Gods, what did it matter? Dead flesh was dead flesh.
He glanced across at another body, a dead Jiamad. The creature was lying on its back, a black-feathered shaft jutting from its brow.
Decado might have warned him that the girl was a huntress.
Damn, but that was a fine shot. Corvin had just killed the big, sandy-haired peasant who had refused to reveal the girl’s whereabouts when she had appeared at the far end of the road. The Jiamads had picked up her scent first, and one of them called out to Corvin, and pointed. He saw her, tall and slim, bearing a recurve bow of wood and horn. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, and in one smooth motion drew and let fly. The shaft had buried itself in the head of the closest Jiamad — and he was more than two hundred feet from her. Then she had turned and sprinted away.
‘Get after her!’ yelled Corvin. Fifteen of his Jiamads had given chase. They were bred for power and not for speed, but they would find her by scent and bring her back before morning. Which meant he would have to spend the night in this squalid ruin.
The home of the big peasant was not ablaze, and Corvin crossed to it. It was an odd little place, the main room full of tables, like a tiny inn. The officer rummaged around the untidy kitchen, finding a fresh baked fruit pie. Breaking off a section he tried it. Surprisingly good, he thought. The pastry was light, the filling sweet, but not cloying. Some kind of berry had been used.
His young aide, Parnus, entered the room, saluting sharply. The boy was useless and would never make a soldier. He had rushed away to be sick almost as soon as the killing began. Even now his face was sallow, with a faint sheen to it.
‘The pie is excellent, Parnus. I recommend it.’
‘No, thank you, sir.’ The young man’s tone, though deferential, was cooler than before.
‘What is wrong with you?’
‘Might I speak freely?’
‘Why not? Who is there to hear you, save me?’
The young man’s eyes blazed, but he fought for control. ‘This was an act of evil,’ he said. ‘We were to capture a girl. Nothing was said about killing villagers.’
‘We always kill villagers in hostile territory. I think you are too weak for the role you have chosen. I shall recommend you are relieved of duty when we return. Then you can go back to your father’s estates and learn how to raise sheep.’
‘Better to raise than to slaughter,’ snapped the young man. ‘This was not the work of warriors. This was cowardice.’
‘Are you calling me a coward, boy?’
‘No, Corvin. What you did here today was heroism of the highest order. I think they will sing songs about you in future days. By the way, some of the Jiamads have gone off into the woods. They dragged off two of the bodies of the women. I expect they are feeding — which is contrary to the rules of engagement. Any officer who knowingly allows cannibalism is subject to death by strangulation. Rule 104, I think.’
Corvin laughed. ‘Quite right, Parnus. Then you had better find them and tell them to desist — especially since you are the officer on watch, and the responsibility is yours. It would pain me to have to report you for such a flagrant breach of the rules.’
The young officer grew more pale. Then he spun on his heel and stalked from the room. ‘What a puppy!’ muttered Corvin, taking up a long knife and carving himself another section of pie.
Corvin had spent the last ten years in the western army of the Eternal. The soldier’s life suited him far better than his days as a clerk in the Diranan treasury. What a waste that had been. Women he had wanted spurned him, men treated him with mild contempt. Not so now. As an officer of the Eternal he had merely to snap his fingers and women would obey his every whim. It was better this way. He liked the fear in their eyes, and enjoyed the fact that they loathed his touch. It merely increased his sense of power. Men no longer treated Corvin with disrespect. They bowed, they smiled, they paid him compliments. The richer of them offered him money, or goods. This was not merely because of his military status. As a soldier Corvin had discovered a skill he had not realized he possessed. His speed of hand was extraordinary, and he had a natural talent with the blade. As a swordsman men spoke of him in the same breath as Decado, and Corvin had now fought eleven duels. He had enjoyed every one of them. There was something exquisite about watching the change of expression on the face of an opponent. When the swords were first touched the duellists always looked the same, full of arrogance, and the belief that they were invulnerable. This look would remain for the first few exchanges. Then a tiny trace of doubt would insinuate itself. The eyes would grow more wary, and they would focus their concentration. Finally there would be fear, naked and obvious to all. Their movements would become more frenzied as the fear wormed its way deeper into their souls. At the last there would be a look of total surprise as Corvin’s blade plunged into their hearts. Corvin would step in then, his face close to the dying victim’s. He would stare into their eyes, holding them up as he watched life evaporate.
Corvin trembled with pleasure at the thought of it. He felt truly blessed by the Source.
Belching loudly he pushed himself to his feet, took up his helm and walked back out into the night.
From the east he heard a high-pitched howl. They were closing in on the girl. He swore suddenly. Had he told them that she must be taken alive? He swore again. No, he had not. Decado would not be pleased, and that was something Corvin needed to avoid. People who displeased Decado did not survive.
A low groan came from his left. Glancing down he saw the big, sandy-haired man he had stabbed earlier roll over. Good humour returned briefly. Corvin strolled towards him.
‘You make a fine pie,’ he told the man. Drawing his sabre Corvin tapped the man on the shoulder.
‘You could have been rich in Diranan.’ The man groaned again, struggled to rise, then fell back. Blood was seeping through the apron he wore. ‘I could have sworn I pierced your heart. Lie still. I will end your misery.’
The man looked up at him. He said nothing, and made no attempt to defend himself. ‘Let me think,’
said Corvin. ‘If I cut your throat you will bleed to death more swiftly. It will be less painful. Or perhaps the large artery in the groin would be better. At least that way you will not choke to death. Which would you prefer? I am feeling generous towards you.’
He heard footsteps, and turned. His young aide was running towards him. Corvin squinted against the smoke as Parnus stumbled and half fell. The boy’s breastplate was smeared with blood.
Parnus reached him and collapsed sprawling to the ground. Corvin looked down at him. The edge of his bronze breastplate was smashed, and Corvin saw a gaping wound in his side. Parnus tried to speak, but blood bubbled into his mouth and he sagged back. Corvin stared hard at the ruined breastplate.
What on earth could have destroyed it in such a fashion? No sword could possibly have shattered the metal.
Ignoring the dying boy Corvin moved out onto open ground. ‘Jiamads to me!’ he bellowed. ‘At once!’
Wherever they were feeding they would hear him. Then he returned to Parnus and knelt beside him.
‘What happened? Tell me.’
‘Two. . men. Axe. . am I. . dying?’
‘Yes, you are dying. Two men, you say. Where are the Jiamads?’
‘Three. . dead. Swordsman. . killed two.’
More blood gouted from the boy’s mouth, spattering Corvin’s sallow cheek. A sound came from his right. Glancing up he saw a hulking Jiamad moving through the smoke, and called out, ‘Over here!’
The beast lumbered towards him. ‘Which one are you?’ demanded Corvin, who rarely bothered with the names of Jiamads.