“…take the northwest road in the morning…halfway to Middlevale…”
Saryn eased the gelding partly behind the trunk of one of the giant pines and positioned him so that she could ride directly into the camp when the time came. Then she waited.
Zanlya raised her arm.
Saryn raised hers, then dropped it.
Shafts hissed from out of the woods.
For several moments, nothing happened, even after shafts cut into and through several of the armsmen.
“The bitch-demons!”
“To arms! Every man to arms!”
“Mount up!”
Saryn lifted the trumpet and bugled out an off-key call. The only thing useful about it was that the sound was loud, loud enough to carry to the trail to the west of the encampment.
An armsman jumped from the fire and turned, then grabbed his blade and charged toward the trees and the bow-guards. A shaft took him right in the chest.
The bow-guards kept loosing shaft after shaft, enough that the Gallosians sprinted toward the southwestern edge of the encampment, where the horses were picketed on a tie-line. The clustering of men provided an even better target for the archers.
The rumbling of hoofs signaled the arrival of the rest of second squad.
“Cease fire!” snapped Saryn. “Stow bows. Blades out. With me.”
She urged the chestnut forward, one of her three short swords in her right hand.
One Gallosian had managed to mount and had his big blade out as he charged her.
Saryn flung her blade, sense-guiding it into his chest, then pulled her second blade into play, running down a lagging Gallosian and slicing down across the side of his neck.
For the next few moments, all she could do was hack and parry, before she wheeled clear of the handful of armsmen remaining on their feet.
From the corner of her eye, Saryn caught sight of a Gallosian riding along the south side of the clearing, spurring his mount in the direction of the northwestern trail. “Murkassa! Spare one for questioning!” Then she turned the gelding and gave him his head. She didn’t want anyone to escape. If Arthanos’s men vanished, he wouldn’t be able to say much in public, especially if Ryba sent him and the other local rulers a message noting that brigands who had murdered innocent travelers had been hunted down and killed.
After a few moments, the fleeing armsman glanced back over his shoulder. Saryn could sense the man’s apprehension, even before he jabbed his heels into his mount’s flanks, trying to force more speed from the flagging mount. That did not help him, because Saryn’s gelding was closing the gap with every stride.
Suddenly, the armsman urged his mount into a gap between the trees on the north side of the trail, well below where the bow-guards had attacked the sentry. Saryn followed, not without some trepidation, ducking immediately so that a low-hanging branch didn’t remove her head-or her-from the saddle.
After less than fifty yards the Gallosian turned, short of a wall of evergreens, and pulled out a hand-and-a-half blade from his shoulder harness. He grinned.
Saryn didn’t even give him time to bring the heavy blade into position before throwing her second short sword, using her senses to smooth its flight while drawing the third blade from the saddle sheath before her. The last blade wasn’t necessary. The thrown blade sliced into the Gallosian’s chest so quickly and cleanly that he didn’t have time to look surprised before he slumped forward in the saddle. After a moment, the heavy iron weapon dropped from his lifeless fingers. A slight clank followed as the metal hit a patch of rocky ground.
It took Saryn far more time to recover the weapon and corner the skittish mount than it had to chase and kill the false bandit, but before all that long she was leading the captured mount with the body of the armsman across it back toward the valley at a fast trot. She hadn’t dared take any more time to strip him, not until she was back with second squad.
She needn’t have worried. By the time she reached the top of the knoll where the Gallosians had been, the only figures on horse back were the Westwind guards, although two were having wounds dressed, and a third-the young Gerlya-lay unmoving on the sparse grass beside the trail leading down to the road.
“The squad leader’s over there, ser,” called Chyanci, pointing in the direction of the eastern end of the clearing. “Abylea’s got the girl.”
“Thank you.” Saryn kept riding through the encampment, where gear and bodies lay strewn in every direction.
More than half had died from the shafts loosed by the bow-guards. Several had clearly been struck down before they had been able to raise a defense. A grim smile crossed Saryn’s lips. She had no doubts that her attack would have been called something uncharitable by the Gallosians, except that Westwind would write the history.
At the end of the clearing, Murkassa and three guards half circled a large pine, under which was a man. Saryn could see that the man-little more than a youth, really, with but the barest hint of a blondish beard-had neither a blade nor a scabbard at his waist, nor a harness for a broadsword. Despite a leg that was clearly broken, he had propped himself up with his back against a pine trunk, and he held a dagger in his left hand.
Saryn could sense the agony as he glanced from one guard to the next. “Hold off!”
“Ser?” questioned Murkassa.
“I’d like some answers, squad leader, and there’s no one else able to give them, from what I can see.”
Murkassa glanced around, then lowered the blade she could easily have thrown. “Vynna! Keep that bow ready. If he so much as twitches that knife, pin him to the tree…but in the shoulder so that he can still answer the commander’s questions.”
“Yes, ser.”
“Put down that sticker if you don’t want a shaft through you,” Murkassa ordered the young man.
Slowly, he slipped it into the belt sheath. The faintest wince crossed his face.
Saryn could sense some of the pain, and she was thankful, once again, that she did not possess the sensitivity that Istril and Siret did. She rode closer, but halted her mount a good five yards away. “What’s your name?”
“Dealdron, Commander.”
“Where in Gallos are you from, Dealdron?”
“Fenard. Outside the walls.”
“Why were you and the other armsmen pretending to be brigands?”
“That was what the undercaptain ordered, ser.”
“Who ordered him?”
“He didn’t say, ser. He wouldn’t have done it if the majer hadn’t told him…or someone higher up.”
“Who might that have been?”
“I don’t know, ser.”
“How many people have you killed, Dealdron?”
“Not a one, ser. I was here to take care of the mounts.”
While Saryn sensed the truth of his words, she had to press him. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“I didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t. I didn’t hurt anyone, either.”
“Why did you let them kill innocent travelers?”
“I didn’t know…that was what they were going to do.” He swayed slightly on his good leg.
“And I suppose you had nothing to do with the women?”
“No, ser.” The young man’s eyes glistened, but Saryn wasn’t sure how much was from the pain of memory or the pain of his broken leg. “I didn’t do anything except unharness the cart horse. I didn’t.”
Saryn could sense the truth of those words, as well as the faintness coming over the young man, but before she could say anything, he staggered, then pitched forward.
“Murkassa…we need to get his leg splinted. He’s coming back with us.”
“Yes, ser.” The squad leader’s voice was neutral.
Saryn could sense the displeasure beneath the calm words. She gestured for Murkassa to ride closer before asking, “No one else escaped, did they?”