Sylvriss could see a fury bubbling within the man, but it seemed to be disproportionate to the humiliation he had just brought on himself. She felt her horse tremble slightly, instinctively preparing itself for battle, and realized suddenly that the man was demented and barely in control. Then she noticed that his hands were bloodstained.
Abruptly the man’s anger meshed with and unleashed her own, and swinging up into her saddle she glared down at him. ‘Sirshiant,’ she said, ‘you need lessons in discretion I think. Have your Captain and his Commander report to me when you return to barracks.’
The man’s control slipped a little further, but he managed a restrained salute. Sylvriss swung the horse round, making him jump clear, then urged it forward at a slow walk.
She had gone barely ten paces when she heard, ‘Break that door down and execute the occupants for violation of the Edict.’ She spun round in disbelief. Several of the patrol were running towards the door she had been knocking on, and the Sirshiant was drawing his sword again. It, too, was bloodstained.
‘No,’ she cried, and turning her horse she drove it at the advancing men. Those who knew her retreated immediately while the remainder hesitated only to be scattered as she swung the horse round and placed it firmly across the foot of the small stairway.
The Sirshiant strode forward and took hold of the horse’s bridle in a white-knuckled grip. The horse tore it free and sent the man staggering. He raised his sword furiously.
‘Sirshiant,’ thundered Sylvriss. ‘Are you insane? Bad enough you seize the bridle of a horse like this, but raising your sword to me. You’re under arrest! Hand me that sword and return immediately to your barracks.’
The man hesitated, then turned and walked away from her for a little way. When he stopped his shoulders were hunched as if he were pushing against a great weight.
‘Sirshiant,’ said the Queen, ‘lay down your sword. That’s an order.’ But as he turned, she saw the last vestige of control slip away from him and knew that her words would be no more effective than falling autumn leaves in restraining him.
Some of the patrol saw it too and, breaking ranks, dashed forward. He struck the first to reach him with a single back-handed blow that laid him out along the street, blood streaming down his face, then turning towards the others he held out his left hand, inviting them forward, while his right hand brandished the sword menacingly. The patrol spread out in a wide, uncertain circle.
When he turned again, the Sirshiant’s intent was hideously clear. Battle-fever. Bloodlust. The words burst into Sylvriss’s mind. A lesser person would have faltered, disbelieving such a thing possible in this quiet City street. But, Muster-trained, Sylvriss saw it for what it was. Somehow, perhaps intentionally, she had released this demon. Now she must face it, with its dreadful hamstringing sword. There was no retreat. Her stomach was hard and hollow with a dreadful fear, but her only ally was her horse, and to allow fear to dominate would be to infect the animal and betray it. She leaned forward and whispered words of release to it; killing words. It was ready. Its eyes shone whitely and it pranced a little as with its rider it changed its fear to anger.
Hooves clattering on the hard stone street, and fore-legs dancing high, the horse moved around the Sirshiant. With trembling hands, Sylvriss seized the handle of the staff that was part of every Muster rider’s tackle. It stuck in its loop and her father’s angry voice rushed in on her. ‘Look after your equipment properly, girl. The dangerous attacks are those you’re not expecting.’
The horse skittered to one side and lashed out a foot as the Sirshiant aimed a wild whistling sword cut at its head. The man moved with surprising speed, however, and the hoof barely touched him.
Then, at last, the staff came free, but with such sud-denness that it slipped from Sylvriss’s gasp. Instinctively, she flicked the elusive end and caught the staff boldly as it spun round. The movement looked calculated and confident and the Sirshiant stepped back into a low, crouching stance. Then, taking the sword in both hands, he lifted it above his head and charged forward with a great roar.
Sylvriss watched the attack coming. Judgement in her too, was now the prisoner of battle-fever. She could still flee, it said faintly, but her rage was locked with the Sirshiant’s madness in an ancient mutuality of purpose as intense as that of two passionate lovers. They would not part without catharsis.
The horse stepped backwards and sideways abruptly and the blow missed by a hair’s breadth. Unbalanced by the unexpected lack of impact, the Sirshiant staggered round in the direction of his swing, and the horse ran into him. At the same time Sylvriss brought her staff down on to his head. His iron helmet protected him from injury, but the loud and incongruous clang was ringing in his ears as he hit the ground.
Curling up into a tight, protective knot, the Sirshiant rolled clear of the horse’s hooves as it ran over him. To her horror, Sylvriss saw the man rise, a little unsteady, but with the sword still in his hand and his madness rampant. She charged straight at him before he could recover fully and swung the staff at his head again. He jumped to one side and swung his sword to parry the blow.
The steel sliced effortlessly through the descending wood, and Sylvriss saw her staff shortened to half its length as the weighted end clattered across the echoing stones of the street.
Something deep inside her told her the end was near and a peculiar calmness flowed through her. She felt the swinging momentum of her horse as it turned, and, without thinking, she leaned forward towards her staggering attacker and drove the severed end of the staff at his throat.
The Sirshiant shied away from the blow but the weapon he had just forged drove into his cheek, and he felt its impact smashing teeth and tissue.
The demon in the man burst out in a blood-spewing cry and he drew back the sword for a blow that would have felled both horse and rider. But it was too late. The horse lashed out its hoof and caught him squarely under the chin, breaking his neck and lifting him clear off the ground, to fall spread-eagled on the ringing stones. The broken staff bounced out of his damaged face like a final act of disdain.
The horse reared, and let out a great scream of tri-umph, and Sylvriss heard her own voice, too, ringing with the Muster’s battle cry. She felt her heart pounding and her breath gasping, and for a moment she almost lost consciousness under the conflicting torrents of elation and shame that flooded her.
As she watched the troopers, wide-eyed and fearful, gather up their erstwhile leader, and turn to her for their next orders, Sylvriss realized that the whole incident had taken only seconds. But she knew her life had been irrevocably changed. All things were changed now.
Chapter 51
Dan-Tor set little store by the Queen’s escapade. With the Mathidrin tightening his grip on the bodies of the people, and with spies and rumours tightening his grip on their hearts and minds, such antics could not disturb his growing sense of satisfaction. In fact, he was quite pleased in some ways. He had seen the Queen returning, magnificent as ever on her great horse, but with fever-flushed cheeks and strange haunted eyes instead of the glowing vigour she normally returned with to pollute the whole Palace.
I’ll hedge you in, he thought, make you fret and fume until your passions consume you. For your ‘own good’ I’ll curb you and watch you choke on the invisible leash. It would be a small piece of personal indulgence to heighten his pleasure at the change in circumstances.
As for that dolt of a Sirshiant who’d got himself killed, even that had been useful, not to say amusing. It would teach the newcomers to the City that they weren’t dealing with Mandrocs now and they’d have to curb their bloodthirsty ways. More subtly, it would teach them not to underestimate the opposition they might face.