“Nowless and the others are ready,” said Ducasien. He dismissed the messenger, who trotted back to the ranks and waited for further orders. “Let’s get this done.”
“No,” said Inyx.
“We can’t retreat. You said so yourself. We must go forward.”
“Something’s not right. How I wish Lan were here. He’d know.” Inyx agonized over her feelings. She had learned to trust them and they told her disaster awaited any frontal assault. But why?
“We go.” Ducasien’s face darkened. Inyx knew the mention of Lan Martak triggered the rage and pulled a curtain of emotion over his good sense.
“With caution,” she said.
“In battle? Don’t be absurd. We go, we fight, we win! To Marktown!” he cried, lifting his sword high in the air. Sunlight glinted off the blued steel blade and signaled the fighters on either side. With a ragged cheer, they began moving, slowly at first and then with increased momentum as they ran downhill.
Inyx sucked in a deep breath and followed. She would not be left behind. If this were a trap laid by the grey-clads, she wanted to be beside Ducasien when it closed around them. She had lost too many who were dear to her.
“See?” panted Ducasien as they reached the outskirts of the village. “All goes as we planned.”
Inyx agreed it was true. The garrison of soldiers had been caught unawares. The gates were still open and most of them lounged about outside their tiny fort. The front of the assault wave hit and engaged the soldiers, many of whom didn’t even have weapons. It was slaughter-and Inyx forgot her misgivings and joined in.
The main body of greys rushed from the garrison, armed and ready for combat. By this time she saw Nowless and his select few skulking at the edges. When the soldiers rushed forth, Nowless slipped into the garrison proper. When the pitiful few survivors returned-if any did-they would find themselves trapped with a fresh, savage fighting team.
Inyx met a doublehanded sword slash with a parry that made her sword ring like a bell. Her opponent was taller and much stronger. His biceps strained the seams of his grey uniform and his collar hung open because his thick neck had tensed and ripped off the fastener.
“Filth,” he grunted as he swung again. Inyx danced away, knowing she couldn’t continue matching this man’s strength. The blade cut air a fraction of an inch in front of her face. “You killed Droy. He was my best friend.”
A circular cut missed by a larger margin, but Inyx knew she could not hope to wear this one down. His great stamina would be enhanced by fighting rage and need to revenge his fallen comrade. Inyx almost felt sorry for him as she judged the range, waited for another berserk cut to miss and then launched a long, precise lunge. The tip of her blade spitted him in the side.
She danced back as the man stupidly looked at the blood gushing from between his ribs.
“Slut. You won’t kill me. You won’t!” With a bull-throated roar, he lowered his sword and charged. Inyx felt as if she’d dislocated her shoulder as she parried his blade and then lunged as hard as she could. Her blade slid past the man’s belly, opening it in a giant bloody gash. The grey took three more steps, straightened, and tried to hold his guts inside and failed. He toppled like a felled tree.
“Good work,” said Ducasien, sliding to a halt beside the woman. “I couldn’t get free.” Love shone in his eyes. “You are unique. Of all the women I have known, none matches you.”
Inyx caught her breath and stared at the grey on the ground. “We’d killed his best friend. All he fought for was revenge.”
“We wouldn’t have killed his friend if the grey-clads hadn’t tried to subjugate this entire world.”
“They’re only pawns. They fight because they can do nothing else. Claybore uses them and tosses them away when they outgrow their mission.”
“Stop them, stop Claybore.”
“I think Lan was right. Stop Claybore, stop them. Without the head to direct the arm, they wouldn’t fight. And he wouldn’t lose his best friend in a guerrilla raid.”
Ducasien didn’t share her concern. “They’re better off dead, then, than being puppets for Claybore.”
Inyx didn’t reply. A stirring deep within caused her to stare at the open gates of the garrison. Her plan had worked perfectly. When the soldiers had seen they couldn’t outfight the guerrillas, they had retreated to the supposed safety of their fort. Nowless and his men cut them down as they entered.
If she wanted to, Inyx could claim the garrison. But that wasn’t part of the plan. Patrols of considerable strength still roamed the countryside. This foray had been intended only to show a dagger aimed at the heart, not the actual thrust to the death.
“Nowless,” she called out, waving to get the man’s attention. “Did you find anything inside the garrison?”
“Only dead greys.” Nowless laughed and held aloft his bloody sword and dagger.
“There is more,” she said. “I feel it. Being with Lan has taught me to sense magic. Not understand it, but sense it.”
“Stop it!” demanded Ducasien. “Stop talking about Martak. He left you. He refused to rescue you when he had the chance. Stop talking about him.”
“We are in danger, Ducasien. Signal the retreat. Do it now!”
“You’re overwrought,” he said. “We want to burn down the garrison and show the people we have the strength to…” His words trailed off. In the distance a pillar of dust rose. Ducasien frowned and said, “There’s no wind today. What causes that?”
“Magic. Call the retreat.”
Even as Inyx spoke, the other fighters gathered around and stared at the dancing, billowing brown column. They spoke quietly among themselves, commenting on the oddity. It moved toward Marktown with a speed that belied any natural phenomenon.
“Back to the hills,” shouted Inyx. The fighters stood rooted to the spot, watching. A sense of dread built inside Inyx. Magics!
The dust cloud died down and a young man dismounted from a horse. But Inyx saw that the horse’s hooves did not touch ground. The steed floated the barest fraction of an inch above. The young man patted his animal on the neck and pulled his cloak around his shoulders as if he were unconcerned about the men who had just killed an entire garrison of soldiers.
He strutted over and eyed them with disdain. “A ragtag crew. Hardly a good opposition, though you did dispatch those poor fools.” He sneered at the bodies on the ground.
“Who are you?” asked Ducasien.
“Ah, this one can speak. You have a stronger will than the others. My spell was meant to freeze all muscles, including your throat. See?” The young man spun and lifted his right hand so that the palm faced the sky and a single finger pointed. Inyx watched in silence as one of her fighters choked to death. She saw the skin about his neck turn red and fingers marks appeared where no one touched him. He let out a final gasp and died, purple tongue lolling from his mouth. He did not sag to the ground, however. He remained standing.
“Amazing the control I had over that one,” said the mage.
“He refused to relax, even in death.” The young man clapped his hands and the dead guerrilla fell face forward to the ground.
Inyx judged the distance and wondered if she could strike before the mage realized she was not similarly paralyzed.
“My lord Patriccan had worried that such an attack might take place on this garrison. The garrison commander had grown lax. He has been punished.” The mage smiled. “As severely as some of his soldiers, I see.”
The mage walked back and forth through the frozen fighters until he came to Inyx.
“You’re a comely wench to be with such an outlaw band. Are you their whore? Do they all use you?”
Ducasien roared and stepped forward, blade rising sluggishly. The spell did not contain him fully, but he had drawn attention to himself. The mage frowned. His lips moved silently and Ducasien froze as solidly as any of the other men.