The mare screamed wildly and died in an instant, tumbling to the ground and leaving Tristan exposed. He caught a glimmer of reflected moonlight streaking toward him. He twisted to avoid the impact, but he was too late. The arrow buried itself in his left shoulder. Had he been a fraction slower, it would have taken him in his heart.
Holding his bleeding shoulder, he leapt toward the nearest tree of the picket line. Landing hard on his knees, he turned and sat up against the tree trunk.
His chest heaving, Tristan looked down at his wound. The arrow was lodged just below the collarbone; he was bleeding profusely, his glowing azure blood bright in the darkness. He needed Wigg, but there was no way he could cross the open meadow and get back to camp without being killed. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tried to control the pain as best he could.
He broke the arrow shaft in two close to his body. The pain nearly made him faint. Gathering his strength, he pulled out one of his throwing knives and peered around the trunk of the tree.
There was still nothing to see. He retreated behind the tree again, and did his best to stand.
If he tried to run he would be killed, he knew, his azure blood making him an easy target for his assailant. And if he stayed where he was he would soon bleed to death. He cursed his foolishness for having come here alone.
"They told me that you were good," a female voice shouted out unexpectedly. "But I have yet to see any evidence of that."
Satine, he suddenly realized. It had to be.
Peering around the trunk of the tree, Tristan saw a woman standing about ten paces away in the moonlight. She held a bow in one hand, an arrow notched upon its string. She was dressed in black leather. Daggers were strapped to either thigh, and the hilt of a sword was visible just above her right shoulder.
"Come to me," she said. "Your only other choice is to bleed to death. I promise that your death will be quick."
Knowing that he had no choice but to face her, Tristan emerged unsteadily from behind the tree.
He threw the dirk at her with everything he had. But given his blood loss, he couldn't put enough strength behind it. As he watched it go, he collapsed to his knees.
Satine saw the silvery blade flashing toward her in the moonlight and pivoted, her dark cloak swirling about her. The dirk twirled by, missing her cleanly. She dropped her bow, drew her sword, and approached the prince.
"If you still desire an easy death, do not try that again," she said.
As he sat on his heels, his azure blood running down his arm and chest, she walked around him the same way that a cat might toy with a wounded mouse. She took in his strange-looking blood, and the ingenious method by which he carried his throwing knives. She came full circle, to face him once more.
Fighting through the pain, Tristan reached back with his good arm and drew his sword. He had never known it to feel so heavy. Satine simply watched him without protest. As the dreggan cleared its scabbard he could barely point it at her. He swayed woozily. Finally the point of his sword fell to the grass.
He would be unconscious soon, he realized. Then Satine would either leave him here to bleed to death or finish him with her sword. Either way, he would never see Celeste again. Worse yet, the Orb of the Vigors would never be healed, and Wulfgar would win. He stared at her with hatred.
"I thought you preferred blow darts to swords," he said thickly.
Satine smiled. "My identity is no longer a secret," she said. "So, you see, apparent suicide is no longer required. Given your present circumstances, my sword will do the job as well as anything else."
"Why did you kill the gnome and the dwarf?" Tristan asked. Another surge of pain coursed through him and he shuddered. "I know why Wulfgar wants me dead, but why murder Geldon and Lionel? Surely they meant nothing to him."
Satine took another step closer. "To see you all suffer," she answered. "That is how your dear brother wants things done, you see. And I always follow my orders to the letter." She smiled again. "After you are sent to the Afterlife, you will be joined by your sister and the two wizards of the Redoubt. It may take a bit longer, now that they know who I am. But I'm a patient woman."
"I understand Wulfgar's motives," Tristan gasped. "But why are you doing this? Why do you serve…such a monster?"
"For the money," she answered. "I need it, you see, to complete a lifelong mission of my own. We all have our own hopes, our own needs."
"Don't you care about anything other than yourself?" he asked. "You work for Wulfgar. You must have met him. Couldn't you sense the rage and hatred within him? Is that who you want to rule Eutracia?"
Trying his best to remain conscious, Tristan looked up into her eyes.
"Don't you care about your loved ones?" he pressed. "Do you really want to see them and your entire nation suffer forever beneath the yoke of his oppression? His will be a darkness that will know no equal. Your actions here this night will forever be a part of that."
Something in her face changed. For a moment Tristan thought she looked conflicted. Then her face darkened again and she stepped closer.
"Enough of this," she said. "It is time. Drop your sword."
Tristan shook his head. "At least let me die with my dreggan in my hand."
Satine thought for a moment. "I will grant that request because I understand it so well. If our positions were reversed, I would ask it of you. Besides, I doubt that you can even lift it anymore."
She placed one hand atop Tristan's head and pushed it down to expose his neck.
"No!" he growled. "If I must die, I want to see it coming!"
"Very well," she answered. She kept her hand in place to steady his head.
Satine lifted her sword. The edge of her blade glinted in the moonlight.
At the apex of her swing, her eyes caught his. All of the contradictory thoughts that had been collecting within her suddenly collided. For a split second, the Gray Fox hesitated.
Sensing his chance, Tristan reached up with his left arm and grabbed the wrist of the hand that supported his head. He pulled her down to him and raised the dreggan with his other arm. As she understood what was happening, Satine brought down her sword, but the die had already been cast.
Tristan rolled to one side and narrowly avoided the edge of her blade. Using the momentum of her swing against her, he pulled her down toward him and shoved the point of the dreggan into her chest. With his final bit of strength, he pushed the hidden button on the sword's hilt.
The dreggan's blade shot forward, impaling her and exiting through her back. A look of surprise crossed her face. She collapsed, her body sliding down the blade of Tristan's sword as she fell on him.
For the briefest of moments, Tristan thought he heard the flurry of Minion wings.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER LXXIII
Jessamay writhed in pain
Faegan strengthened the spell that would help her cope with her suffering. She's being so brave, he thought. Then again, she always was.
Faegan finally stopped applying the craft and he sat back in his chair. He caused yet another drop of blood to rise from the open wound in Jessamay's arm and he guided it to land upon a parchment on a nearby table. It twisted itself into the sorceress' blood signature, then slowly dried up, and died.
Smiling, he looked back at Jessamay. He used a damp cloth to gently wipe the perspiration from her forehead.
"Are you all right?" he asked. She gave him a brave smile, but he could see that she was near the end of her strength for the day.