‘It is wretched.’
‘So throw it away and request something more suitable.’
Shapes moved now in his vision; families dashing about in the dark. Shear moved suddenly and a body fell to the dirt, writhing and gurgling.
He wiped at his face. ‘My apologies. It is a fine blade.’
They hurried onward; he could see almost well enough now to make his own way. ‘You believe me, then?’ he asked as they threaded between wagons. ‘This isn’t the plague.’
‘If it was the plague, she’d be dead by now. As would you.’
‘Exactly. Then why all this?’
‘Fear is fear. It has no logic.’
He could make out the cart; men and women were gathered there, carrying torches. They’d pulled it clear and were throwing dry wood and brush up against its sides.
Despite the searing pain at his side, he clamped both hands on to the weapon, hissing, ‘Hood witness,’ and charged.
Together they cleared the area around the cart very quickly. Then by mutual nods they separated, he going to the left, she the right, and worked their way southward through the caravanserai slaying every outlaw they met.
After the fifteenth, he began to feel sorry for these common soldiers, renegade or not, and switched to incapacitating cuts across the face, weapon arm, side, or neck. Some of these would bleed out, he knew, but others would have the option of limping away.
He found Luel in the south-west corner, behind a semicircle of defending crossbowers, double-ranked. Some sort of word, or battle instinct, must have warned him of what was coming and he was retreating behind his surviving men and women. They were pacing backwards, kneeling, firing into the dark, switching ranks and reloading – all in sequence.
Crouched in the grasses, Dassem admired their precision and discipline.
Shear joined him and together they followed, hunched, parting the grass with their blades to study the formation for an opening.
‘Perhaps we shall have to let them go,’ Shear offered.
‘We have to end this or they will return.’ He peered back towards the camp, thinking. ‘A moment,’ he said, and jogged off.
In the camp he found what he sought: a family of Seti tribal descent, refugees of some feud or blood-crime. He approached the aged grandfather guarding their felt-covered cart and nodded a greeting. The man held a wicked recurve bow low before him, an arrow nocked. A tall spear, adorned with wolf-tails, leaned up against the cart next to him.
Dassem motioned to the weapon. ‘May I borrow your fine spear?’
The fellow reached over and held it out. ‘An honour, Sword of Death.’
Dassem shook his head. ‘No longer.’
‘I saw what I saw. And I heard the stories from Heng.’
Dassem merely held the weapon out, horizontal, and inclined his head in thanks. Then he jogged back westward to Shear’s position in the dark.
He approached, hunched low, spear level with the ground. The stamp of horses’ hooves reached him, together with mild nickering and the jangle of tack. Shear was behind low brush and she gestured ahead. She whispered, ‘They are collecting the horses.’
Dassem took a quick glance; the outlaws were gathering the beasts together, yet a solid picket of crossbowers still kept watch. Again Dassem regretted that such a competent commander should have left the Kanian fold.
He waited, crouched upon his haunches, weapon readied at his shoulder, for the moment he wanted, and eventually it came.
Luel appeared, swinging up on to his mount. He pointed about with his sword, giving orders. Dassem backed up three paces, then rose to his full height and extended his arm backwards. Shear opened her mouth to say something, but closed it without speaking, obviously not wishing to distract him.
He charged, thrusting his arm forward, hopping with the release. Shear rose to her feet, her masked face tracing the night sky as she followed the weapon’s high arcing flight. Shouts arose in the camp – they’d been seen.
Atop his mount, Luel turned their way, pointing his sword.
As if by magic the spear sprouted from his lower torso and he grunted with the impact. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He clutched at the thick haft then slid backwards off the horse.
Alarm erupted in the camp. The crossbow ranks scattered, running to any nearby mounts, throwing themselves into the saddles, and kicking them into a gallop. In an instant all had fled the clearing. Shear and Dassem waited until the dust settled, then advanced.
They found the outlaw commander lying on his back, still alive and conscious, a bloodied hand on the haft standing straight above him. The man’s dark eyes tracked Dassem as he closed to crouch next to him. Shear kept watch.
Luel licked his bloodied lips and whispered, ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Dassem Ultor.’
An explosion of laughter sprayed blood all over the man’s beard and chest. He bared his reddened teeth in a grin. ‘Should’ve guessed. I was at Heng. I heard Hood’s Sword was there.’
Dassem nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
The commander gave a weak shrug. ‘No matter. You now bring death to the south.’
‘That is not my intent.’
The man’s hand fell from the haft. ‘Yet … it follows … you…’
Dassem closed the man’s staring eyes, rose, and faced Shear. Blood spattered her trousers, shirt and mask from the battle.
‘I am thinking you are no longer welcome among the caravan,’ she said.
‘And neither are you, no doubt. I am sorry.’
She waved that aside. ‘No matter. I was planning to return to my people anyway.’
He nodded. ‘I will collect our horses and go.’
‘I will keep them all from bothering you in the meantime.’
‘My thanks.’ He reached out. ‘Shear…’
She remained erect, hands at her sides. ‘Yes?’
He let go a long breath, let the hand fall. ‘Fare you well.’
She inclined her masked head slightly. ‘You too, Sword of Hood.’ She turned and jogged off.
He allowed her time to speak to Horst, then went to find his horses.
* * *
It was far from winter proper, yet a chill wind from the south sent shivers up Cartheron’s back where he sat on a heap of rope inspecting the tackle of the running rigging taken from the mizzen mast. Most was far older and more worn than he would’ve liked; however, given the shortage of equipment, they had to make do.
They hadn’t the time to haul the Twisted up so Choss was in charge of repairs and caulking below decks while he handled everything aloft. It was painful to him to have to pass sub-par blocks and frayed line, yet on Mock’s orders no vendor on the island would sell them one nail or a single yard of canvas, even under the table. Still, they had managed to appropriate a few supplies.
It was dark, but they were working in shifts through the night by torch and lantern light, and had even taken to sleeping in the hammocks in the crew’s quarters before the mast. They had to make do with what they could scrounge, or steal, and that was Grinner’s area. Already he’d come through with some new line, lumber of questionable provenance, and fresh pitch.
Though they had been working like this for days, Cartheron still found it difficult to sleep given the occasional sightings of the ship’s unofficial mascot, the strange nacht creature. That thing made him uneasy still, while Shift flatly refused to bed down on the vessel at all.
Surly, for her part, remained ensconced in Smiley’s with her bodyguard, rarely showing herself. Running everything, collecting money, and no doubt impatiently awaiting the day of their departure.
He sat back and set his hands on his thighs, stretching his back and neck; but that was unfair. Her security was paramount to him as well, even though Geffen’s organization, now under a lieutenant of his, was lying low, focused on regaining its strength. And as for Mock with his council of captains, the man had had no reported sober day in weeks. And the local merchants, wisely perhaps, took their lead from the council.