Shadow

He didn't answer; instead he started walking backwards towards the door. 'No you don't,' she yelled, and came at him again, this time feinting high and pulling the cut back in to bring it down at his knees. He parried instinctively, and whatever it was he did, it worked. 'Please,' he said. 'Stop it. I can get you out of here alive.'

'I wouldn't take my life from you,' she replied. 'It wouldn't be worth having. And for God's sake fight back.'

He realised. 'You can't read me,' he said. 'You don't know how to fight someone who only defends and won't attack. Those moves aren't in any of the forms you learned.'

She scowled. 'Congratulations,' she said. 'You've just attained the fifteenth grade, summed up in the maxim, The best fight is not to fight. I never got further than the twelfth grade myself, but I'm just a woman, I was lucky to get that far. The depressing thing is, you worked it out for yourself. You never went any higher than the tenth grade.'

She swung at him, a cut that started waist high but changed into an uppercut to the chin as she turned her wrists. He parried it without thinking and took a step closer to the door. 'I don't want to leave you,' he said, 'but I will. I don't want to die today.'

'Tough.' She attacked again, a rather clumsy lunge that told him she was losing her temper and her patience. 'So many others didn't have the choice, because of you. And now-'

He saw the moment and took it. As she drew back from the lunge he hopped sideways and slashed hard, turning the sabre at the last moment so that the back of the blade cracked her across the knuckles. She dropped the sword; he jumped forward and kicked it away. She spat at him, but he dodged easily.

'Last chance,' he said.

'Go to hell,' she replied, and before she could move he slammed the lower horn of the hilt across her jaw. In retrospect he realised he'd hit much too hard; he felt the jawbone break, the moment of yielding transmitted through the steel into his hand. Apart from that, it worked fine; she was out cold, and he caught her before she hit the ground.

Outside, he ran into Sitrych.

'Bloody hell,' Sitrych said, looking at the unconscious woman in his arms. 'Where'd you find one of them in a place like this?'

He smiled. 'Just a matter of knowing where to look, I guess,' he replied.

Sitrych pulled a face. 'Jammy bastard,' he said. 'All I've found is a few pairs of old boots and a set of fire irons. Though,' he added, peering past Poldarn's elbow at her bruised, swollen face, 'maybe I haven't done so badly after all.'

'I'm not swapping, if that's what you mean,' Poldarn said.

Sitrych shrugged. 'Worth a try,' he said. 'Anyway, you'd better stash her somewhere safe, we've got to burn this place down now. God knows how, it's all stone and slate and tiles.'

Poldarn looked up at the sky. He remembered a dream he'd had, involving a captured woman and a village that wouldn't burn. 'At least it isn't raining,' he said.

Chapter Twenty-Four

'We found this in the muster yard,' reported the duty officer, signalling to the guards with a nod of his head. 'Fell off his horse at us while we were on our way to the mess tent.'

The guards brought forward a mess of clothing, mud and blood and let it slide gently to the ground. The general looked up from his map and sighed. 'Can't you deal with it?' he said. 'I'm rather busy.'

The duty officer shook his head. 'I think you'd rather talk to this one yourself,' he said.

From experience, the general trusted the duty officer's judgement. 'If you say so,' he said. 'Well, come on, find him a chair or something. I can't very well interrogate a heap on the floor.'

They fetched a folding chair and loaded the prisoner into it. They were surprisingly gentle, for soldiers.

'All right,' the general said, putting down his ruler and compasses. 'Who are you?'

The prisoner lifted his head. Most of his face was an open wound, with soil and dust ground into it. 'My God,' the general said, 'what happened to you?'

It was more in the nature of a rhetorical question, since he couldn't believe that someone so badly smashed up would still be able to talk. In fact, the man's voice was calm and steady, if a little weak. 'Like the man said, 'he replied, 'I fell off my horse. Almost fell off,' he added, moving the corner of his mouth into what would have been a smile, 'except for one foot, which I carelessly left in the stirrup. Wouldn't have been so bad, only these idiots were chasing the poor brute all round the square.'

The general, who had seen more slaughter than most men, couldn't help shuddering a little. 'Get the doctor,' he said. 'This man needs attention.'

'Later.' The prisoner could still raise his voice. 'I've got to ask you something. Who are you?'

There was a brief silence.

'Banged his head, probably,' muttered the duty officer. 'You, get the surgeon.'

A guard hurried away, while the general looked at the prisoner. 'My name is Cronan Sulivois,' he said. 'Are you telling me you didn't know that?'

The prisoner tried to laugh, but couldn't. 'Well, there you go,' he said. 'I've been looking all over for you. My name's-' He hesitated. 'My name's Monach,' he said. 'I represent the order of Deymeson. Would you like to know why I'm here?'

General Cronan frowned. 'Where's that doctor got to?' he said. 'This man's off his head.'

'No,' the prisoner replied. 'And you didn't answer my question. Would you like to know-?'

'Yes,' General Cronan interrupted. 'Since you seem determined to tell me, yes, I would.'

The prisoner let his head slump forward. 'I was sent to kill you,' he said.

General Cronan looked up. 'Were you really?' he said. 'Well, I don't think you'll be up to killing anybody for a while. I hope that's not a problem.'

'It's all right,' Monach said, 'there's been a change of plan. You need to go to Sansory, immediately.'

'Do I?' Cronan sighed. 'And why would I want to do that?'

Monach grabbed the sides of the chair with his tattered hands and pulled himself up straight. He managed to hold himself there for a second or two before his strength gave way and he slid back. For some reason Cronan found the gesture impressive. 'Because,' Monach said, 'Feron Amathy and the raiders are going to burn it down if you don't. Do you understand me?'

Cronan leaned forward. 'What makes you say that?' he said.

'Because he told me so himself. I was holding a knife under his chin at the time. I'm inclined to believe him.'

Outside a sergeant was shouting at his platoon about something or other. 'You got close enough to Feron Amathy to hold a knife on him?'

Monach shrugged. 'Yes,' he said, then he winced and raised a hand to his right eye, slid it back past his ear to the nape of his neck. Just as the duty officer realised what he was doing, he thrust his arm straight up in the air and snapped it down through ninety degrees; the knife missed Cronan's head by the width of a thumb and split the headrest of his chair.

'No,' Cronan shouted, as the duty officer started to draw his sword, 'leave him alone. He just got my undivided attention.'

Monach smiled, and the duty officer took a step back, his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword. Cronan turned round in his chair and tried to pull out the knife, but it was too deep. Also, his hands were shaking.

'The same knife you held up Feron Amathy with?' he asked, in a rather awkward voice.

Monach was kneading the tendons of his forearm. 'Yes,' he replied. 'And before you ask, it's the only one I had on me. I'm a priest, not a cutlery stall. Keep it,' he went on, 'I've decided you can carry on living. But you've got to move now if you're going to stand a chance of reaching Sansory in time.'

Cronan stood up, and motioned to a guard to get the knife out of his chair. 'Admit it,' he said, 'you just missed. That's fair enough; you're obviously not at your best right now.'