Gan took care of two more with his own knife, leaving just the leader, Draz, standing before them.
The man’s smile was visible under his head scarves. “Not bad for a last act.”
Fehrd smiled. “I don’t think so.”
Then Draz took a staff of his own out of a back scabbard.
That just made Fehrd’s smile widen. “You know how to use that thing?”
In response, Draz came at him with a strike to his head. Fehrd blocked it easily, but the move wasn’t meant to harm, but to simply answer the question. The Black Sands leader had been trained-his grip was formal, and his strike swift. It would have been effective against an unarmed opponent.
Gan moved to help Rol with the remaining raiders, which Fehrd barely acknowledged out of the corner of his eye. His attention was entirely focused on Draz.
They circled each other for a moment in the sand, and then Draz whipped his staff in an attempt to strike at Fehrd’s stomach. Fehrd blocked it easily, but Draz pulled back before Fehrd could hook his opponent’s staff in an attempt to disarm him.
Fehrd swung down toward Draz’s ankle, which Draz blocked, but that left his face briefly open as he defended it. Fehrd brought his staff up toward Draz’s chin-which Draz managed to dodge-then swung it around again to try to hit his chin a second time. That time, though, Draz blocked it with his staff, the impact ringing through Fehrd’s arms.
Then Fehrd whirled around to try to hit Draz from the other side, but the sandy ground made it difficult for him to maintain his footing. For a brief moment, he panicked, and Draz immediately went on the offensive, sending the staff right toward his face.
Fehrd managed to deflect it, but he almost lost his grip in the meantime.
Draz snarled and swung the staff around more quickly, and Fehrd was only barely able to get his staff up.
It wasn’t until after Fehrd cried out in pain that he realized that Draz’s staff had smashed into his fingers. It was a struggle to keep those fingers curled in a grip.
So he kicked Draz in the groin.
Expectedly, Draz stumbled backward, making an “ooooohhhh” noise, prompting Fehrd to swing the staff at his head. Draz managed to duck that, but Fehrd kept the arc going, swinging low.
His father’s staff smashed into Draz’s shin, knocking his feet out from under him. He fell onto his back, his staff having fallen to the sand next to him, and Fehrd immediately stood over him, the end of the staff right at his throat.
Smiling, Fehrd said, “Not bad for a last act.”
Draz snarled. “I don’t think so.”
Fehrd never saw Draz’s hand move, but suddenly it was up, having thrown a bone knife right at Fehrd’s chest.
Oddly, he didn’t feel any pain, even though he saw the hilt of the knife sticking out of his chest. But he couldn’t move, though whether from the shock of being stabbed or surprise that Draz would use a knife in a staff fight, he honestly wasn’t sure.
“Fehrd.” That was either Gan or Rol, Fehrd couldn’t tell.
He just stood there like an idiot, the knife sticking out of his chest.
Then he saw Rol beating the unholy crap out of Draz while Gan stood in front of him. “Fehrd.” Gan was saying-but his voice sounded like it was miles away. “Are you all right?”
“I-”
Fehrd swallowed, and it tasted like acid.
“I seem to have a knife in my chest.”
Then he finally fell over.
The last thing he heard was Gan screaming at the top of his lungs.
Somehow it just figured that the last thing he’d ever hear was Gan carrying on about something …
Gan’s left eye itched.
He stood and watched the funeral pyre they’d made up for Fehrd and the members of the Black Sands Raiders who didn’t get away. The flames licked into the night sky.
You didn’t bury bodies in the wastes. Corpses attracted predators, and it was impossible to bury a body deep enough to be hidden from them-not with the way the sands shifted. So you waited until dark when it got very cold, and you burned the bodies. In death, they still served a purpose: to keep the caravan from freezing. It got cold at night, and by the time things settled down in the caravan and all the bodies were gathered in one place, and the possessions of the dead distributed among the survivors, as was traditional, it was near sunset.
As the red sun sank below the horizon, the bodies of the raiders and of Fehrd were set afire.
Gan always used to understand the hard practicality of it. That night, he had a harder time doing so.
For all his bravado to Fehrd earlier that day, the fact was Gan knew that it was his own damn fault that they had been stuck traveling the wastes on foot. And in the privacy of his own mind, he was willing to admit to himself, at least, if not to Rol and Fehrd, that he’d been an idiot. For some reason, Gan had been arrogant enough to think that he would be the one to beat Hamno Sennit at the game that he always won at.
If he hadn’t been such an idiot, they might have had the crodlus. If they’d had the crodlus, they would have been at Raam, and never even encountered the raiders. True, the people of the caravan would’ve been robbed, but people got robbed in the wastes all the time. It wasn’t Gan’s responsibility to help all of them.
It was his responsibility to look out for Fehrd-indeed, it was their mutual responsibility to look out for each other.
He and Rol, they’d failed Fehrd. And it was entirely on Gan.
A man walked up to Gan from his right side, which was the only reason why Gan noticed his arrival, since that was the only side where he had any peripheral vision. He’d been introduced to the man earlier, but had no recollection of the man’s name. That was primarily because the introduction had taken place only a short time after Rol had pried Gan off of Draz’s corpse, Gan having stabbed him several dozen times. Gan’s memory of that particular time was fuzzy at best. The man was human, at least, and had thick black hair and an equally thick beard, both of which were curled into ringlets.
“I, ah,” the man said haltingly, “wanted to, uhm-to thank you again. You and your friends saved our lives. I’m-I’m truly sorry that your friend died.”
Having no interest in discussing Fehrd with a perfect stranger, Gan turned his one-eyed gaze on the man. “Look, uh-I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“I’m called Yarro. I’m the caravan master. We’re traveling to Raam-all, that is, save for the slave traders. They’re staying on the Great Road, heading to Urik.”
Nodding, Gan said, “We’re also bound for Raam. And we’re running late. If we could travel with you …”
Yarro breathed a loud sigh. “We were hoping you’d say that. We were already robbed once, before the slaver joined us, and we fear that a third attack will destroy us.”
“Don’t worry.” Gan put a hand on Yarro’s shoulder. “We were caught off guard-Rol and I will be ready this time, and the only people who’ll get hurt are the bastards who try to harm this caravan.”
It was bravado, but it was what they always said when they started a job. Normally, Fehrd was the one providing that reassurance, of course, but Gan figured he needed to get used to it.
“What brings you to Raam?” Yarro asked.
“My sister.” That, for the first time since he was cheated in that damned frolik game, prompted Gan to smile. Thinking of Feena always did that. He adored his little sister, and right then, seeing her ice blue eyes and curly blond hair was the most important thing in his life. “She’s working for some traveling merchants. They’re in Raam for the bazaar.”
Yarro frowned. “I think that bazaar ends for the season tomorrow-or perhaps the next day. And we’re still three days out of Raam.”
“I know. They’ll wait for us.” Despite his words, Gan wasn’t at all convinced that that was the case. Feena would ask, of course, and Komir would probably also speak up for Gan, but Serthlara and Shira hated him, and Karalith didn’t think all that highly of him either. He wouldn’t put it past them to go on without them.