The crowd reeled back, screaming and yelling. Four guardsmen pursued, while the other four re-formed the second line, with remarkable discipline. Two more villagers fell, and then the crowd was running in panic, flooding back up the main street or up the steps to the temple door.
“Willem!” Sofy commanded, still holding the lantern. “Carry the girl! Yasmyn, you and I will take the child! Let’s go!”
They hurried to do that, as the final four guardsmen fell back, the first four fanning ahead, to discourage any attempt to re-form. No sooner had Sofy and Yasmyn grabbed the child than one of the guardsmen yelled “Crossbow!,” and something buzzed the air. It didn’t seem to hit anything. Then another yell, and this time there followed a thud on the shield of one of Sofy’s protecting wall. That man cursed in pain, but did not waver.
“Move fast!” commanded Tyrel. “There could be more!” The path down the hillside would lead them past the first village houses, where the crossbow fire seemed to be coming from. The forward guardsmen were moving across to meet them and form a wall about their princess. But walking past those houses was just asking for someone to get shot.
Yasmyn saw it too. “I’ll get them,” she said happily, dumping the limp child entirely into Sofy’s arms, and racing forward into the night.
“Yasmyn, no!” But Yasmyn was gone, cloaked and shadowed in the gloom. Sofy staggered forward, lantern in hand as the ten-year-old’s limp weight dragged on her arms. Gods, the child was heavy. For the first time in her life, she wished she was as strong as her sister Sasha.
Another crossbow shot thumped and fizzed, but it seemed directed elsewhere. Yasmyn, Sofy thought fearfully, but there was no time to wait, and she staggered as best she could down the sloping path, with Willem coming behind. Guardsmen let her pass as she descended, holding shields above her head as they passed close beneath the house walls, then forming a rearguard behind once they were past. No further shots came.
Above, the bell was still clanging, and random, frightened shouts filled the air. One of the guardsmen slung his shield, then deprived Sofy of her burden. “Best you help Master Willem too,” Sofy gasped, letting her aching arms droop as she jogged, for Willem seemed about to drop the half-conscious girl entirely.
A soldier did that, and when they reached the point where the path turned back on itself, they paused. Sofy saw then that one of the guardsmen-a tall Fyden redhead named Daryn-had taken that second-last crossbow bolt not only through his shield, but through the supporting forearm as well.
“Hold still, lad,” Corporal Heyar said gruffly, pulling a knife while another man held the shield still. Heyar began sawing through the bolt beneath the metal head. No doubt it pulled the bolt back and forth within the wound something horrible. Daryn made barely a sound.
Sofy tore her eyes away to shine her lantern back up the path. Yasmyn was crazy, and now Yasmyn was going to drive her crazy by making her wait and worry, she just knew it. But it was barely a moment before a dark, cloaked shape came flitting down the path toward them. Sofy gasped with relief.
“Are you being followed?” Tyrel asked Yasmyn when she arrived.
“Maybe,” she said, “but not by crossbow men.” She reached into the pocket of her cloak with a devilish grin. “One crossbow man,” she said and pulled from the pocket a severed ear. Then, “Two crossbow men!” pulling a second ear, triumphantly.
Sofy stared in horror. “Oh, Yasmyn. You didn’t!”
“What?” said Yasmyn defensively. “My father tell me, never kill a man without proof. Or else, you have nothing to boast about.”
Daryn hissed as Corporal Heyar yanked the headless crossbow bolt through shield and arm. “Bloody shields,” someone muttered. “Never liked them anyway.”
They resumed down the path, four guardsmen ahead, four behind, and Sofy, Yasmyn and Willem in the middle. “Arm!” Yasmyn demanded of Daryn, slashing a piece off his tunic with her darak. Daryn gave her his arm, and Yasmyn tied the cloth about the wound, then pressed it hard with both hands as they walked.
“You going to buy me another tunic?” Daryn asked her.
“Army has plenty of tunics,” Yasmyn snorted. “You have only one left arm.” He nearly stumbled, weak-kneed with pain, he tried to hide it. “Concentrate!” Yasmyn demanded, hauling him upright. “You stay awake, soldier-man. Maybe I visit you tonight. A bloody man is a sexy man, yes?”
Several men chortled. “Bloody Isfayen,” one laughed.
“Say, those aren’t left and right ears in your pocket, are they?” another suggested.
“No!” Yasmyn snapped, indignantly. “I kill two crossbow men. Not one. And the other one, on the courtyard.”
“Aye, maybe you went back to him when we weren’t there, and took his ears off.”
“Stupid fucking fool, shut your fucking mouth or I cut your belly like a goat!” Howls of laughter from the men.
Gods save us, Sofy thought despairingly, we are barbarians. She turned her lantern to the child, hanging limp in the arms of the guardsman behind her. Barbarians yes, she amended the thought, but at least we don’t do that.
Soldiers met them halfway up, alarmed to have heard the tolling bell. Tyrel turned them all around, cursing them for making a jam on the narrow path, as those at the rear kept running up while the princess and party were trying to go down.
Many men were gathered curiously about the bridge across the stream, a spread of dark figures against the smoky glow of the camp. Sofy headed for her tent.
She’d nearly made it when Koenyg intercepted her in a fast stride. “What happened?”
“I went up to the temple,” Sofy said shortly, still walking. “There were four villagers there, strung up and left to die. This girl and child were still alive, I took them down. The villagers protested.”
“And?”
“They attacked us. We killed six.”
“Eight,” Yasmyn protested. “You forget my crossbow men.”
“You’re an idiot,” Koenyg pronounced.
“Spare me,” Sofy shot back, pushing through her tent flaps. Koenyg followed, and Yasmyn, and the two guards carrying the girl and child. Handmaidens leapt to their feet, tucking aside sewing, books and a game of dice.
“Medicines!” Yasmyn snapped at them. “Lemon water, honey and goats’ milk, and heat some water! Poultice and salves, move quickly!” She clapped to hurry them along, as the guardsmen laid girl and child down on a bearskin rug. At least it was warm in the tent, Sofy thought, kneeling alongside the child. A boy, she decided, girlish only because of long hair, and undernourishment that highlighted the cheekbones. His shirt was in tatters, and his skin deathly cold to touch. It seemed that he barely breathed.
Lemon water arrived, and Therys, an older woman, took charge. She dipped a cloth into the jug and dripped lemon water onto the girl’s lips, as Alyna did likewise with the child. The girl coughed, weakly, and in a tiny voice, asked for more.
Therys gazed at the girl’s drawn face, and felt her throat. “I think she will live,” she concluded. “I’ll see to the child.”
Koenyg took Therys’s place, kneeling on the rug. “Ulynda,” he commanded, and Sofy’s grey-haired Larosan tutor limped to her prince’s shoulder. “How good’s your Algrassian?”
“Fair, Your Highness,” said Ulynda.
“Ask her what crime she committed, to receive this sentence.”
“What does it matter?” Sofy snapped. “Let her rest, Koenyg.”
“Ask her,” Koenyg repeated, ignoring his sister. Sofy fumed.