‘That’s an odd choice of word;
reality
.’
‘It’s the Qalochian way of seeing the world. To us, cities seem an unnatural way to live. Unreal.’
‘You’ve never got used to them? Even after all your…’
‘Years? No, it gets worse. More people buzzing pointlessly about more buildings. More self-deluding magic. None of it’s restful to the spirit.’
She glanced in the direction of the lookout. ‘Change happens. You can’t fight it.’
‘Live as long as I have and you realise that, believe me. But some things never change. People don’t, not really. They wallow in ignorance and always have an appetite for cruelty.’
‘I’d like to think there was some kindness and wisdom, too.’
‘So would I.’ His tone didn’t allow for any.
For a moment it looked like Serrah was going to take issue. Instead she steered him back to the mission. ‘It can’t be much longer now,’ she said, checking with the lookout again.
Two of their band appeared on low rooftops opposite. They lugged coils of rope.
There was a sudden absence of noise as the axes fell silent.
‘At least they got that done in time,’ Serrah muttered.
Late birdsong swelled to fill the void.
She dug into her saddlebag and brought out a cylindrical glamour. It was barely longer than the fist she clutched it in.
‘I don’t know why you need a wailer,’ Caldason grumbled. ‘A blast from a horn should serve.’
‘Do you
have
a horn?’ she came back acerbically. ‘Could you play one if you did?’
‘You don’t play it, you blow it.’
‘I’d rather not put that much reliance on your lungs. This is surer. Nobody’s going to miss hearing it.’
He had a finger to his lips. ‘Listen.’
The sound of a drawn out, unbirdlike whistle reached them. They turned to the lookout. He was waving frantically.
‘They’re on their way.’ Serrah wrapped her horse’s reins around one hand. She held the glamour ready in the other.
The men on the roofs ducked out of sight.
Caldason drew his broadsword. ‘Everybody should be in place by now. Sit tight.’
Several minutes dragged by. Then the lookout signalled again before concealing himself.
The clip-clop of hooves could be heard, and wagon wheels rattling on the bridge’s planks. Then the head of the convoy appeared: two mounted paladins, followed by a quartet of militia. An enclosed wagon came next, a four-hander, with driver and bowman guard. Another pair of militia rode behind, ahead of the second wagon. The caravan rounded off as it began, with the four militia-two paladin combination.
‘What do you think?’ Serrah whispered. ‘Eighteen, maybe twenty?’
‘About twice our strength, yes. Could be worse.’
The whole convoy was on the straight now. Alert to the danger of a narrowing road with cover on either side, it began upping its pace to get through quicker. Soon it would reach Serrah and Reeth’s hiding place.
‘Easy,’ he cautioned, eyeing the glamour she clutched. ‘Watch the timing.’
‘All
right
,’ she hissed. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘And plug your ears.’ He offered her a small ball of wax. She had to slide the glamour into her armpit to free a hand.
The escort was scanning both sides of the road, wary and nervous. Caldason worried that the convoy’s gathering speed might just get it through before his men could do what had to be done.
A second later the two lead paladins hit the trigger point.
‘Now!’
he yelled.
Serrah struck the base of the glamour hard against her thigh, setting it off. The wailer gave out an ear-splitting scream, a note so shrill and intense it cut to the bone. Reeth and Serrah had to restrain their horses from bolting. From all around, flocks of screeching birds took flight.
The convoy’s mounts shied and faltered, too, slowing progress. Their shocked riders struggled to control them in the confusion. Several had the presence of mind to draw weapons, and the bowmen nocked arrows.
Serrah’s glamour expired and she tossed it away. The abrupt silence was almost as painful as the din itself. She aped Reeth and gouged out the earplugs.
The wailer was supposed to act as both a distraction and a signal to the rest of the band. But nothing seemed to be happening, and the convoy was still moving, though in disarray. It was almost level with Reeth and Serrah’s hide.
‘Damn it!’
she snapped. ‘What the hell’s keeping -’
A new sound rent the air. The crack of splintering wood and a growling creak as something ponderous slowly toppled.
Ahead of the convoy a massive tree crashed down and blocked its path. Taller than the road was wide, the tree’s upper third smashed through a barn on the far side, completely demolishing it. Branches bounced as they struck the road and swirling clouds of dust were liberated from the crushed building.
The charging convoy struggled to rein in, drawing up just short of the roadblock. The sudden stop made the first wagon slew to one side, finishing at an angle across the lane. One of the militiamen following on was unsaddled.
At the rear of the convoy the riders tried turning their horses about. But they were still churning and shouting when there was another thunderous crash. The band had felled a second tree, cutting off retreat and boxing in the convoy.
‘Let’s go!’ Caldason spurred his ride and burst out of cover.
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.