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“Jenah of the Gewindi Clan,” the man said. “Now rise and lead me to these friends of yours. One ambush would be more than sufficient for this night.”
Jenah extended a hand, and Giri grasped it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. With a low whistle, Jenah signaled whatever companions might be nearby, then walked at Giri’s side as they made their way back along the road. Within minutes, Giri heard Ratha’s almost silent hiss, echoed a moment later by Archer.
“Be in peace,” Giri said, keeping his voice low. “I come with Jenah of the Gewindi Clan.”
Archer and Ratha rose from behind rocks, seeming to materialize only an arm’s length away. Archer’s eyes were hard and cold. “By what right do you capture my companion and friend?”
“By the right of a warrior who dislikes surprises in the night,” Jenah said. Even in this dim light, Giri could see Jenah’s face harden as he looked at Archer and took in his much lighter skin. “And any companion and friend of your kind is hateful to mine.”
Giri didn’t know whether Archer would detect the deadly threat in Jenah’s choice of words. He spoke quickly. “I am grateful that you slew me not, Jenah Gewindi. Now slay not my friends, for you know naught of them, naught of their motives, and I dare say naught of greater forces that placed us in this chance encounter tonight.”
Before Jenah could respond, Giri drew his sword and held it by the blade, with an infinitesimal dip of his head. “On pain of Keh-Bal, I place myself and my friends in your service.”
“On pain of Keh-Bal shall you serve,” Jenah replied, taking the sword by the hilt and turning it around before offering it back to Giri. “Come quickly now. There is dark work to be done.”
“I must first let the rest of my company know where we are going,” Archer said. “By Giri’s oath, I will return.”
“Can he be trusted?” Jenah asked.
“With more than your life,” Giri replied. His tone left no room for doubt or argument.
Tom Downey peered into the darkness, trying to make out a shape to go with the approaching sound, a sound that was too deliberately noisy to seem like a threat. “Who goes there?”
“’Tis only me,” Archer said, appearing out of the night. “We are discovered.”
Behind Tom, Sara Deepwell and Tess Birdsong stiffened.
“Is there trouble?” Sara asked.
“Aye, there will be soon,” Archer said. “Giri was met by another Anari, who apparently intends to ambush the Bozandari patrol we’ve been shadowing. He has pledged us to the fight, as well.”
Tess looked up with almost hollow eyes. “We knew there would be more fighting. But so soon?”
Archer shook his head. “Milady, I cannot choose the time and manner of the Anari rebellion. Giri and Ratha are committed to its cause, and a noble cause it is. We have already sworn to help them. Apparently that begins tonight.”
“We follow you, Archer Blackcloak,” Sara said, drawing her sword. “Where you lead, we will go.”
Archer’s long black cloak was tossed on the night wind, a fold blowing back over his shoulder to reveal the gleaming hilt of his long sword. For an instant, just an instant, Tess thought she saw a shimmer about him, the ghost of a younger, happier man. Then the shimmer vanished and he was once again the hardened warrior.
“The three of you must stay here,” he said flatly. “The horses must be protected, and I need you, Sara and Tom, to guard the Lady Tess. I sense her part in matters to come will be of extreme importance. Regardless, we cannot risk two Ilduin needlessly.”
Both Sara and Tom seemed about to voice a protest, but then nodded. “Very well,” Sara said, sheathing her sword once more. “Mayhap we can do more as healers this night.”
“Of that,” Archer said, “I have no doubt. But should we three fall, you three must return to Whitewater.”
Tess abruptly rose to her feet. “Don’t fail,” she ordered.
A low chuckle escaped Archer, and he bowed. “I shall do my very best, Lady.”
Then, this time moving with silent stealth, he disappeared back into the shadows among the rocks, lost to view.
Tom looked at Sara and Tess. “I think we should follow him.”
But before anyone could respond, the shadows moved again, and they found themselves looking at the drawn swords of five dark-skinned Anari. They were surrounded.
“You will stay here,” one of them announced, “until your companions have proved themselves to be true.”
Tess sighed and dropped back down beside the small fire. “They’re true enough,” she muttered. “Truer than this night is cold.”
Tom squatted beside her, as did Sara, holding their hands out to the warmth.
“Truer,” Tom answered beneath his breath, “than one among our captors, I fear.”
Sara nodded. Tess remained motionless, feeling the tingle and burning begin in the palms of her hand. Something built within her, and for the first time she had an inkling of what it was. Slipping her hand within her cloak, she grasped at the bag of twelve colored stones nestled between her breasts.
“Aye,” she said presently. “Evil is near.”
Archer, Giri and Ratha climbed the ridge alongside the northern Anari. Soon they reached its ragged, bare top and peered over once again at the column of soldiers marching so arrogantly down the darkened road.
Jenah spoke to them. “We will attack in three groups after they enter the defile ahead. One group will attack the column’s head, another its rear. The third group will be archers, firing from above.” He eyed Archer’s quiver. “You will be with the third group. Ratha and Giri will divide among the others.”
Ratha spoke. “My brother and I always fight together.”
Jenah’s face hardened. “Not this time. I do not yet trust you fully.”
“A fine way to treat an oath of Keh-Bal.”
“The oath is meaningless if the witness to it is dead.”
Ratha and Giri both stiffened, but before they could respond to the insult, Archer waved them to silence.
He turned to Jenah. “Have you searched any farther, or have you followed only this column?”
“This column,” Jenah said. “As have you.”
Archer gave a short nod, acknowledging that the Anari force had been aware of his party for quite some time. “Yes, and since darkfall, their behavior has been troubling.”
Jenah frowned. “How so? They are behaving exactly as they did all day.”
“That is what concerns me.”
Jenah eyed him narrowly. “Why would they be baiting a trap? They know nothing of my group.”
“Perhaps not,” Archer replied. “But perhaps caution is the order of the evening.”
“Gewindi-Tel has committed to this attack,” Jenah said. “It was decided among the elders six days ago. I will not shame my Tel by cowardice, and your companion has sworn himself to my side. We attack.”
Archer nodded. “The oath is sworn and will be met. However, there is evil afoot in this night. My companions and I have faced much, braved much, endured much. If we are to die this night, let us die together.”
After a long, silent stare, Jenah nodded. “Very well. You will join the rear attack force. And Keh-Bal upon you if your deeds match not your words.”
As the moon settled on the far mountains, Ratha watched the Bozandari patrol reach the head of the defile through which they had been marching, break ranks and prepare to make camp. “Not long now,” he whispered.
“Aye,” Archer said. “Jenah is a wise leader. He will wait until they are settled, then fall upon them. I only pray that he has not been led into a trap.”
Ratha studied Archer’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded slowly. In the past six years, he had seen much in those eyes. Never had those eyes led him astray, and oft had they kept him from danger. Yet even after all of that, Ratha’s cultural memories were strong, and it seemed odd to be standing beside a white man as his brothers prepared to do battle against white men. The man Ratha had been would not trust a man like Archer in such a battle. The man he had become could not imagine a more worthy companion.
Below him, the Bozandari had settled. Ratha knew that Jenah and his men were moving silently into the valley like a red adder stalking a desert hare, slipping from rock to rock, shadow to shadow, preparing to strike their prey. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the other Anari around him rise into low crouches. He rose with them, moving with patient, deadly purpose to close the rear of the trap.
With a shrill, trilling cry, Jenah signaled the attack, and forty Anari rose from the rocks to fall upon their nearly sleeping enemy. Ratha spotted a wide-eyed Bozandari soldier reaching for a sword. No sooner had his hand closed around the hilt than a blade flickered out of the night and severed his head, sending him into eternity with that same wide-eyed stare.
Now the rear force was upon the enemy, as well, and Ratha, Giri and Archer took up their familiar close battle tactic, blades flashing in synchronized efficiency, parrying and killing in a relentless rhythm of destruction. Archer’s world narrowed to the space immediately in front of him, Bozandari blades flashing in the cold blue moonlight, his breath smooth and even as he matched strides and movements with his companions, the three of them a single entity with but one awful purpose.
Suddenly, in the distance, a sputtering fire arced into the air, lighting the valley in an eerie red hue. Three more flares burst upward, trailing a graceful tail of sparks, before bursting into flame high overhead. Cries of horror told the rest of the tale.
“It’s an ambush,” Archer hissed.
“Yes,” Ratha replied. “We have been led into a trap.”
Dozens of Bozandari seemed to materialize beyond the mouth of the defile, falling upon the Anari with the same sudden savagery that only recently had engulfed the members of their patrol.
Off to Ratha’s right, Jenah screamed commands above the din of battle, trying to reorient his men to the new threat, but too many were still engaged with the Bozandari in the patrol. Blood flowed all but invisible in the red light of the flares, evident only as glistening geysers erupting from throats, bellies and the stumps of freshly hewn limbs. Screams of pain and rage mixed with the clang of metal upon metal, drowning out any attempt to restore order to the shattered Anari.
“Massacre,” Ratha muttered, still hacking his way forward with his companions. “They will all die.”
“We must echelon right,” Archer said. “We will move toward Jenah. He must know that Giri has kept his oath.”
“Aye,” Ratha said. He glanced over to Giri. “Echelon right, on Lord Archer’s command.”
Giri nodded and, at a single word from Archer, the three men pivoted an eighth-turn in perfect unison. Step by step, slain foe by slain foe, they angled across the melee toward the Anari leader. Ratha stepped into the belly of a still-thrashing Bozandari soldier, noticing the dying man only to the extent necessary to keep his own balance and stay with his companions.
Soon they could see Jenah’s back, almost within reach, as the tall, broad man tried in vain to protect two of his wounded brothers from another wave of Bozandari soldiers. The Bozandari fought with patient intensity, shoulder to shoulder, shields nearly overlapped, save only for enough space to deliver a scything thrust with each step. Anari courage and honor stood no chance against such training and discipline. It was only a matter of time.
Ratha and his companions reached Jenah at the same instant as the Bozandari wave.
“Jenah!” Archer cried. “Fall in behind us!”
Jenah shook his head. “I must die with my Tel.”
“Then you are a fool!” Ratha said, breathing heavily as his sword whirled against the Bozandari ranks. “What profit is your death except to our enslavers? You are betrayed, and to find the betrayer is now your honor.”
“My honor is my Tel!” Jenah cried, thrusting at an enemy at the very moment that his foot slid across a blood-slicked rock.
Jenah slipped to his knees, his sword lowered for just long enough to allow a Bozandari blade to slash across his back. The blade would have cleaved his spine, had he not risen up to thrust his own sword through the attacker’s throat. But Ratha knew the wound was crippling.
“Blood have you shed for your brothers,” Ratha said. “Your honor is fulfilled. Now fulfill its greater burden and fall in behind us. Revenge for Gewindi-Tel you will have, but not on this treacherous night.”
Fury warred with sorrow in Jenah’s eyes, but after a moment he nodded and circled behind them. Archer gave the command to withdraw, and the three began to step backward over the bodies of Bozandari and Anari, their feet and legs sticky with blood, arms and swords still swirling, keeping their opponents at bay.
Finally they reached the confines of the defile, where the greater Bozandari numbers could not be brought to bear. Recognizing this, and satisfied with the carnage they had wrought, the Bozandari withdrew into the darkness, leaving Ratha and his companions drawing huge gulps of dry air as they finally lowered their swords.
Ratha heard a cry behind him and turned as Jenah slumped to the ground on hands and knees, his head hanging limply, blood dripping from his chin.
“Come,” Archer said. “Let us take him to Lady Tess. Perhaps she can give him aid.”
Ratha nodded, bile rising in his throat as he looked out at the carnage in the dying light of the setting moon. “But she cannot aid them all, Lord Archer. By the gods, she cannot aid them all.”
2
Surrounded by armed men, the small group at the fire could do and say little. Tess felt Sara’s hand steal within hers, grasping warmly. She looked at the young woman and saw not fear, but determination to weather this somehow. Tom, too, looked determined, but he was staring into the fire as if he saw something there other than the leaping flames.
“Tom?” she called quietly.
For long moments he neither moved nor answered. Finally he said, “Patience. Evil will betray itself.”
The counsel to patience was their only option. It wasn’t as if the three of them were in any position to fight five armed warriors. But Tess felt there was more in Tom’s statement. He did that every so often, making a remark that sounded more like formal prayer than mere speech. At such moments, Tess expected to look over into the face of a wizened old man and not one who had barely reached adulthood.
“It is a gift,” Sara whispered, as if reading Tess’s thoughts. “He is a prophet. A seer.”
Tess was startled. True, she remembered little enough of this world. But she couldn’t forebear asking, “Do such exist?”
“Aye,” Sara answered. “Few they are, rarer than glazengold. One of the greatest is in Bozandar. Tales told at my father’s inn say that when foreknowledge overtakes him, he cannot even see the present, speaking only of the future. Oft his words cannot be understood except in hindsight.”
“Hmm,” Tess said, feeling an inexplicable skepticism. “Very useful. So easy to predict the past.”
Sara’s eyebrow arched, and then she shrugged. “’Tis like our powers, Tess. They terrify me. I know not what I do, or how I do it. Do you?”
Tess shook her head. “It feels like riding an untamed horse. It goes where it wills, and I but follow.”
Sara nodded. “But for all that, we cannot deny that it is real. At times, I think it is our curse.”
They both fell silent as they remembered the mage Lantav Glassidor, burning alive as each drop of Sara’s blood touched him as Tess ordered him cleansed. As evil as the hive-master was, neither of them was comfortable with the way in which he had died…even if he had kidnapped and tortured Sara’s mother these past six years.
Tess was troubled, too, by the scar on her palm. Somehow she had stopped Tom’s sword in midair as he went to kill Lantav, but she had not touched the instrument. Yet afterward this reddened scar had appeared on her palm, as if she had reached out and grasped the blade. It was beginning to fade, but it raised questions about what she had done and how. And why her action had affected her physically.
Tess turned her hand over and showed it to Sara. “I did not touch Tom’s blade.”
Sara nodded and turned over her hand. It bore an identical scar. From her palm had dripped the blood that had burned Lantav. “Maybe we Ilduin share each other’s ills.”
Tess stared at Sara’s scar, and a chill crept down her spine. What was going on here? How tightly were the Ilduin bound? And in what ways? She closed her fist. “I do not know what to think.”
“Nor I. Perhaps we share the scar because we shared the experience.”
“Perhaps.” After all, Tess thought, it had been she who had told Sara to cleanse Glassidor.
And little enough they had accomplished in the end, for as they had traveled south to the Anari lands, they had heard rumors of other hive-masters like Lantav, mages who melded the minds of many into one mind.
And worse, they had glimpsed the dark power behind Lantav. Something not of this world, Tess thought. Something greater than any power in this world. Something she doubted she and Sara were strong enough to face.
