyeru will bestow healing upon this one, after his treachery. He is the god of law and oaths, so I am loath to ask, since I do not know the answer I might receive.”

“Then let this answer be enough,” Jaffet muttered as his hand moved quickly toward where Padrajisse’s leather tassets were gapped by her kneeling position. Something flashed into her thigh.

“What did you do?” S’ythreni screamed.

But Jaffet ignored her. Raising his head to stare into the sacrista’s shocked and terrified eyes, he chuckled and taunted, “Physician, heal thyself.”


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