‘I don’t need looking after,’ she warned Gaved.
‘Should make earning my wage that much easier, then,’ he replied, frowning a little as though he was trying to work out what was different about her. Abruptly, she turned her back on him, stretching out on the ground to sleep, as though she spent every night in the wilds. It was not so much that she wanted to dismiss him from her thoughts as that she felt her hand being drawn towards her sword hilt by the Wasp’s mere presence.
It was barely dawn when she awoke, sitting up abruptly with her blade in her hand. The sentries Whitehand had posted were just at that moment rushing into camp. It seemed the brigands were approaching.
‘They’re later than we’d thought,’ the Mantis was saying. ‘They must have rested up at least part of the night, and they’ll be fresher, but we only need to hold them until the rest arrive. Fetch me all of our archers.’
By the dawn light Tynisa could see their surroundings better: to their right the land rose in rocky steps, to the left, whence they had come, the ground was scrubby and uneven, fit pasture only for goats. The ten who Isendter had picked to fight mounted were already assembling there, a little way from the main force, leaving room for a charge. Northwards was a ragged forest edge, but Whitehand had chosen this clear ground for their stand, ground that the retreating brigands would be forced to cross.
‘They’re on their way.’ Gaved appeared at her elbow, and she had to fight fiercely to keep her sword still.
‘How do you know?’
He pointed upwards, and she saw a shape pass across the lightening sky: a dragonfly rider circling. Alain, is it? She was abruptly convinced that it must be, for even if his mother had kept him back from the fight, he would still want to play his part. And he will see me.
Whitehand had set the archers up on their right flank, up amongst the rocks, leaving perhaps thirty spearmen and swordsmen to hold the centre. Tynisa saw what would happen if a large force struck them: we will be folded back against the high ground. It would guard their backs, but they would have nowhere to go. The meagre cavalry could charge in then, but if the enemy were ready, then the horsemen could meet a rain of arrows.
‘What if they just stand off and shoot?’ she asked.
Whitehand glanced back at her. ‘They have few good bows amongst them. Our reach is greater and our aim better, or else the flower of the Commonweal has fallen far since last it was tested.’
The last time it was tested was the Twelve-year War, she reflected. Even though she knew, as a matter of absolute faith, that the odds did not matter, that the greater the foe the greater the glory, and the more chance she had to show her skill, some small sane part of her was noting that this action would stand or fall on the organization of the brigands, and the speed with which the relief force arrived.
She met Gaved’s gaze, and saw the same knowledge reflected in his eyes. And you will fly for your life, if it comes to that. The thought occurred to her, almost hungrily, that it would be easy enough to be rid of him in the fight, and nobody need know. The idea of shedding a Wasp’s blood seemed vastly attractive: this Wasp, any Wasp . . .
For a moment she felt almost dizzy with the number of conflicting thoughts inside her head. She remembered Sef, and the former slave’s simple happiness. She remembered how she had been a guest in Gaved’s house, that she had fought alongside him.
‘Stay away from me, when it starts,’ she forced out, fighting with herself to get the words spoken.
He regarded her doubtfully and she spat, ‘I don’t care what Felipe told you to do, just stay clear of me. I might . . . I can’t . . .’ She bit down on the words, either reasserting control or losing it. Something of the strangeness about her had got through to him, though, and he backed off. She could only hope it was enough warning. She also hoped it would not be enough. She had saved him, she would kill him: she felt a desperate need to simplify her world by going elbow deep in the blood of her enemies. Any enemies.
At that point she spotted the first outrunners of the brigands, a few scattered bands at first, but it was as though the woods were oozing with them, forming ever-deepening pools of shabby, patchily armoured men and women that gathered at the treeline, staring outwards. Whitehand walked to the fore, waiting for them with his clawed gauntlet on his hand, distinctive in his pale grey leathers. Tynisa guessed that his name would be passing among their enemies: the champion of the Salmae had come in person to meet them.
She moved to the Mantis’s side. ‘And if they won’t come against us?’
‘Then they’re more craven than I thought,’ he replied smoothly.
‘Our archers may outreach them, but they have more. Once they’ve found their range, why should they not stay out there and just drop arrows on us?’
He glanced at her, expressionless. ‘Then we shall have to go to them.’
She nodded, satisfied, and went to find a horse. There were plenty spare, of course, but few of them in any proper condition to go out and fight, worn down as they were by the night’s ride. But then I won’t need one for long, Tynisa reflected, and saddled the most promising mount, as best she could.
The brigands were advancing from the woods now, creeping forward cautiously and no doubt trying to discern where the rest of Whitehand’s force was hidden. They gathered out of bowshot, a great unruly mass of villains, and milled and tried to order themselves, clearly unwilling to commit to the fight. They could see the glittering armour of the nobles and even now, at the height of their rebellion, the sight of their former lords and masters in such numbers was unsettling them. No doubt they were expecting hundreds of peasant levy to spring up from the earth. Still, the idea must be trickling through their ranks: What if this is all there is?
‘Archers ready,’ Whitehand called, not loud, but his voice carried to the last of his followers. The brigands were building up their courage, realizing that, yes, they really did outnumber the enemy five to one. A quick strike now could stand as revenge for any number of punishments and slights received from the aristocracy.
Isendter Whitehand’s eyes narrowed, watching their hesitant approach, one hand half raised. Every bowman kept that pale glove in the corner of his eye as they chose their target. At Isendter’s smallest gesture, they all loosed together.
With so many close-packed enemies, it would have been near-impossible to miss, and Tynisa saw several brigands crumple in their front line. Then returning arrows peppered the air, mostly shot from the small hunting bows the bandits carried and falling far short. A few of the enemy must be better equipped, though, for the odd shaft flew far enough to land between the well-spaced defenders, and the man beside Whitehand took a shaft in the shoulder, between the plates of his mail.
Whitehand’s own bowmen let fly again, determined to make the most of their advantage, but Tynisa had seen just how many arrows had flown in reprisal. If the bandits gathered the courage to close half of the distance, they would have enough bows to devastate Whitehand’s people in short order.
She pulled herself up into the saddle and guided her newfound steed around the edge of their lines, until she came alongside the front rank. At first the brigands had fallen back, out of longbow range, but she saw that they were re-forming, organizing. If she looked carefully, she could see a few of their number hustling the rest into order, exhorting them to press forward. One of those, she knew, must be their elusive leader. She had seen him, she was sure, a Dragonfly-kinden man with greying hair and a fiercely determined manner. He had nearly put an arrow through her on more than one occasion, and she had nearly put her sword through him. But today I shall catch you, she thought. You shall be my gift to Alain.
For a moment the brigands refused to be drawn, stepping into the light rain of long arrows and then flinching back, but at last their leaders motivated them enough to surge forward, with the Salmae arrows picking at them but unable to slow them, and then they were within their own bowshot, and arrows from the more optimistic brigand archers began to feat
her across the gap. The rest of them were urged forward another dozen yards, to a range where their weapons might do the most good.
Tynisa noticed Whitehand’s little detachment of cavalry ready itself, but a charge of only ten riders into that great mass of men would surely vanish without a trace.
So what about a charge of one? she wondered, as the arrows started to come down, first a few, then thicker and thicker. She saw Whitehand gather himself to give the order, but could not know whether it was to retreat or to charge. She would take the responsibility of that decision away from him.
She dug her heels into her horse’s flanks and the beast rushed forward blindly, She caught a brief glimpse of Isendter’s expression, as she coursed into the space between the two massed forces, her horse drawing an oblique course towards the right-hand extreme of the enemy’s front line.
The bandits saw her, of course, and she saw them react. There was a flurry of motion within their ranks, and then the arrows were speeding for her, cutting past her on both sides like the flight of dragonflies. She had her rapier directed straight at the enemy, alongside her horse’s head.
Behind her she heard shouting, and then Whitehand’s order to charge. You will thank me, she thought, her mind as calm as a pond, for showing you the right decision. Retreat was cowardice. The only way was onwards. Whitehand himself must be Mantis enough to recognize such a fundamental truth.
She felt the shuddering impact as the first arrow found her mount, then a second a moment later. A shaft tore across her shoulder, another nicked her thigh. By then she was on them.
Her mount failed at the moment before she would have smashed into them, collapsing to its knees with a sound of agony, but she was prepared for that. Giving the dying animal no thought, she leapt to the ground over its bowed neck, now within reach of the brigands, and began killing those closest. They had made their front lines out of archers whose weapons were suddenly useless to them, and for the first few seconds her fight consisted entirely of killing defenceless people in the act of dropping their bows and reaching for knives. She spun and glittered amongst them, her rapier etching red lines in the air on all sides, creating a steel web that caught anyone within her reach until she had cut a space amongst them. They might have been able to use their bows against her in that moment, but she was already leaping on, driving a one-woman wedge into the very heart of their formation.
She felt the reverberation as the cavalry struck home almost unopposed, and the balance of Whitehand’s force was not far behind, though enough of the brigand archers had kept their heads to make the Mantis’s charge a difficult one. That was his problem, though, as Tynisa’s thoughts were all now focused on the perfection of her dance.
The Spiders used the word ‘dancing’ to refer to their endless round of politics, but for the Mantis-kinden, Tynisa’s true inheritance, it meant something far cleaner and deadlier.
The enemy were all around her but, because of that, they were crippled: unable to run, unable to bring their spears to bear on her or to swing their staves and axes without striking their fellows. Her rapier seemed able to pass through them as though they were air. She gave the weapon its head and it leapt joyously about her, weaving its killing patterns. Soon they started trying to scatter, shoving their own allies aside in their haste to remain amongst the living.
Isendter had now arrived. She felt the movements of the enemy mob change as he struck against them, sending their foremost scattering. She kept forcing her way inwards, lashing her rapier behind at those who thought her back would be an easy target. She was looking for the telltale signs of someone giving orders.
A brief glance told her that her own fellows were having a hard time of it. Whitehand was giving a bloody account of himself, but the sheer numbers of the enemy had brought his charge to a standstill, and his followers were dying left and right of him. The archers up on the bluff continued to drop arrows into the close-packed brigands, but were taking twice as many in reply. The cavalry had broken off and were wheeling for another charge, after leaving two of their number behind.
Tynisa’s ears were suddenly ringing with thunder, causing a moment of utter confusion in which an opportunistic spearman almost killed her outright. I know that sound. A nailbow, she realized with shock, dragged out of her bloody reverie. Who in the Commonweal would possess such a thing?
The weapon spoke again, and this time she spotted its wielder. A determined-looking Wasp-kinden had begun unleashing it on Whitehand’s people, its impact punching men and women off their feet. Tynisa went for him without a further thought, clearing others from her path like chaff.
He noticed her at the last moment, or someone had warned him, and she saw the Wasp drag the nailbow around towards her, but too late. He hauled on the trigger and the weapon boomed, a single bolt zipping past her ear even as she thrust her blade into the device’s workings. That was not a feat a rapier would normally have been capable of, for the nailbow was made of heavy steel, solid and durable enough to withstand the percussive recoil of its use, but her blade nevertheless sheared through some vital part of it and silenced the thing for ever.
Withdrawing the blade, she noted with approval the Wasp’s expression of disbelief, then an arrow rammed her shoulder and knocked her down.
For a second the pain of it utterly destroyed her, so large in her mind that there was no room to think of anything else.
Then it was gone again, caged away in the furthest recesses of her skull, and she had already leapt to her feet, the sword that had flown from her right hand now secure in her left.
She saw him again: the same Dragonfly with greying hair, the man she had picked as their leader from the moment she saw him. He was right there in front of her, hauling the Wasp out of the way. His eyes met hers and the shock of recognition was mutual.
He suddenly shoved the Wasp away, his off hand reaching for his quiver. She thought she had him then, for she was closing the ground between them so swiftly that he could never have drawn the bowstring, but his wings flowered at his shoulders, casting him backwards over the heads of the scrum, and an arrow lanced from his bow even as he reached the apex of his leap. She felt the arrowhead already in her shoulder grating shallowly against her flesh as she ducked, felt his shot kiss the blade of her sword, enough to divert the shaft from her, and then she was going after him, felling anyone luckless enough to get in her way. The Dragonfly already had another arrow nocked, but he was clearly loath to risk killing one of his own, so she used that against him, not allowing him a clear shot until she was almost on him. A spearman tried lunging for her, and she whipped her rapier across his throat almost casually, her eyes still fixed on the brigand chief. She saw the moment when he understood that he would have no choice but to shoot, and she shared it with him. As he let the arrow fly she was already moving, tipping the collapsing spearman into the way so that the shaft ploughed into his dying flesh and not into hers.
The Dragonfly’s wings flashed once more, as she lunged for him open-handed, catching his ankle and feeling the pull of his wings, almost fierce enough to wrench her arm from its socket. For a moment she was off the ground, and then the two of them tumbled back into the fray.
Her left hand, which had been weaponless for a moment in order to seize him, found the comforting grip of her sword in it again, the weapon coming and going obedient to her will in accordance with the secret lore of the Weaponsmaster. Alive, he must be alive. She lanced for his leg, seeking to cripple him, but he rolled aside, coming up into a crouch with his bow raised and ready. In the frozen moment she could only admire his mastery, delighted to find a worthy opponent amidst all this dross.
Just as he had the string drawn back to his ear, she drew the tip of her blade across the taut arch of the bow, cutting the weapon in two.
The arrow struck her ribs, his aim a moment from driving it through her body. As it was the shaft spun at her sideways, staggering her but drawing no blood.
The loose and jagged end of the bow w
hiplashed back into his face, and he hit the ground hard with his shoulder, one hand pressed to the wound.
She had a fight on her hands then, for all around were his followers, and enough of them had registered their leader’s jeopardy and were trying to save him. She disposed of three with swift, economic passes of her blade, but then Whitehand’s men were on all sides of her, the Mantis himself leading their rescue attempt.
She dismissed them, let Whitehand fight the minions while she went after their leader. The man had got back to his feet now, although there was a bloody weal across his face. In one hand he had a Commonwealer punch-sword: a short, vicious blade projecting straight from a shielded knuckleguard. He must have known that she was by far the better duellist, and she expected him to take flight again and force her to chase him, but he went for her instead, trying to get in under her longer reach.
She drilled him in the thigh, where she had intended to catch him all along, and he fell back on to one knee, but his eyes remained watchful and waiting.
There. She turned, sensing a threat from her right, but it almost caught her anyway. Not a man but a beast: a low-slung hunting scorpion bolting towards her from the melee, one pincer opened wide and reaching to crush her ankle. She hopped aside, awkward with surprise, and its sting missed her leg by only inches.
The Dragonfly took advantage of the distraction, but she tilted aside from his lunge, letting the punch-sword pass within an inch of her back, while smacking her elbow into his chin. She stepped this way and that, dancing an angled course around the scorpion’s claws as it tried to pin her down, and then her blade severed the last three inches of its stinger and stabbed down to pierce the beast amidst its clustered eyes.
She felt the swirl of fighting humanity about her eddy and shudder, and knew without seeing that the relief force must have arrived at last. That meant they had held up the brigands long enough for Lowre’s trap to be sprung, so it only remained for her to ensure that the bandit chief himself did not escape.
Heirs of the Blade (Shadows of the Apt 7) Page 42
