"Not… yours, " the wounded man gasped, as he began to struggle. "Not mine, not yours!"
"You're old, Father. Old and out of touch, and I knew you'd never understand. And-"
His hand moved on the wood of the lance shaft, driv ing the steel head deep with a single strong wrench. The body in his arms stiffened, tried to call out, then relaxed limply with blood on its lips. He pulled the steel loose then, and laid it beside the dead man.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry," Martin Thurston whispered, as the tears ran down a face rigid as a board. "I'm so sorry."
Seconds passed, and the son bent to kiss the father's forehead. Patterns, Rudi thought.
Only one man had been close enough to see, besides himself. Frederick Thurston stood not ten paces from him, his gaze slack and unbelieving. Rudi saw Martin's eyes on his brother as he rose from their father's body; they were black and bitter cold even as the rest of the face twisted with a terrible grief.
The universe moved, like a mountain balanced trembling on the sword blade of a god.
"Morrigu!" Rudi shrieked, breaking into the tense stillness of the moment, and clapped his heels to the destrier's sides.
A trooper of the sixth regiment went down beneath the pounding hooves; following at her dam's heels Macha Mongruad stamped on him, hard. Martin Thurston's mind might be in turmoil, but his reflexes did not sleep; he threw himself back with a yell, rolling in a back-somersault despite the weight of his armor. The tip of the longsword tore a tiny divot of skin and flesh from the tip of his nose as it passed, and snapped his head to one side. Then Rudi tossed it into his left hand along with reins and the grip of his shield, and bent in the saddle.
Rudi knew he was very strong. Frederick Thurston was a grown man in armor; to snatch him off the ground from horseback, and that at the gallop, was something he'd have thought beyond his reach. Now he did it, though every tendon from his right hand to his hips seemed outlined in blue fire for an instant. Then he was through; the young man he'd rescued from his brother seemed sensible enough to lie quiet across Epona's saddlebow for an instant.
As he circled around the rest of his companions gathered about him; the edge of battle was passing westward again, and the fight breaking up into clumps of men who hacked at one another or fled.
"We have to get out of here," he said bluntly, letting the young man slide to the ground. "Martin Thurston killed his father-"
"What?" Mathilda said, eyes wide.
"It's true," Frederick Thurston said, his voice shaking. "I saw it
… he was wounded… Martin killed him…"
"There's no time," Rudi said. "He'll want us all dead; he saw that I saw, and his brother too-"
Odard snapped his fingers. "That ambush we interrupted down south-the assassins-he must be working with the Prophet's men!"
Rudi flicked a glance westward. It was several thousand yards, but he could still hear the snarl of wrath that went through Boise's army as the news of their leader's death went from man to man.
"I wouldn't want to be the one to hold him to his deal," he said."Not now that he's won."
"Yeah," Ingolf added, his lips tight. "He won't stay bought… uh-oh. Cavalry headed our way. Those Cut ters who broke through aren't trying to get back to their own lines. Looks like they've got orders about us."
"We've got to split up," one of the twins said. "Into smaller groups at least."
Rudi nodded. "If they've got one dust trail to follow we're all dead. Meet at the rendezvous. Fast. "
Rudi had swung down out of the saddle and stripped off the barding from Epona and her daughter as he spoke; they didn't need fifty extra pounds.
"Right," he said, tossing Macha Mongruad's reins to the younger Thurston. "Fred, you'll go with Father Ignatius."
He met the cleric's eye, and received a short sharp nod.
"Everyone, get going."
Baron Odard Liu slid out of the saddle as his horse collapsed, wheezing blood and froth as the arrowhead worked its way into the lungs. He was in the upper reaches of a defile, and he'd have had to let the beast go soon anyway, as the footing grew worse. Rock crunched and slid under his feet, and he turned with his shield up as the yelping cries of the pursuit echoed off the tall rock faces to either side.
Death tasted of salt and tears and sweat, and bitter alkali dust and the chill of morning. Awareness of it had been growing as they ran and hid and twisted through the hours of darkness.
No man could outrun an arrow.
Or his fate, he thought. Still, I'd have liked to lay a few more girls in the clover and sing a few more songs before I went… at eighty, by preference, and on a throne…
"Sorry," he said to Mathilda Arminger. "I'll hold them as long as I can. Ingolf drew off a fair number."
Her face was stiff but unyielding. Brave to a fault, he thought, then scowled as she slipped down from her own mount.
"Now, please, don't spoil my gesture," he said. "I would like my last heroic stand to have some point."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "I can't climb that in a hauberk, and if I try taking it off, they'll be on us before I'm half done. Let's make it cost them."
He sighed. "How deplorably practical you are, Princess," he said. "Admirably courageous, though."
But then, whatever anyone called her father, nobody ever said he was a coward. And I don't think the Spider has nerves at all, just clockwork and levers inside. Whenever I regret my mother, it would be well to remember what poor Mathilda has to put up with!
There was a mouthful of water left in his canteen, and they shared it as the Cutters rode into the space beneath them. Two boulders and a dead cottonwood gave the three of them a little cover. He was a bit surprised to see Alex hadn't slipped off; the little man was reliable, but this was beyond the usual call of duty.
That must have shown on his face. "The dowager baroness charged me most particularly to keep you safe, my lord," he said, and turned away to cock his crossbow.
"Good man," Odard said. Then he looked at Mathilda. "By the way, I love you," he went on. Then at her shocked look: "Well, it may not be the opportune moment, but there may not be all that many more."
The Cutters had sent their horses to the rear and were standing crouched with their shields up. It was middling bowshot, but they were fairly well armored, and the ground wasn't too steep most of the way from the dry creekbed to his position…
Their commander came out from his unit's shield wall and stood with hands on his hips. "I haven't got the time to shilly-shally," he called. "The High Seeker wants you alive; only the Ascended Masters know why. Give yourself up-and I guarantee your safety until you're turned over to my superiors. If you don't, well, I didn't promise to capture you unharmed. Just alive."
Odard searched for a suitable reply; Mathilda pre empted him with a short pungent pair of words. The Cutter's tuft of chin beard moved as he grinned.
"I won't forget that, soulless Nephilite whore," he said coldly, and drew his shete. "Ready, you servants of the Light bearer!" he called to his men.
The universe dissolved in silver light. When Odard could think again he found himself facedown, and even the dry gritty smell of the rock beneath his face made his stomach twist in nausea. He recognized the other sen sations-whirling dizziness, stabbing pain-and didn't bother trying to stand up; getting your brain rattled around in your head wasn't like taking a nap, and no body just sprang back to their feet and went on their way afterwards. The coif and padding had absorbed most of the force of the blow by Alex's crossbow butt, but enough had gotten through… He gulped back stomach acid and glared at his servant's boots.