“He’s probably got a crossbow,” Arcolin said. “And he’ll probably shoot at us. But if we make him run, he won’t be very accurate.”
“There,” Burek said, pointing to the right. Arcolin, too, saw grass move against the breeze.
“Good eye,” Arcolin said. He legged his horse into a gallop, trusting Burek to follow. The movement ahead quickened. Arcolin yelled; his horse flattened out, crashing through the tall grass and weeds for a point ahead of the movement. He could hear Burek behind him. The grass stilled—the man was getting ready to shoot. Arcolin shifted his weight; his horse threw a flying change, veering sideways, then another and then he saw the man, struggling to span his bow again. One jump, and Arcolin’s horse was there, skidding to a halt; Arcolin swung his sword, knocking the crossbow from the man’s hand. Burek pulled to a halt on the man’s other side, as the man snatched a short curved blade and swung at Arcolin’s horse.
Burek rode closer, tried to hit the man with the flat of his blade, but the man whirled, and Burek’s horse took a cut on the chest, and reared. One hoof caught the man’s arm; Arcolin swung his cloak over the man’s head as he staggered, blinding him, then leaned over and hit him as Burek had planned. The man dropped. Burek was off his horse and leapt onto the man’s back and pulled his arms back before he could struggle. Arcolin looked back. His tensquad was making its noisy way through the weeds now, halfway to them. He waved to the scout, calling her in, and saw her pass the signal to the hand of men headed for the ruin. Burek’s horse stood quietly, for a wonder, head drooping. Had the blade been poisoned?
He dismounted and walked over to the horse. A bad gash, gaping open, but not life threatening in itself. He took the reins. “Burek, that blade may be poisoned. When the tensquad gets here, try to keep our prisoner from cutting himself on it.”
“Is my horse all right?” Burek asked.
“I’m not sure. He’s quieter than I’d expect.” Arcolin looked the horse over. No other injuries. Sweaty, but they’d galloped and the day was increasingly hot and humid. The horse blew into his hand; Arcolin sniffed. “What’s he like? You’ve had him long enough now.”
“Solid, I’d say. Sound, well trained. Not as spirited as yours. By his teeth, two years older than the seller told me; I got a nata knocked off his price for that.”
“We’ll hope it’s just a quiet disposition,” Arcolin said. Blood dripped freely from the wound; horses always bled a lot, in his experience, and could lose much more blood than a man before falling over.
Devlin arrived with the tensquad; in moments they had the prisoner yanked upright, the cloak off his head, and trussed. Arcolin warned them about the blade, and they left it for him to examine. Burek came over to his horse. “It’s bad …”
“The surgeons can sew it up, if he’s as quiet as you say. You’ll have to ride your spare.” Arcolin gave the reins of both horses to Burek and went to look at the blade. Like the other, it had no guard but a simple flange; the grip was less ornate, made of wood carved into ribs. The blade was smeared with horse blood; Arcolin sniffed. Under the smell of blood was the odor of something else. He picked the blade up by its grip, and handed it to Devlin. “It’s got something on it, probably a contact poison. Wrap it up and bring it along.”
The prisoner meanwhile had said nothing, made no attempt to escape. Arcolin looked at him, and was reminded of the men in Alured the Black’s camp. Darkly sunmarked, as expressionless as a carving, no fear in his eyes, he might have been standing sentry somewhere instead of being bound in hostile hands. He had an old scar on his face, and doubtless more elsewhere on his body. Arcolin looked him up and down. No change in expression at all.
“Get him back to the road,” he said. “Send the surgeon.” Then he turned to Burek. “How’s he doing?”
“Bleeding’s slowed,” Burek said.
“We don’t want to be here too long,” Arcolin said. “I’ll leave the scout and five with you. I need to go see our prisoner.” He mounted. “Hand up your saddle; I’ll see someone saddles your spare and brings it out to you.” He went back to the road in an arc, checking the road ahead of the cohort for anything suspicious. The flanking scout on the far side waved a clear, and Arcolin rode back down toward the cohort. Stammel, as he expected, had set up a temporary perimeter, wagons in the middle.
“Prisoner’s tied to a wagon wheel,” he said. Arcolin handed down Burek’s saddle.
“He’ll need his other mount,” he said.
“Will the horse make it?” Stammel pointed to one of the men, who took the saddle and went to get Burek’s spare from those tied to the last wagon.
“If the poison wasn’t strong enough. If he can walk fast enough to keep up with us.” He hoped it would. They would not easily find a replacement in southern Cortes Vonja; it wasn’t good horse country. He dismounted and went to look at their prisoner. The man was staring straight ahead, ignoring everything or pretending to.
“I’m sure you recognize the uniform,” Arcolin said. “That scar on your face is at least three years old; you would have seen us before.”
No response, not the flicker of an eyelid.
“Some men prefer death to life, and that’s a choice any man can make,” Arcolin said. “You will shortly have that choice. You can tell me one of three things: who your leader is, where your leader is, or who hired your band. Or you can die. Think about it.”
“Ya’kint make muh,” the man said, without looking at Arcolin.
“I won’t try,” Arcolin said. “But I will see you dead before midday if you don’t.” He turned away.
“I’ll die,” the man said.
“Your choice,” Arcolin said over his shoulder.
“Better you than them,” the man said, more softly.
“Them?” Arcolin said, turning back.
The man spat toward the left. “You been here before—you figure it out. How you do it?”
“Kill you? Sword to the neck, how else?”
The man’s brow furrowed. “You do it quick? Even if I don’t tell?”
Arcolin’s memories of the last season in Aarenis rose to choke him. “Yes,” he said.
“You one of them Girdish?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then—go on. Do it now. I got nothing to think about and nothing to live for.”
Arcolin looked at him a long moment, but the man stared past him, unresponsive again. He drew his sword, aware of many watching eyes—the veterans of the last trip to the south in particular.
“This man has chosen to die,” he said, loud enough to be heard. “He wants a quick death, and I have promised it. Gird’s grace on him, Tir’s honor for his courage, and the High Lord forgive what he has done and tried to do.” He stepped to one side; the man continued to stare ahead. One swing of his sword and it was done; blood spurted and the man’s head fell forward. “I’m sorry,” Arcolin said softly to the man’s departing spirit.
“What should we do with him, sir?” Stammel asked.
“Bury him,” Arcolin said. “Let his fellows find that we gave him that much honor.”
“Very good, sir.”
The soil was deep and soft; it didn’t take long to dig a grave, and they rolled him into it and covered it over before the others returned. The injured horse plodded along, barely at a foot-pace. “It’s the numbweed,” the surgeon said. “It’ll wear off by sunset. Wasn’t as bad as it looked, barely into the meat. Should heal clean.”
“There was something on the blade,” Arcolin said.
“Worse for men,” the surgeon said. “Would’ve felled you, left you barely moving, easy prey. Horses are bigger; it would take more than you could get on one blade. He’ll be slow today, possibly stumble now and then, no more. Walking will do him good. I’ll look him over again when we stop at noon.”