“Just be ready. I need your blood.”
Athryn felled the second soldier and Khirro attacked the undead warrior who had slid from his horse’s saddle to engage him. He rained blows down on the enemy soldier, forcing him back a step to allow Athryn to retreat from the fight. The other two continued watching but neither moved to help.
The undead Kanosee recovered quickly and counter-attacked, thrusting at Khirro’s belly, following up with an upward swipe. Khirro fell back, parried, danced away. This dead man was better with a sword than the others. They circled each other and, over the man’s shoulder, Khirro saw Athryn had removed his tunic and was searching his tattoos for the words he needed.
Hurry, Athryn.
Steel rang against steel, the power of the dead man’s blows vibrating up Khirro’s arms. Dimly, he thought he heard the sound of Athryn chanting between the clang of weapons, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t hopeful imagination tricking him. The fight settled into a back and forth rhythm until Khirro’s arms began to tire. The same couldn’t be said of his adversary. Khirro wanted to ask Athryn for help or beg him to hurry, but he worried that, if he did, it would interrupt the magician in the midst of his spell and doom them.
I can do this. The enemy doesn’t even draw breath.
A growl rumbled in Khirro’s throat. He pressed forward, turned his thoughts away from the magician and toward the boy hidden in the covered wagon and what the poor child must have been through. The thought steeled him, forced the fatigue out of his arms.
The undead soldier parried and blocked; Khirro’s blade caught flesh and separated an ear that looked more like a rotted leaf than an instrument for hearing. The contact threw the soldier off balance and Khirro followed the ear severing with a slash across the thing’s throat. It staggered him but didn’t stop it. A second slash and its head toppled. The body lurched on unsteady legs, sword swinging wildly in the thing’s blind hands, before slumping to the ground.
Khirro watched it fall and a short-lived wave of relief washed through him. He looked up from the rotted, lifeless body to see the other three Kanosee soldiers standing before him, two of them with weapons drawn, the third holding a boy in front of him, arm around his neck. The boy’s expression looked equal parts fear and disgust.
“Infidels,” the one holding the boy grated, his voice like a stiff wind rattling dried reeds. “I’ll kill the boy before you take him.”
No one moved for several seconds. Khirro heard the mutter of Athryn’s chant but it would be ineffective without blood to power it. He peeked over his shoulder, not wanting to take his gaze off his adversaries for more than a fraction of a second, and saw Athryn kneeling a few yards behind him. His mask lay on the ground with his tunic. When he looked back, the two Kanosee with their weapons drawn had taken a step forward.
“Athryn?”
The magician continued chanting. The undead holding the boy smiled, his wizened lips opening to show rotten teeth.
“Get him.”
The two men advanced. Khirro raised his sword defensively, the muscles in his arms screaming as fatigue rushed back into them.
“Now, Khirro,” Athryn called.
Khirro clenched his teeth and swiped his arm across the sword’s edge. The steel bit deep and he sucked a hissing breath between his teeth as blood trickled down his forearm, dripped on the ground. The two threatening men sank to the ground like half-full sacks of potatoes, armor and weapons clattering on loose stones. Khirro looked up at the last man, the boy held in front of him, its grip tight around his throat. Despite the holes in his gray-fleshed cheeks, the thin lips and non-existent eyelids, the soldier’s face registered surprise. It quickly changed to an emotion more akin to rage.
“The boy dies.”
Khirro saw the rotting muscle in the thing’s arm flex in preparation to slit the boy’s throat. Panic blossomed in Khirro’s gut. Elyea had told him to rescue the boy; what would happen if he failed? Without time for thought, he heaved the sword he’d taken from the fallen Kanosee at the undead warrior. It spun end-over-end through the air and Khirro watched in disbelief.
Why did I do that?
For Khirro, the world narrowed to the sword, its path, the soldier it was directed at and the boy in his grasp. End-over-end, end-over-end, point, hilt, point. The expression of fear on the boy’s face increased to horror and he squeezed his eyes closed, bracing for the impact. The soldier’s ruined face looked surprised again.
Until the point of the sword entered his right eye and exited through the back of its head.
The undead creature dropped its knife and released its grip on the boy, the force of the impact sending it reeling back, until its feet caught and it tumbled to the ground. The boy cracked one eyelid and started crying.
Khirro rushed past the boy, pulled the sword from the undead Kanosee’s eye, and used it to separate its head from its shoulders. A moment later, Athryn was at his side, hand on his shoulder. A sheen of sweat glistened on the magician’s forehead and bare chest in the wan moonlight.
“Nice aim,” he said and went to Graymon.
Athryn knelt in front of the boy and looked him in the eye. Graymon looked back for a second before collapsing into his arms.
“Don’t worry,” Khirro overheard Athryn whisper. “We are taking you home.”
Chapter Ten
“Quiet.”
Lehgan had stopped a minute before, his head canted as he listened to the sounds around them, though Emeline didn’t know why; she didn’t hear anything. A nightbird sang from the forest beside the road, trees creaked and brush rustled, and Iana cooed against her breast as if answering the night. Nothing unusual.
“Keep the child quiet, woman.”
Emeline shifted to pull the neck of her dress down, exposing her breast. Iana’s eyes widened at the sight of the freed nipple before she put her tiny mouth around it and closed her eyes. The calmness of feeding the baby flowed through Emeline’s arms and legs, making her forget where they were and all that had happened, until she heard the sounds that had made Lehgan stop.
Horses.
Somewhere around the bend in the road ahead, a horse whinnied and huffed, then she heard the voices. Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered the village they’d passed with its funeral pyre and smashed huts.
Lehgan gestured with his head for her to follow and turned his horse back the way they’d come. Emeline sat for a second, staring down the road.
“I knew we should have turned around and gone home when we saw that village. Come on.”
Her husband’s harsh whisper prompted her into action. She removed the nipple from the baby’s mouth, covered herself, and urged her horse to follow.
Iana began to cry.
Emeline looked down at her daughter’s face strained with anger at having her food taken away. A sob broke through, then a second, louder.
“Quiet,” Lehgan said and grabbed her horse’s bridle.
“Shh.” Emeline put the tip of her finger to Iana’s lips to calm her, but the baby jerked her head away and sobbed again.
“Keep the child quiet, woman.”
Lehgan put his heels to his horse and it sprang forward, dragging Emeline’s mount along and threatening to unsaddle her. She righted herself and hugged Iana tight to her chest. The baby shrieked.
“Who goes there?”
Emeline's right foot slipped out of the stirrup as she looked back over her shoulder at the words made foreign by the soldier’s Kanosee accent. She saw six or seven mounted men behind them before the horse’s movement made her slide in the saddle. Her foot dug for the stirrup but found only empty air. Instinctively, she let go of the reins and hugged Iana tight as panic surged through her at the feel of her dress slipping on the saddle leather. She lashed out a hand, grabbing for the horse’s mane, but missed.