Sinking as low as he could into the grass, Ashok called upon the Heart of the Mountain, but this time to heighten his senses rather than his stamina. Immediately his exhaustion magnified, and he was nothing but a skin sack of aching muscles stitched together with pain, but sounds and scents seemed to grow stronger. He could hear the rolling of water over the rocks below, the chirp and clicks of insects, even the muted thumps of the barge poles as they punctured the unseen muck.
A horse snorted.
That distant sound had come from a copse of trees a quarter mile behind the tower. When he focused in on that area, he made out other noises, the creaking of leather—saddles and gloves twisting on spear shafts—and the ping and rattle of armor.
Warriors were waiting for him.
It made no sense. How could they know? There was no way a messenger could have gotten here ahead of him. His initial thought was to circle back, and ambush the ambushers, but these were Vadal men, fulfilling their obligation, and Ashok was the lawbreaker.
Enough killing.
There had to be another way across the river. He would find a hole to hide in until nightfall and then try again. Ashok had made it back to the edge of the reeds when he heard a new noise echoing from the direction he’d come from, horses and hounds, and lots of them. The vibrations and sounds were distant but they were heading this way. If they were coming from the prison, they’d have his scent. There would be no hiding from those dogs, and he’d have no choice but to fight. Even drastically outnumbered, he would more than likely win, but in doing so, lose.
Ashok looked toward the bridge. It was now or never. Calling upon the Heart was instinctive, and as the distant sounds faded so did his physical weakness. Quivering muscles became strong again. A quick glance confirmed that the archer was looking away, so Ashok bolted for the bridge, moving as fast as he could.
The dog began barking again.
The road here was made of tiny, sharp stones, and the gravel crunched beneath his bare feet. The archer heard the noise, turned, and began shouting. Immediately, the door of the arbiter’s building flew open and far too many soldiers poured out, bows already strung and arrows nocked, eager for a fight.
How had they known?
Still sprinting, Ashok grabbed hold of Angruvadal and pulled the terrible sword from its sheath. Immediately it suggested a hundred ways for him to annihilate every potential threat.
But Ashok kept running.
The archer in the tower let fly first. Instinct told him when and how to turn, and the shaft of the arrow exploded into splinters as Angruvadal struck it from the sky. He dodged left and right as several other bowstrings thrummed. The soles of his feet struck wood as arrows embedded themselves in the bridge. Something tugged inside his mind, and Ashok knew to always listen to the sword’s warnings. He threw himself to the side, behind the first of the bridge supports, as an arrow flew through the space where his head had been. Thump. Thump. He could feel the impacts as more arrows struck the wood at his back.
He stepped out, took in the releasing strings, the flashes of red fletching, and a picture of the future formed in his mind. Ignoring the ones that would miss him anyway, he turned Angruvadal in his hand, an extension of his destructive will, and he intercepted the speeding arrows. Several shafts split into kindling in a series of black flashes, and Ashok remained standing, unharmed.
That so unnerved a couple of the warriors that they stopped shooting, but most of them were already drawing more arrows from their quivers. Behind the arbiter’s building, someone blew a horn to alert the horsemen. Ashok turned and ran.
The great bridge was a hundred yards long. He was halfway across it in a few heartbeats, but had to stop so suddenly that it put splinters into his feet when he saw that there were warriors on the other side as well. They’d been concealed in the village until the horn had sounded, and now they were spilling out of the worker’s huts, archers and halberdiers both. Ashok looked back toward the tower. The waiting cavalry had come thundering out of the distant trees. He was surrounded.
The barking war dog had escaped its handler and was running after him. It was a large brown beast, a hundred pounds of angry muscle and sharp teeth. Such an animal could easily take down a normal man and rend the life from him. Ashok waited patiently for the war dog to catch up, and then he snap kicked it in the mouth. It yelped as it flipped over the railing to tumble into the river far below.
He turned back toward the village. The halberdiers had formed two ranks, shoulder to shoulder, and begun their advance. The archers were behind them, waiting for the order to engage.
“Let me pass,” Ashok shouted.
A risaldar was standing behind the line. “Surrender or die!”
One of the archers either slipped or mistook his officer’s response as a command to release. Angry, Ashok watched the lone arrow come speeding in, then reached up and caught it. He snapped it in his fist, then let both pieces drop to clatter against the boards. That put a stutter in the halberdier’s march. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re the Black Heart, but no criminal is a match for the Sutpo garrison,” the officer proclaimed. His men let up a nervous cheer. That only made it worse. Ashok didn’t want to kill anyone, especially warriors that had such courage and commitment to duty. “Surrender or perish, lawbreaker.”
Angruvadal painted another picture in his head, showing how prior bearers had survived situations similar to this. A plan was presented, and he saw himself charging, moving between the halberds, and cutting a swath of blood through the village, leaving a pile of dead warriors behind him.
No.
With Ashok stubbornly refusing to kill innocent men, Angruvadal had no other answer to give him.
“I cannot surrender.”
The arrows fell like rain.
In a flash of black steel, Ashok dodged and struck more shafts from the air. When he tried to keep moving, he realized that his foot was pinned to the bridge. An arrow had gotten through his defenses, and the shaft had gone cleanly through the top of his foot and embedded itself deep in the wood. He tugged, but that only caused a flash of pain so sharp that it nearly staggered him. While they prepared the next volley, Ashok bent down, took hold of the arrow, snapped the end off, and then carefully lifted his foot. The wooden shaft disappeared through a red hole that quickly filled with blood. At least they were using narrow armor-piercing tips instead of broad heads.
Wincing, he set his bloody foot down, and then limped to the edge of the bridge and looked down at the swift-moving river. The big cargo barge was directly below him, but it was a long drop.
Hooves hit one side of the bridge while armored boots hit the other. The fierce whistle rose again as the morning filled once more with flying death, but by the time the arrows landed, Ashok was already falling.
He hit the barge hard, smashed through an empty crate, and collided with the logs beneath hard enough to shake the entire craft. Ropes snapped and water sprayed over him. Bones had cracked, but none had snapped off to poke through his skin, so he could continue.
When Ashok stood up, the small crew was staring stupidly at the man who’d fallen out of the sky. The two with the poles were obviously casteless, but they must have been eating well, since they were fit and appeared strong from their labor. The third and final one was a worker. He was a tiny man, probably a licensed overseer since he was openly carrying a short sword. But when that cheap little iron pig sticker was drawn free and fearfully pointed in Ashok’s direction, Angruvadal instantly slapped it from his hands, and there was a splash as the cheap sword landed in the river.
The warriors were swarming the bridge above. There wasn’t much time.
“Can you swim?” Ashok demanded. The two casteless nodded yes. Of course fish-eaters knew how to do something so undignified, but the frightened worker just squeaked a sound that sounded like no. The edge of the barge was only twenty feet from the nearest bank, and he wasn’t very big for a whole man. “Very well,” Ashok said as
he sheathed Angruvadal, grabbed hold of the struggling worker by the belt and the collar, spun him hard, and flung him across the distance. He almost made it—probably would have if not for all that flailing—but from the size of the splash and the clack of rocks beneath, the worker had landed in the shallows. He came up thrashing and gasping, scrambling to get out of the water.
One casteless took the hint and had already dived into the river by the time Ashok turned back, but the other one was pointing at him. “It’s you! You’re the one the Keepers have been preaching about! You’ve truly come to free us!”
Ashok snatched the pole from his hands, and then kicked the babbling casteless over the side. He disappeared with a splash.
The barge swayed beneath his feet. It was a very uncomfortable feeling. As soon as the casteless had stopped pushing against it, the current was already carrying the barge back the way it had come, but not nearly fast enough.
Thunk.
Above, archers were sticking their bows over the side. Ashok jammed the pole down and felt it stick in the mire, then he pushed with all his might, sending the barge spinning away from the bridge. He didn’t have to have Angruvadal in his hand to feel its warning, and he ducked behind a stack of barrels as more arrows came streaking in. He kept one hand on the pole as it dragged through the water, because if he lost that, he’d have no way to steer. All he could do was hope that no missiles struck his exposed arm. His cover blocked most of the arrows, but a lucky head slipped through a crack to stab him in the hip.
Within seconds the barge was bristling with arrows. It was a large, slow target. Ashok peeked over the wood, through the new forest of shafts, and saw that some warrior had gotten the bright idea of lighting fire arrows. A torch was swinging back and forth, setting fire to oil-soaked rags. They must have been prepared to ignite the bridge rather than let him pass. Good for them.
The cavalry was wheeling their horses around and galloping back so they could follow him along the shore. This cumbersome raft would have to land somewhere, and they would be waiting for him.
Ashok grabbed hold of the arrow stuck in his hip, but the tip was embedded in his pelvis and didn’t want to come free. Prying now might crack the bone, and that would slow him down too much to outrun a horse, so he left it there. He got out from behind cover, dragged the pole up, and then jammed it down again, pushing the raft further from the bridge. Normally two men did this, but he was working with the current rather than against it, and Ashok was far stronger than any two casteless put together. More arrows flew past him, but he focused on getting out of their range, rather than trying to block or dodge them.
Flaming arrows began to fall on the barge. That was the kind of quick thinking initiative Ashok had always liked to see the warrior caste’s officers exercise against criminals. In normal circumstances he’d order a commendation for such cleverness but it wasn’t so pleasant being on the receiving end. The bulbous fire arrows weren’t as accurate, and had shorter range, so some landed in the river in bursts of steam, but the barge was an easy target, so many more were sticking in the wood. Thankfully the barge was so damp that the fires weren’t catching.
A fire arrow struck the lashed down pile of barrels. He’d been concentrating so hard on the physical struggle that he’d neglected to pay sufficient attention to his surroundings. A thick liquid was dripping from where the barrels had been struck. A strong smell hit his nostrils.
Words had been roughly stenciled on the barrels. Lantern oil.
Already leaking from the earlier hits, the barrels burst into flames. Ashok drew Angruvadal, and in one movement he sliced through the thick ropes lashing the barrels down. He had to get them off before—
A barrel burst. There was a roar and a flash as the oil ignited.
The concussion nearly knocked him over the side.
Ashok found himself face down, one arm in the river, and he flinched and jerked his hand out. He sprang up to discover that his ragged shirt had caught fire. He shrugged out of it and hurled it away, only to find that his long matted hair had caught fire as well. He smacked it out as he assessed the damage. Nearly the entire barge was burning. He’d lost the pole and it was floating away. Smoke was obscuring the bridge. He couldn’t steer and was at the mercy of the current. The sound of impacts told him that the warriors were still firing arrows. A puddle of flaming lantern oil was eating its way toward him. Ropes were snapping as the logs making up the barge’s backbone spread apart. He didn’t know if he’d be immolated first, or if the barge would sink before the fire got him.
He was going to have to enter the water.
Ashok sheathed his sword. Forgive me Angruvadal, but I must submerse you in evil.
At the edge of the barge, he paused, the evil water just beneath his feet. He knew what he had to do, but part of him didn’t want to comply. The idea of vanishing beneath the surface was repellant.
Maybe I can feel fear after all.
And then an arrow struck Ashok square in the back.
The river rushed up to meet him.
Chapter 26
“Ashok has escaped then. So how many warriors did he kill along the way?”
“None, Inquisitor.”
Omand took the pipe from his mouth. “None?” He’d been expecting reports of great slaughter. In fact, he required slaughter, not discretion. If he’d wanted discretion he certainly wouldn’t have picked Black Hearted Ashok to be his villain. “Really? Not one?”
“I suppose he kicked a dog, but that was about it. They had him surrounded, cut off on both sides of Sutpo Bridge, but rather than fight his way through, he leapt into the water,” Sikasso reported.
“He swam?”
“It appears that way,” the wizard answered. He didn’t sound nearly as incredulous as Omand, but since the magical assassins of the Lost House routinely engaged in all matter of blasphemous behavior, swimming probably wasn’t that remarkable to them.
“Our fallen Protector is full of surprises. The only time I like surprises are parties thrown in my honor, or wrapped gifts. Does this strike you as a gift, Sikasso?”
“It does not, Grand Inquisitor.”
They had the top of the tower to themselves. His men had secured the floors around his guest quarters and swept them for spies, magic, and secret passages. Everyone not part of the Inquisition had been sent away, granting Omand some measure of privacy. However, at the base of the tower, the number of Vadal warriors posted as guards had recently doubled, suggesting his hosts had found the body of the murdered arbiter. His hosts most certainly knew about the rampage through the prison, but they’d not mentioned it to him yet. They were playing it carefully. When they could no longer hide the news, there would be lots of bowing and apologizing, and the Inquisition would be showered with obligations and concessions to make up for it. Omand was looking forward to that part. As soon as he was officially notified of the escape, he had a very special favor to ask of House Vadal.
“We’ve not found his body or his sword, but my men are searching the river bottom now.”
“An easy enough task when you can transform into a fish, I suppose.”
Sikasso tilted his head to the side. “You speak as if you’ve never used the black steel yourself, but I can smell it on you, Grand Inquisitor. You’re a far greater wizard than you let on.”
Omand waved one hand dismissively. “I am nothing.” He’d not been the most successful witch hunter in the history of the Order as a result of cunning alone, but he liked keeping his true capabilities secret. It was good to keep his opponents guessing.
“Of course.” Not even Sikasso was bold enough to push that topic. “My apologies for prying.”
“This is most curious.” Omand returned the pipe to the stand. Vadal tobacco was truly the finest there was, far better than the bug-infested garbage that he’d grown up with, and he would have enjoyed finishing it, but he had work to do, letters to write, and hosts to manipulate. He didn’t bother to put his ceremonial mask back on. Sikasso
had seen his true face many times already. “So, when you say he’s escaped, you mean Ashok is truly missing, as opposed to one of your men being so eager to lay his greedy hands on an ancestor blade that he saw his opportunity and murdered Ashok during the fight?”
“That is the risk you take when you hire us, but no.” Sikasso was still wearing his stolen Protector armor. It was so spattered with dried blood and caked with mud that the silver no longer gleamed. The wizard was civilized enough to remain standing, and not soil the fine silk pillows with his filth. “You have my word. My men are scouring the countryside and watching every possible path. We will find him.”
“And then you will watch him. I know it pains you so, but he’s still more valuable alive than dead for now.” Omand could see the greed in Sikasso’s eyes. He was a collector of magic, and Ashok was walking around with a treasure trove of it. Despite all his talent, all that power and cunning, Sikasso was just as easily manipulated as any other man. As long as Omand could supply him with what he wanted, he would remain a dog on a leash. “Don’t worry, Sikasso. You’ll have that sword in time. This is Ashok we’re talking about. If he’s alive, just follow the inevitable trail of corpses. If he’s dead, then you’ll find the sword somewhere. If the warriors do manage to kill him, make sure his body and the witnesses disappear, and I’ll simply pay you to create chaos in his name from then on.”
“That would be far simpler.”
“I’m the Grand Inquisitor. I didn’t earn the title by being simple.”
“Your plans are beyond my meager imagination, my lord.”
“On the contrary, I believe you have a far better grasp of politics than you let on.” That dig was payback for the assumptions about Omand’s magical abilities. The assassin’s house had managed to survive undetected in a lawless no man’s land for generations, so Sikasso was extremely astute. “I assume that when Ashok failed to provide a convincing enough display of savage casteless rebellion, you did it for him?”
Son of the Black Sword - eARC Page 25
