The captured crossbow, unfamiliar as it was, had been his best defense against shatra. At close range, even the slowest, weakest shatra was more than a match for any mere human. At long range, a sling did not have the accuracy or impact to stop one reliably. A crossbow had a good chance — though there were stories of shatra not merely dodging quarrels, but snatching them out of the air.
With his crossbow useless, the sling was the best he had. He pulled it from his belt and then realized that he had no stones, nor were any handy amid the tall grass. He had never bothered to keep any; in the forest he could always find stones or nuts or other small objects suitable for use as ammunition.
He had his bloodstone, but he could not bring himself to waste that on a long throw at a difficult target. Furthermore, loading and using the sling while he held a sword would not be easy.
He could stick the sword to his shin for the moment, but he still had no ammunition. He cursed himself for his thoughtlessness in relying on the crossbow without bothering to care for it.
He looked at Wirikidor. Shatra were certainly warriors, but the sword had proved so unreliable that he could not imagine it being any use against one.
It was, however, the only chance he had. When he looked up at the approaching person, he saw that the pursuer was no longer simply following Valder’s trail, but was instead dodging back and forth across the grassland, moving in fits and starts and generally making himself as difficult a target as possible. He was obviously aware that Valder had seen him. Even with ammunition other than the single gem, Valder would now have virtually no chance of harming him with the sling.
Valder looked around helplessly at the empty grassland, the few scattered trees — none near enough to be of any help — and the vacant blue sky overhead. Here he was, he thought, being stalked by a half-demon enemy, with no place to hide, nowhere to run, and only Wirikidor to protect him. He was as good as dead, he was certain. The sword might be enchanted, but it would need to be capable of miracles to save him.
He did not want to die. The air was sweet, the sun warm, and he had no desire whatsoever to perish and never again taste the wind or see the sky. No Ethsharitic soldier had ever killed a shatra in hand-to-hand combat, Valder knew — but he resolved to try. The sword’s magic might possibly give him the edge he needed to do it.
He tried to think of anything else that might give him an advantage, however slight; whether any spot might be better than another. He could see nothing that would help. He was going to meet the shatra on open, rolling grassland, no matter what he did, and one part of it seemed very much like any other.
He was determined not to flee. He knew that demons and their kin had no compunctions about killing a man from behind; and if he were to die, he preferred to die facing his foe. He considered the possibility of a charge, a chance at taking the shatra by surprise, but dismissed it. In all honesty he could only believe that such an attack would get him killed that much sooner.
Instead he tried to relax, to enjoy his last few moments as best he could, and to save his strength for the coming fight, rather than wasting it by tensing up.
The sky was very blue, the only clouds thin, white streaks on the eastern horizon, the sun settling downward in the west. The grass was golden and rippling. When he had been walking, the day had seemed rather hot, but, now that he was standing still and letting the breeze cool him, the weather seemed ideal.
He was not particularly fond of grass nor of grasslands; he had grown up around forests and served most of his time in the army in forests, and the open country felt bare and unprotected by contrast. The best thing about it was the vast, uncluttered sky.
The shatra paused, perhaps two hundred yards away, and watched him; Valder could see the sun glinting on the demon’s close-fitting black helmet. He suddenly realized that the shatra was well within the effective range of the sorcerous weapons that his kind sometimes used and might be debating whether to shoot now or draw closer. Against combat sorcery Valder knew he had no chance at all; he dropped flat, hiding in the grass. He had seen no wands or talismans, but his situation was quite bad enough without taking unnecessary risks.
He lay in the grass for what seemed like hours, halfway onto his left side, ready to thrust himself upward with the sword raised. He listened, but heard nothing but the grass rustling in the wind.
He looked, but from where he lay he could see nothing but the grass a few inches from his nose.
He debated crawling off into the grass, away from his trail, in hopes that the shatra would lose track of him, but gave up the idea after a trial poke at the surrounding plants. The grass in his immediate vicinity was not particularly tall and rustled quite audibly when he stirred it; the shatra would be able to locate him easily.
“Soldier!” a voice called, speaking Ethsharitic with a thick, unpleasant accent. “Soldier! Come out and we may talk!”
Valder lay still and said nothing.
“Soldier, you do not need to die. We treat prisoners well. Stand up and drop your weapons and you may live!”
Valder knew this was unusual, this attempt to coax a surrender. Ordinarily the northerners were no more eager to burden themselves with prisoners than the Ethsharites were; after all, prisoners had to be kept for life, since there were no provisions for exchange and the war had been going on since time immemorial and seemed likely to continue forever. The shatra had some reason for wanting Valder alive. Most probably, the Ethsharite guessed, the northerners wanted to find out how a lone enemy came to be wandering around behind their lines to begin with. They might also be wondering whether the dragon was a part of an Ethsharitic force.
As he thought back over what he had done, Valder realized that he had probably made quite an impression. He had appeared mysteriously out of nowhere, disposed of a coastal sentry, slain an expert swordsman in fair combat and then seriously wounded another man as well, and topped it all off by leading a hungry young dragon into a northern encampment that was presumably nowhere near the front.
He wondered how long he would live if he accepted the shatra’s offer of imprisonment and how long his dying would take. The northerners were said to be very ingenious in their use of torture. They were not likely to be gentle with someone who had caused them so much trouble. It seemed unreasonable to think that they might let him live out his natural span.
“Soldier, you are being very foolish. If you do not surrender by the time I count to five, I must kill you.”
Valder noticed that the notherner’s voice had come much closer. He had decided, without knowing it himself at first, that he was not going to buy himself a few days of life by surrendering, even though he had no important information that might be tortured out of him. He did not know where his unit was, or where the hermit had gone, or anything very useful about Wirikidor. He did not want to die — but he did not want to live in pain and disgrace, either. Besides, he could not drop Wirikidor if he tried; the sword would not allow it.
He listened carefully as the shatra began counting.
“One!”
He judged the northerner to be no more than thirty feet away now.
“Two!”
He was somewhere ahead and to the left. Presumably he knew Valder’s exact position and intended to take him from his bad side.
“Three!”
Valder adjusted his legs; he had changed his earlier decision and now intended to charge the shatra.
“Four!”
He launched himself upward, running through the knee-high grass toward the enemy, who stood roughly where Valder had expected him to be.