Serrah was right behind him, whipping her blade free.
If they’d been privy to each other’s thoughts, they would have known they shared a similar feeling at that moment. It was as though their senses were as keen as blades.
Band-members erupted from their bolt-holes. They rode out of the trees, emerged from buildings, came in from front and rear. A small force, but well placed to strike at the trapped tax gatherers.
An archer on the second wagon reacted swiftly. The shaft he released whistled past Serrah’s ear. He quickly drew and shot again. This time the bolt was intended for Caldason, missing him only when he ducked with a fraction of a second to spare. The arrow buried itself in an oak, quivering.
‘He’s mine!’
Serrah shouted, heading for the wagon.
Caldason had his own goal. One of the band had been wounded and pitched from his horse. As he struggled to his feet, a paladin was moving in to finish him. Reeth galloped their way, knocking aside the paladin’s descending blade with his own. The band-member scrabbled clear. Leaning out from their saddles, Qalochian and paladin began trading blows.
The archer Serrah targeted was obscured by fights that had broken out around the wagon. A militiaman appeared from the melee clutching a barbed spear. Holding it level, he rode at her. She swerved, avoiding the strike. As the rider passed she lashed out with her sword, slicing the lance in two. Enraged, he discarded the broken shaft, drew his sword and came around for a second charge. Serrah bobbed and his blade glided harmlessly above her head. Hers hacked into his chest. He screamed and fell. The riderless horse stampeded on.
Caldason was locked in a tit-for-tat exchange with his paladin foe. They battered each other, blocking passes, chasing an opening. Their spooked horses snorted and pawed. Reeth broke the deadlock when he got through and scoured his opponent’s sword arm. A swift follow-on saw his blade in the paladin’s heart. Slumped on its bolting horse, the corpse was carried off, scattering allies and enemies.
Serrah cracked the skull of a militiaman. As he went down, she saw the archer clearly again. He was alone on the wagon, the driver having been sucked into the fray. His drawstring was taut and he had a bead on one of her comrades. There was no time to act. The arrow flew to its mark, ending a duel the band-member would have won.
She flipped her sword from her right hand to her left. From her belt she plucked a snub-nosed throwing knife. She aimed and flung it hard. The blade thudded into the wagon’s wooden enclosure, a handspan from the bowman’s head.
He looked around wildly, spotted her and reached for his arrow sheath. She felt for another knife. He teased out a bolt and notched it. She drew back her arm. He pulled on the bow. She lobbed the blade. He loosed the arrow. It sailed over her right shoulder. Serrah could swear she felt its plume tickle her as it passed.
The archer still stood. But she realised that was just temporary. The hilt of her knife stuck out of his collarbone. A red patch was spreading across his grey tunic. He swayed, then toppled.
She goaded her frightened horse towards the wagon. Somebody on foot rushed over and tried to pull her down. Kicking out, she booted him back into the scrum. At the wagon, she scrambled onto the driving board. The bow was there, along with the quiver. Serrah took it and looked to the brawl going on all around her.
In the thick of it, Caldason was facing two opponents. He had a mounted paladin alongside and a militiaman on foot harrying him with a mace. His defence had to be alternate, swiping at the rider one minute, the mace-man the next. He was holding them off but making no progress.
Then an arrow came out of nowhere and struck the paladin in his back. As the man fell, Reeth glimpsed Serrah standing on the wagon, directing bolts into the fracas. His attention went back to the man with the mace and he disarmed him with a couple of downward strokes. Caldason’s next swing proved a killer blow.
A moment’s lull, as strangely happened in even the most furious of engagements, allowed Reeth to snatch an overview. He judged that his side had the better of it. There were fights everywhere still, but the tide seemed to be running in the ambushers’ favour.
He noticed one of the remaining paladins, on foot and moving away from the convoy. In his hand was an object that looked very much like a distress glamour. That was something they could do without. Reeth headed for him.
Serrah had one arrow left. She singled out a likely target. It winged the man, spun him off his feet and dumped him in the road. She dropped the bow, took up her sword and leapt into the battle.
Reeth’s duel with the paladin was frenzied and short. Wrenching his sword from the body, he looked around for the glamour. He found it in the long grass at the road’s edge and ground it under his boot. It gave off blue sparks and wisps of orange smoke as it died.
He turned and saw that all but six or seven of the convoy’s escort had been downed. The holdouts were bunched together, on foot, in front of one of the lane’s shabby buildings. They were retreating in the face of an advancing semi-circle of band-members. As Caldason made his way over, the beleaguered group had their backs to the wall.
In the short time they had to plan the ambush, Caldason and Serrah had thought about speed. They had a contingency to help overcome the guards as quickly as possible. Reeth signalled the men on the roof and set it in motion.
The fading light obscured what was happening up there. Something was tossed from the roof – for a second it looked like a mottled black cloud. Instantly it descended, dome-shaped as it fell.
A large weighted fishing net came down on the surviving escorts. They yelled and flailed in the tangle. The band rushed forward and subdued them with sword butts and clubs. They disarmed them and secured the net with rope. So many flies in a giant spider’s web.
Serrah was at Caldason’s shoulder. ‘Seems like letting them off lightly.’
‘Would you rather we tethered them to a team of horses and sent them off over a cobbled road?’
She smiled. ‘It’s no more than they deserve.’
‘Maybe. But I’ve always tried not to stoop to their level. I reckon you feel the same.’ Before she could answer, he went on, ‘We need to move fast now. Let’s go.’
The band gathered their wounded, and their dead, and lashed them to horses. Some were put into the wagons. All hands set to hauling clear the tree blocking the way ahead. The other was left where it was, to hinder any pursuit. They weren’t brutal with the enemy wounded, which might not have been the case if things had gone the other way. The prisoners were simply left, securely bound, to await rescue; and no doubt punishment for allowing their consignment to fall into Resistance hands.
A rendezvous had been fixed a mile or two on, where the spoils would be loaded onto smaller vehicles and dispersed.
Caldason took the reins on the lead wagon himself. Serrah sat beside him.
‘Our first successful mission,’ she said.
‘Think so?’ His voice was suddenly cold.
‘Don’t you?’
He didn’t answer, and they made the rest of the journey in a stiff silence.
All the while, Caldason’s eyes were on the city’s glittering splendour and phoney rainbows.
22
A fiery streak sliced the heavens. It could have been a shooting star. More likely it was somebody flaunting their wealth.
Seen from the summit of an outlying hill, Valdarr met the horizon and appeared to blend seamlessly into the night sky. The powdering of stars above silently mirrored the rippling colours and bursts of radiance below.
Two people sat on a pallid, long-dead tree trunk. They had little interest in the view.
‘What do you mean,
not good enough
?’ Serrah demanded.
‘We lost three men,’ Caldason reminded her.
‘And twice that many got wounded. I’m aware of that. It’s tragic, but they knew what they were signing up for. There are always casualties.’