Was he trying to help her, talking like that? Or trying to slow her down so he could rest?
Not fair. He’d never slacked off during daylight, not even when his belly growled louder than hers did. He’d struggled on with his fraying crutches and never complained about them sinking into the mud, not even when she had to come back and pull his sticks out for him.
Of course, he mostly got stuck wandering off the trail. What was he doing out there? She’d never asked.
He’d been gathering food. Each time he got stuck, he had a pocketful of big berries or sweet leaves or a root of some sort. And every time he gave her twice as much as he ate himself.
Her belly growled at her.
There was a little dry rice in her bag. She shrugged it and the harp case off her shoulders. It was hard to be sure in the bit of moonlight shining through the trees, but she didn’t see no fallen branches. Likely the locals grabbed every bit of dry wood on the trail and carried it home.
Not a problem. She’d gone hungry and thirsty lots of times at the sword school. Food could wait until morning. She wasn’t all that hungry, anyway.
Pushing her sword sheaths out of the way, she sat down in the dead leaves and leaned against a big oak’s trunk. It sure was quiet out here. She’d have no trouble sleeping until dawn.
A twig broke. Another crackled not far away.
Footsteps? Who’d be out here, in the middle of nowhere? Not the kid. He could move quiet, when he put his mind to it, but he’d sent her away. He wouldn’t try to sneak up on her.
The villagers? Not likely. They’d all looked at her like she might stab them with a wooden stake and pound them into a grave. Fraying vampires, feeding off the poor kid like that.
Could vampires be stalking her? Kid insisted there were no such things, but what did he know? He wasn’t always right. Just mostly.
Dire wolves? No, it sounded like human feet.
That left …
Slavers.
Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. She’d left the kid alone with slavers sneaking around in the night.
She eased to her feet and scanned the area. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but all she saw were thick tree trunks. Dark clusters of ferns crouched like terrified spiders. Moonlight glimmered on shadowy leaves.
Nobody was very close. She’d just sneak past them. The harp in its ratty old case could stay behind, but she better take Emil’s rocks and whatever money the kid had squirreled away in her pack. And the kid’s books. He’d never forgive her if she abandoned his books.
She bent down to pick up her bag.
A rock bounced off the oak exactly where her head had been.
The slavers were hunting her? They’d fallen clear off the Shuttle. Who’d want to buy an ugly thing like her?
Didn’t matter. She’d never let them take her.
She snatched up the rock and hurled it back. Now that was stupid, giving ammunition to the enemy. Not that she could hit anything with a rock herself, but whoever threw it at her had good aim.
She stood slowly and drew her short sword as quietly as she could.
Leaves rustled to her left. She jumped backward and swung her sword.
The slaver laughed at her. His teeth glinted in the moonlight. Frayed thread had some nerve, laughing at her. She’d show him.
Her blade thudded against a cudgel the size of a ship’s mast.
The slaver screamed like a trapped coney, high and thin and shrill. Blood squirted from his fingerless hand. His cudgel thunked against the ground, but he stayed upright.
Lorel kicked him in the gut.
He collapsed to his knees, but kept on screaming.
One out of the way, for a while at least. One or two more hiding behind the trees. But now she couldn’t hear nothing over this frayed thread’s screeching.
She kicked him on the chin.
His head jerked back and he thudded to the ground.
Blessed silence. Now she could listen for the others. But she could still hear his breathing. She hadn’t killed this one.
She hadn’t made sure of him.
Clercmauri’s words came back to her. Why didn’t you make sure he was dead? Why didn’t follow through with your attack?
Was that why the school kicked her out? Because she didn’t kill the snooty snitch?
But killing people was wrong. She still wanted to throw up every time she thought about Kraken’s broken neck, his glazed eyes. About the terror on the faces of the gang when they looked at her. Or the stunned faces of her classmates when Sui’todou went down.
Killing people would get her hung. Regular folks were scared of killers.
What could she do, if she couldn’t kill the enemy? Be a bodyguard forever? A caravan guard? A city guard? But even guards had to kill sometimes to protect their charges.
Killing people was what a warrior did.
Protecting people was what a warrior did, even when it meant killing.
But she’d already failed. She’d been kicked out of the sword school. She wasn’t good enough.
Both Clercmauri and Farouh had called her Lorel Gyrfalcon. The kid named her Gyrfalcon. They all thought she was good enough.
She had to get past her fear of killing people. She wasn’t like the poor kid, scared of lizards and spiders and snakes, fire and dark places, even of his own shadow. She wasn’t scared of nothing. Except killing people.
Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that would remind her to be careful, to not start liking to kill. Maybe it would stop her from becoming one of them mercenaries who fought just because they loved death.
The slaver lying at her feet moaned.
And now she had to choose. Should she kill this guy, just to be sure of him? He didn’t look like he’d be moving any time soon.
Should she kill him, just because the school said she should? That sounded like a stupid reason, even to her, a student of that school.
Wait a minute. Clercmauri never said she had to kill the snooty snitch. He just wanted to know why she hadn’t. If she’d had a good reason, would they still have kicked her out?
So why hadn’t she killed the snitch? Besides being sure they’d hang her for it, of course. Why hadn’t she? Because there was no need. She’d had reinforcements. He couldn’t fight her no more. Not just then, anyway.
And now? Should she kill the slaver or not? He couldn’t hurt her, not with half his fingers gone. What damage could he do?
If she let him live, he’d go back to enslaving people. He’d hurt lots of other folk. Nobody was around to stop him. Except her.
She had to choose.
Lorel rested the tip of her sword between the slaver’s upper ribs and pushed hard. Blood splurted from the wound when she pulled out the blade.
She felt dirty, like she’d ruined something precious. Kraken and Sui’todou, if he’d died, had been accidents. What she’d done here was an execution, nothing honorable.
A deep voice shouted. Leaves crackled as footsteps charged toward her. One, no, two men carrying huge cudgels hurtled toward her.
Sing to the Weaver. Two against one counted as an honorable fight.
The first man raised his club and swung at her.
She stepped back, whipped her sword around, and chopped off his arm just above the wrist. Both hand and cudgel sailed into the forest.
The slaver dropped to his knees and clutched at the stump. Blood squirted between his fingers. He stared at her like he couldn’t believe she’d hurt him.
She was almost as surprised as he was. It never seemed that easy in class. She didn’t have time to make sure of him, but she figured he’d bleed to death soon. If he didn’t …
The other slaver rushed toward her. He hurled his club at her head and kept on running, right back into the dark forest.
Lorel ducked the flying cudgel without even thinking about it.
What a coward. A fraying stupid coward. Didn’t he know better than to give up his only weapon?
What if it
wasn’t his only weapon? What if he went after the kid?
She started to follow him, but hesitated and looked back at the injured slaver. Should she kill him, too? Or risk him sneaking up on her later?
In the moonlight, his eyes looked sorta glazed. With luck he’d bleed out soon. If he didn’t, if he followed her, she’d deal with it then.
She grabbed her bag and the harp case, slung them over her shoulder, and loped back up the trail in the direction she’d left the kid.
Her feet crunched through dry leaves. She wouldn’t be sneaking up on nobody, not while making so much noise. Did she hurry, or slow down and try to be quiet?
Somebody crashed through the leaves ahead of her. Running on two feet, so it couldn’t be the kid. Must be the cowardly slaver. Could she sneak up on him?
She paused and studied the trail. The middle of the path had lots fewer leaves on it than the edges. By keeping at the center of the trail, she was able to sneak, more or less, and walk faster.
The slaver didn’t seem to hear her, anyway. Nobody ambushed her. He kept on crashing through the forest in the direction she’d left the kid.
She skulked after him. She had to get to the kid before the slaver did. Them little fork thingies the kid called weapons worked well enough against wooden swords, but they wouldn’t work against cudgels.
Who was she kidding? Even if he got a fork thingy into his hand, they’d just smack away his crutches. Crippled like that, he was helpless.
She never should’ve left him. She knew she needed to protect him. But he made her so fraying mad, always arguing with her. Always talking too much. Always walking too slow.
Get real. He couldn’t walk no faster, not on crutches and one foot. He hardly ever talked anymore. He only argued with her when he thought it was important.
Had she been unfair to him? Maybe. He surely thought she’d been pushing him around. That would’ve made her mad. She’d’ve frayed all over him, if he’d treated her that way.
Maybe he had reason to send her away.
The sword school had good reasons to dump her. Lots of ’em. Faye’d had lots of reasons to fire her. She knew she hadn’t carried her weight with Faye.
But she hadn’t done nothing to make Ahm-Layel abandon her.
Not fair. Ahm-Layel had a job to do, and it didn’t include teaching an ungrateful wanna-be warrior. The mercenary had to go wherever she was sent. It was part of the job.
Her job was to protect the kid. She’d promised. And she’d let him down.
He screamed her name.
Blood in the Weave, he was screaming her name.
She yanked her sword closer to her chest and charged toward his voice. Leaves crunched under her feet as she ran. If that slaver tried to stop her, she’d run him through.
Light shimmered ahead. A camp fire? The kid’s?
She burst into a clearing.
Three men stood waiting for her. Two held cudgels, the third lifted a heavy branch. So that’s where the coward went.
A dozen people cringed at the center of the meadow. Chains clinked when one lifted her hand. Tsai’dona? What was she doing here? Why wasn’t she with the caravan?
She’d ask the poor girl later.
Where was the kid? He was so little, she might not see him in that group. She had to find him.
The tallest slaver strutted toward her. “How nice you joined our party. Drop the sword.”
Did he really think she was that dumb? “You’ve fallen off the Shuttle, Loom lint. Clear out before I chop you up, too.”
The cowardly slaver squeaked. “I told you that demon chopped your brothers up. Hacked them both to bits. They never had a chance.”
Made a good story, anyway. Even Tsai’dona looked impressed, and she likely knew better.
The last slaver, the one shaped like a pickle tub, wore a silver robe belted up with a thick leather belt. A fraying Paduan. The Loom-breakers had been after the kid for lunars.
He stepped forward and waved his club. He had about as many brains as a pickle, too. He stared at her like he thought she oughta be scared of him.
“Give it up, Pickles. You ain’t half as scary as my thread-snipping brothers.”
Pickles just blinked at her.
The tall guy waved his cudgel at her again. “I told you to drop the sword. You’re not going to like the punishments you’ll get for disobeying me.”
Was he kidding? Nobody’d like anything a slaver did to them, once he got them chained up.
Tall Guy stomped toward her. “Drop that sword, girl. Now!”
What a frayed thread. Could the man be any dumber?
Lorel raised her sword, side stepped, and swung her blade at his neck.
He tried to raise his club, but he was way too slow. Her blade hacked through his neck and collided with his cudgel. Blood splurted into the air.
His head thudded at his feet.
Her sword twisted out of her hand, its blade carved deep into the cudgel’s wood, and fell to the dirt. Her right shoulder felt wrenched half out of its socket. Without her meaning to, her left hand grabbed at the pain.
The slaver’s body spasmed and crumpled to the ground.
Another death. Her gut clenched. She was not gonna throw up. How many did that make? Three for sure, maybe five. No wonder Clercmauri wanted her to be sure of an enemy before she left them.
The cowardly slaver tossed his branch at her and turned to run.
The stick fell several feet short of her position. That guy wasn’t dangerous to anybody but his own self.
Pickles thrust out his club and tripped Cowardly. “She’s unarmed, slug. We’ll get a chestful of gold when we sell her in Padue. Get up.”
What? Didn’t he notice she had another sword? Definitely pickles for brains. Or did he think she was hurt? There was a bunch of blood on her, but none hers. The other slavers must’ve squirted on her.
Cowardly crawled to his feet, grabbed a new branch, and swaggered toward her.
One of the chained women started crying. Tsai’dona pulled her close and whispered to her. All the slaves looked up, suddenly alert.
Nice to know Tsai’dona thought so high of her. Now she just had to live up to that belief.
She didn’t see the kid in the huddle of slaves. Where was he?
Someone screamed her name in the distance.
Bitter blood in the Warp and the Weave. He was still out in the forest somewhere. She had to get to him. Now.
But leaving now meant abandoning these people to the slavers. Abandoning Tsai’dona, who trusted her.
She had to clean up this mess before she could hunt for the kid.
Pickles grabbed up a pair of manacles and stomped toward her. Cowardly closed in from the other side.
These guys were too stupid to live.
Lorel drew her long sword with her left hand and charged Cowardly.
He dropped his branch and ran.
At least he didn’t throw it at her this time. She sprinted after him and stabbed him in the back.
Cowardly wailed and fell face down in the dirt.
He wasn’t dead yet, but he wasn’t moving fast either. She’d make sure of him later.
She spun to face Pickles.
The miswoven slaver flung the manacles at her, spun around, and rushed toward the captives. His club rose over his head.
The manacles’ chain fouled her blade, but she didn’t dare stop. She couldn’t let him take hostages. She wouldn’t let him kill them.
She darted forward and put her body between Pickles and his victims.
He skidded to a halt and glared at her.
The kid’s voice screamed her name, high and shrill. She’d never heard him sound so scared.
Her whole body shuddered. She had to get to him. But she couldn’t abandon Tsai’dona.
Pickles grinned at her. “Your friend needs you. You really gonna dance with me while she’s out there dying? We tied her in front of a swamp rat den. She won’t last long.”
&nb
sp; She forced herself to relax. They never caught the kid if they thought he was a girl. His little boy’s voice must’ve fooled old Pickles.
The kid wasn’t as helpless as he looked. Wasn’t helpless at all, really. He’d defend himself until she got there. He had to. She couldn’t abandon the people here who depended on her.
“Drop the sword and we’ll go rescue your friend.” Pickles lowered his cudgel, holding it like a shield, and strutted closer. “No reason to let her die. I’ll help you.”
Like she believed this frayed thread. Her brothers told more convincing lies. Could she fool him, instead?
She pointed her sword’s tip downward. The manacles clattered to the dirt.
Pickles leapt at her. He tried to hit her head with his cudgel, but she was too much taller.
She stabbed him in the foot.
The miswoven club whacked her left shoulder. Blood in the Weave, that hurt. Her sword slipped out of her numb hand.
She lashed out with her right hand. Her fist connected with Pickles’ chin.
Agony shot up both her shoulders. Weaver’s chamberpot! How was she gonna fight when neither of her arms worked?
Pickles’ body bounced on the ground and lay still.
Had she been lucky and killed him? That move finished Kraken, and laid Sui’todou out cold, if it didn’t kill him outright.
The slaver didn’t move. Didn’t breath. Maybe it was over.
Tsai’dona jingled her chains. “Hey, Too Tall. Keys?”
Lorel blinked and forced her eyes to focus. How long had she stood there? “What?”
“He has the keys.” Chains jangled again as Tsai’dona pointed at Pickles’ waist.
Keys. Right. She knelt next to the body and poked at his belt.
Pickles surged up and grabbed her throat.
She rammed her forehead against his. Darkness burst behind her eyes. Stars whirled like New Year’s dancers.
His fingers loosed for an instant, lost their grip, and tightened again.
No air reached her lungs. Was he crushing her windpipe? It felt like he was breaking her neck. How could she stop him?
Her fingers closed over his, but she couldn’t pry him loose. She clutched at his eyes, but he jerked his head back.
Sorcery's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 2) Page 33
