He saw the Sefry warriors now, as welclass="underline" twelve small figures approaching the praifec’s men at a trot. He caught an actinic glitter and realized that they had feyswords, like the knight he and his companions had fought in Dunmrogh.
The riders broke against the khriim like waves against a rock, except that a broken wave flowed back out to sea. The horsemen and their horses lay where they fell.
So much for that.
Stephen felt something move across his skin, and all the hairs on his arm stood up. He wasn’t cold, but he shivered.
“The horn…” he murmured.
“What’s that?” Zemlé gasped. She pointed, and Stephen saw a dark cloud approaching, or so it appeared to be at first glance.
But it wasn’t a cloud; rather, it was a collection of thousands of smaller things, flying close together.
“Birds,” he said.
They were of all sorts—corbies, martins, swans, hawks, curlewsand all were crying or singing, making whatever noise they made and raising the strangest cacophony Stephen had ever heard. When they reached the valley, they began spiraling down into the forest, forming an avian tornado.
The forest itself was behaving in an equally peculiar manner. An acre of it was moving; the trees were bending toward one another, knitting their limbs together. Stephen was reminded of the effect of the dreodh song on the tree they’d fled the slinders into, but if it was the same magic, it was far stronger.
“Saints,” Zemlé breathed.
“I don’t think the saints have much to do with this,” Stephen murmured as he watched the birds descend into the quickening forest and vanish as if swallowed.
A shape was forming now, a shape Stephen recognized, albeit larger than he had ever seen it before, maybe thirty kingsyards high.
Moments later, antlers spreading from his head, the Briar King tore his roots from the earth and began to stride purposefully toward the khriim.
Aspar waited until the last second and hurled his ax. The monk tried to turn, but that was the thing about moving fast: it made it harder to change direction. His attempt only spoiled the cut meant to take Aspar’s head off. It soughed over the holter’s head instead as the attacker hurled past.
Aspar turned to find the fellow already coming back, but he was delighted to see that his ax had found its mark and savaged the man’s weapon arm, the right one. The sword lay discarded on the waterlogged moss, and blood was pumping from his biceps.
He was a little slower, but not much. His left fist arced out in a blur; Aspar felt as if he were moving underwater as the knuckles connected with his chin. He smelled blood, and his head rang like a bell as he stumbled back.
The next blow dug into his flank and broke ribs.
With an inarticulate cry, Aspar threw his left arm around the man, stabbing at the monk’s kidney with his dirk, but the blade never made contact. Instead the fellow twisted oddly, and Aspar found himself somehow hurled into a tree.
His vision flashed black and red, but he knew he couldn’t stop moving, so he rolled to the side and tried to get to his feet, spitting out fragments of his teeth. He grabbed a sapling and used it to pull himself up.
It was only when he tried to put weight on his leg that he realized it was broken.
“Well, sceat,” he said.
The man retrieved his sword and was returning with it gripped in his left hand.
“My name is Ashern,” he said. “Brother Ashern. I’d like you to know there’s nothing personal in this. You fought well.”
Aspar lifted his dirk and shouted, hoping it would drown out the approaching hoofbeats, but Ashern heard them in the last instant and turned. Aspar launched himself, and everything went red.
Ogre reared from a full gallop, his hooves striking down at the monk. Brother Ashern’s swing cut right through the lower part of the great beast’s neck, and the churchman continued turning, deftly blocking Aspar’s desperate knife thrust.
Then Ogre’s hoof, still descending, hit him in the back of the head and crushed his skull.
Aspar fell, and Ogre collapsed just next to him, blood pumping from his neck in great gouts. Gasping, Aspar crawled over, thinking he might somehow close the bay’s wound, but when he saw it, he knew it was no use. Instead he cradled the stallion’s head in one arm and stroked his muzzle. Ogre seemed more puzzled than anything.
“Old boy.” Aspar sighed. “You never could stay out of a fight, could you?”
Red foam blew from Ogre’s nose as if he were trying to whinny an answer.
“Thank you, old friend,” Aspar said. “You rest now, yah? Just rest.”
He continued stroking Ogre until his breath stopped and his terrible eyes went dull.
And for a while after.
When Aspar finally lifted his head again, he saw, four kingsyards away, the case of the black arrow.
Nodding grimly to himself, he strung his bow and crawled until he found a branch the right size and shape to use as a crutch. His leg was pulsing with awful pain now, but he ignored it as best he could. He retrieved the arrow and began hobbling toward the sounds of combat.
12
Entirely Sword
Cazio lunged deep, driving Acredo through a swordsman’s eye. A blade cut at him from the right, but with his rapier busy killing, the only thing he had to deflect it with was his left arm. He got lucky and caught the flat, but the pain was terrific.
Withdrawing Acredo’s bloody tip, he parried another blow, retreating all the while, wondering how much farther back the chamber went. Robert’s men were taking advantage of the space to spread out, forcing Cazio to retreat more quickly or be surrounded. He reckoned he would kill one, maybe two more of them before one of their cleavers cut off enough of him to end the fight. After that, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
No. He couldn’t let them have Austra or Anne. He couldn’t think that way.
He deepened and slowed his breathing, willed the muscles he wasn’t using to relax.
Z’Acatto had spoken once or twice of something called chiado sivo, or “entirely sword,” a state of oneness that a true dessrator could enter in which he might accomplish fantastic things. There had been times when Cazio had felt he was almost in that state. He had to let go of winning and losing, of life and death, of fear, and become nothing but motion.
Parry, attack, parry, disengage, breathe, feel the sword as part of his arm, his spine, his heart, his mind…
They can’t hurt me, he thought. There’s nothing here to hurt, just a sword.
And for long, beautiful moment he had it. Perfection. Every move correct, every motion the best. Two more men went down, then another two, and he wasn’t retreating anymore. He controlled the rhythm, the footwork, the floor itself.
For a moment. But recognizing that moment, he lost the detachment he needed to prolong it, and his assault faltered as two men arrived to replace every one he put down. He retreated again, ever more desperate as Robert’s forces began to encircle him.
He realized he’d lost track of the women and hoped against hope that his instant of chiado sivo had given them a chance to escape.
Even you might have been proud of me, z’Acatto, he thought as the corner of his eye warned him of a new fighter, flanking him.
No, not flanking him, flanking Robert’s men.
And not just one man but a horde.
The newcomers were unarmored but fighting with long, wicked knives and firing short, powerful-looking bows. Cazio’s antagonists were all down within a few heartbeats, leaving him gasping, still on guard, wondering if he would be next. Just because they were Robert’s enemies, that didn’t make them Anne’s friends.