NEAR SHADRUN-OF-THE-SNOWS
1585 DR-THE YEAR OF THE BLOODIED MANACLES
At the lip of the ridge two figures crouched. One was so close to the edge, she seemed almost suspended at the crux of falling, but she was rooted at the crest, still as the statue of an archer on the turrets of Belcaine Castle. Not a strand of her silver-marked hair, bound back in braids, stirred, and her face, which was marked with a wide pale band across her eyes like a mask, was impassive. Her hands were empty, and a greatsword was slung across her back.
At her shoulder a taller figure was poised, a golden image on one knee. His hair, steely in the late-afternoon sun that slanted through the pines clustered on the crest, hung free about his shoulders, and his face was also marked, with four thin stripes slanted and branched like a tiger’s over each cheek. He held a longbow gripped loosely in one hand.
Below them, in the fern-choked gully that bordered the road, there was a stir of hunched, muscular figures, and a clatter of weapons. Then all again was still.
Lakini felt Lusk tap her shoulder: once, twice, thrice, seven times. Seven brigands were hidden below. She nodded once. It matched her count. He withdrew his hand, and she heard a faint twang as he nocked an arrow to the string.
Down the road came the clatter of horses’ hooves and the sound of people calling to one another-a merchant caravan, about to venture into a trap. Lakini wondered at the rogues that lay in wait, about to ambush the caravan so close to the Sanctuary of Shadrun-of-the-Snows, but risky as it was, it might be a clever plan. In more hostile territory the guard would be on the alert, but here they were so close, they were probably relaxing and eager for a rest, a meal, and a soak in the mineral springs. And the thieves might not know two devas patrolled the slopes around the sanctuary.
The company came into view around a distant bend. Her sharp eyes saw that the four riders in front were clustered together, instead of spaced out so they could watch for attack from the side as well as in front. She wondered if the rear guard was slackly organized.
Internally, Lakini shook her head at their folly. If they had any experience at all, they should know to be vigilant always, even when they thought they’d reached the heart of safety. If they didn’t have experience, their employers were foolish to put their lives and goods in their hands.
Some would say they deserved their fate. Lakini wouldn’t. She reached back for her greatsword and drew it, slowly so the metal wouldn’t ring out against the scabbard. At the same time, Lusk nocked a second arrow to his string.
The jingle of reins could be heard clearly in the cool air, and there was the faint but unmistakable sound of a woman’s laughter. Five horsemen in blue-gray livery led the group, still ranged in their sloppy formation. A wagon drawn by a matched pair, heavy-boned draft horses by the look of them, brought up the rear, flanked by two more guards. Several riders, men and women both, clustered between the wagon and the foreguard, and one, a slight figure in a long, dull red dress, had dismounted and led her bay by the reins. Lakini watched while she bent and plucked some stalks of lupine by the side of the road.
Yes, she would make it a point to have a word with those guards-if they survived the experience. It was foolishness to allow a traveler under one’s protection to stray by the side of the road in unknown territory.
She flexed her hands around the worn leather of the grip, waiting. The birdsong stilled and each second stretched impossibly long. Each step the horses took seemed interminable, and she entered that state of perfect awareness of everything around her: the rough bark of the twig that pressed into the leather of her legging against her knee; the smell of the leaves the heavy feet of the brigands below had crushed; the body heat of her companion behind her. If she concentrated, she could hear the raspy breathing of one of the rogues. Either he was very nervous or had a head cold.
The feeling, the result of waiting, ready for battle, many times over many lifetimes, was familiar.
The guards in front were almost beneath them before they sprung the ambush. With fierce shouts, three of the brigands leaped into the road. The horse of one of the blue-clad guards squealed and reared, more from its rider’s panicked reaction than anything else. The centermost man, a burly, bearded fellow who looked older than the rest and might have been in charge, drew his sword and advanced on the attackers.
Three more rogues charged from the ditch, leaving one behind to cover them. Lakini leaped from her perch, lifting her sword overhead in a two-handed grip. She felt the wind of Lusk’s two arrows as they flew by her left shoulder, and an instant later she heard the hiss of their passage. They hit the back and shoulder of one of the attackers, who screamed and crumpled into the road. Lakini landed on both feet behind the centermost rogue. Just as she did, he lifted his arm, took aim, and a crossbow bolt pierced the chest of the burly guard.
Using the force of her landing, Lakini brought her blade down slantwise between the neck and shoulder of the man before her. The thick metal chopped into the soft flesh, almost severing the spine. Over his head her eyes met those of the mounted guard. The short, wicked shaft of the bolt quivered in the center of his chest; it had pierced the leather and mail he wore like a pin through paper. His face held nothing but astonishment. He stared at her, uncomprehending, and groped blindly for the shaft with one gloved hand.
He looked as if he was about to tell her something, and a scarlet trickle bubbled from the corner of his mouth. With no alteration of expression he slid off his jittery horse, lying unmoving in the dust of the road.
She tore her eyes away from his body as another brigand leaped at her, slicing at her with a curved, eastern-style blade. She couldn’t pull her greatsword from the body quickly enough; she maintained her grip with her left hand and drew her long-bladed dagger with the right, deflecting the light blade as it bore down on her. Letting her blade slide down his sword to the hilt, she flicked the tip of the dagger in a circular motion, slicing the man’s wrist. He jumped back with an oath, grasping the wound with his free hand. Blood spurted between his fingers. She hoped she’d cut through a sinew.
Putting her foot on the first man’s back, she pulled the sword free, using her left hand to slash at her opponent with the same movement. He stumbled backward.
“Meddling bitch,” he snarled. “I’ll have that mask off you, and teach you to use parlor tricks in a fair fight.” He had the protruding lower canines of a half-orc.
Lakini grinned and flipped her dagger, grasping it by the blade.
“Mind your manners,” she replied, and tossed the dagger with a strong arm and a sure aim. It pieced the half-orc’s throat with a satisfying thunk. He staggered backward, his crimson-streaked hands clutching at his neck.
Lakini glanced behind her and saw another of the brigands lying limp at the lip of the ditch, Lusk’s arrows bristling from his body. Lusk kneeled by his side, making sure he was dead.
Three of the brigands remained. Lakini saw that two of the mounted guards had recovered control of their horses and were attempting to box in one of the attackers, a female tall and bulky enough to be another half-orc. The fourth blue-clad guard, who had slid off his horse to check the body of the burly man, was now engaged in a desperate clashing of swords with another rogue. It was clear that the guard was formally trained and had the advantage of youth, and that the brigand was older and had the inferior weapon. But Lakini’s keen eye told her the brigand had years of fighting experience under his belt-street fighting and raids, fights where the goal was to overpower, to draw blood and kill, not to score points under an instructor’s eye in an exercise yard. If Lakini had the inclination to gamble, she’d bet the guard had never fought for his life before.