A wad of something burning thrown in among the horses would give the riders plenty to think about. If Thorn could be sure they might not ride on without finding her party… Thin chance of that! Still, there was the chance; and if she tried lighting a fire, Maldron would know where she was even before she could throw it. What could she make it out of, anyway?
Besides, she was thinking like a damn demon’s-cud. To throw a weapon at other warriors as if they were common outlaw dungflies! By the gods, was she a warrior or a…
She was an outlaw dungfly herself. Maldron’s axewoman had already thrown a knife at her. Smardon’s fingernails, she was going to fight back any way she could!
No, she wasn’t. It would come to the same thing. Make Maldron’s women cut her down, or keep Stabber in her hand so that she could stick him into her own stomach at the end—but fight honestly. No sense giving Smardon any more holds on her than he already had.
Maldron stopped his horse and leaned even farther down. Gods, if only he would fall and crack his own damn skull! But he straightened up and turned his horse away from the ledge. He stopped about ten paces distant, motioning his warriors to move into a semicircle around the boulders. The priestling joined Maldron. Both farmers began to ride slowly back and forth in front of the rock formation. Maldron to the right, the priestling to the left, then back again to meet in the center, both holding their torches high the whole time.
Thorn and Spendwell pressed back between the rocks in their corner. Frostflower did the same in hers. Some of the torchlight reflected in on them, and for a moment they could see one another almost clearly; but Thorn was pretty sure that, even lighted up, the corners of the ledge were deep enough and the front rocks extended far enough to hide them from the sight of those below. Frostflower was doing a damn good job of keeping the dog and the baby quiet.
Nevertheless, whether he could see them or not, the priest must have noticed what a likely hiding place this was. Maldron’s mind would be working through the same thoughts Thorn had examined when she decided to stop here. Smardon’s fingernails gut her, why hadn’t she foreseen this and outguessed him—holed up in some unlikelier place, split up her group and hidden them separately?
Thorn could not see all the warriors, but those she could see were still on their horses. Although a priest might put his warriors on horseback for speedy travel, no woman would stay on horseback to fight. Either Maldron was taking his time because he knew he had his quarry trapped, or he was keeping his women ready to ride on because he was not sure and he wanted to lose no more time here than necessary.
After a moment he rode to the warrior on the far left, talked softly with her, then rode to the far right; and Thorn knew it was over. She could not see the warriors behind Frostflower’s corner of rocks, but she saw the one on her end dismount and approach the formation.
The warrior disappeared from sight, but Thorn knew she was there, close beneath the ledge, waiting for a signal. The warriors would start climbing at the same time, one on each end. Fortunately—if anything could be fortunate at this point—Frostflower’s end was higher and rougher, and would probably take longer to climb.
Thorn pressed her ear against the rock and listened. She heard the warrior start climbing, followed the sounds of her ascent part of the way…now a few pebbles dislodged, now a foot slipping in its toehold and a hand clamping quickly on stone. Then the thunder rolled again, covering the noise of the climber. Thorn glanced at the other end of the ledge. She couldn’t see Frostflower’s expression, but the sorceress sat unmoving, one arm extended to the dog’s head, with the baby a lump of pale blanket across her chest.
Spendwell’s face was closer and clearer. The gag made his mouth an expressionless smear; but, looking at his eyes and brows, Thorn wondered if the waiting might crack him. She squeezed his thigh once, sympathetically, before pressing forward as far as she could go and still keep out of sight.
Hunched at the edge of her rock, she could see the warrior who was climbing up Frostflower’s side; she could still only hear the one on her own side. Hurry up, you clumsy cow! Warriors’ God, what do I do if that other bitch reaches Frostflower first?
The vein trick had worked on Silverstroke back in town. It ought to work here, put at least one or two warriors out of action. There was no sense in killing when it could not save your own guts; and maybe the bitches would remember the favor and repay it by sharing their last bubbles of surface air whenever they sank into Hellbog themselves.
Maldron’s Thorn-side warrior reached the ledge…her fingers slid into view around the rock. Stupid cow, sticking her hand in before she looked. Thorn seized it, caught it back against the rock and slashed her knife once across the wrist, then pulled herself partway round the rock, stabbed once, quickly, higher up the arm, and kicked the woman outward, only releasing her in time to keep from falling with her. Maldron’s woman gave one scream, and her own struggling helped carry her off the ledge, spurting blood all the way. If she was smart, she would try to check the bleeding as soon as she landed.
Meanwhile, Thorn ran across the ledge. There was no more hope of hiding. The horses were whinnying, the warriors shouting, the priest shouting louder. Thorn drew Slicer as she made her dash. She got to Frost’s end with an instant’s breathing space.
The other climber was badly balanced on a narrow edge of rock. Before she could jump forward to better footing, Thorn dodged her spear and drove Slicer’s point into her thigh. By the blood this one left behind as she fell, Thorn knew she had again hit a vein.
She turned to make a quick count and see what side the next attackers would come from. Two out of action—or if they returned to action they would soon bleed themselves unconscious. Eight more women, besides Maldron and his nephew—Silverstroke had told her accurately. Three of the remaining warriors had jumped or slipped off their horses; the rest were still mounted and trying to keep the animals calm.
They won’t have it easy if they all try to climb up at once, Thorn thought; and if they stagger up a few at a time, by the Warriors’ God, I may still have a chance! But—damn! If the priest is smart, he’ll just keep a ring around us until the rest of his women get here. How long before the donkey contingent catches up? Even with eight warriors, he could starve us out. Maybe when the storm hits us, and it should be almost here…
“Snapstick!” said Maldron, and one of the spearwomen raised her arm and hurled her spear.
Thorn dropped to one knee just in time. The spear went over her and struck the rock, recoiling and slithering off the ledge and back to the ground. “Bitches!” screamed Thorn. “Motherpricking priest!”
“Outlaw and blasphemer,” said Maldron. A second spearwoman lifted her weapon to throw it.
Thorn scrambled into Frostflower’s corner and crouched there behind the rocks, breathing hard. An axewoman had thrown her knife in Gammer’s Oak—maybe that could be charged to the axewoman’s own rotten nature. But when a priest ordered a spearwoman to throw at another warrior! Damn his rotten guts to Azkor’s gullet, didn’t some of his kind even claim the Warriors’ God had revealed the rules to a priest in the beginning and not to Bloodraster First of Warriors? Spears were for throwing at thieves and robbers, lust-killers, common outlaw turds, animals when you were out in the wilds and needed food—that was why more spearwomen than swordswomen or axewomen became town warriors and wilderness lawkeepers—but a spearwoman fighting another warrior kept her spear in her hands, weapon against weapon!
Damn them all, I was going to fight honestly and die, but if they’re going to treat me like outlaw dung! The next one who comes up gets it in the crotch!
But Hellbog! They didn’t have to come up.
Thorn found a chink in the rocks on Frostflower’s side and peered out again. At least five of the remaining eight warriors were spearwomen. So the farmer had planned this all along. And Thorn had never even learned to throw her knife effectively—not that she would have wanted to let him out of her hand, not even if she could have la
nded him between Maldron’s slimy lungs. Stone her, she might not even get the chance to fight dishonestly! Maybe she could find something to make those wads of fire…pieces of Frostflower’s skirt and some kind of grease from the food basket? How would she get the chance to throw them, with four or five spears ready to come at her as soon as she ventured out too far from behind the bloody rocks?
The storm, she thought. That’s our only chance. Once the rain starts, if it comes down hard enough, I might be able to slip out. If Maldron doesn’t make his next move before then.
“Blasphemer!” shouted Maldron. “Come out! Accept the quicker death.”
I thought he wanted me alive for his bloody scaffold. Unh. He wants to get in and take Frost right away, and he can’t do it as long as I’m here. “Peel your tongue, farmer!”
Beside her, Frostflower trembled. “Thorn…it would be a quick death.”
“Maybe. And maybe he just wants to get some spears through my arms and legs and save the rest of me for later. Damn him, I’ll take a quick death when I choose, not when he chooses, scorch his guts!”
Lightning hit somewhere not far off. The baby started yelling. Outside, the horses whinnied sharply. Dowl whined.
“The gods themselves strike at you, blasphemer!” cried the priest. “Come out! Take our spears before Meactira blasts both you and the sorceress with you!”
“Let the Lightning Goddess make her own decisions, farmer!”
Lightning…fire-wads…wind and rain…a bolt that had almost hit Thorn, seeming to knock her guts loose and melt her brains, leaving her dazed and terrified for the rest of the afternoon… If Frostflower still had her damn powers…and Thorn thought she did, if only she would admit it to herself.
“Frostflower, show the bloody priest what you can do with lightning.”
“Thorn! I can’t—”
“Don’t snivel! You healed up pretty damn fast once you decided to live, didn’t you? You filled your breasts up pretty damn fast for the grub once you got him back, didn’t you?”
“Thorn, I…I—you must not ask me to—”
“To what? Blaspheme? I’ve blasphemed my gods for you! Frost, Frost, you’ve still got your power! Believe me, you’ve still got your power!”
The sorceress bowed her head, hunched her shoulders, and hugged the squalling brat closer. Her body was shaking. Probably she was crying. “You tell me of my God, warrior? You will not let me slander yours. You tell me you know the ways of mine, better than all the sorceri who have ever lived!”
“It’s the bloody brat, isn’t it? You can’t work while you’re holding the brat. Put him down, Frostflower. Let Dowl watch him awhile.”
“And if you are wrong? If—”
“If what? If you can’t quite get the bolt? If some god or other blasts us because you tried? Look, if I get the brat across to Spendwell and out of the way for you—”
“No! No—you would not let me give him to the merchant before!”
Damn, bloody, cringing little bitch of a sorceress! thought Thorn. I’ll have to—”
“Show yourself, outlaw warrior!” shouted the priest.
“Send a few more of your bitches up here to me!”
“I offer you a clean death, and life to the sorceress. Take it now, or we will heat the rocks!”
Thorn looked out again. There was not much wood in this part of the Rockroots; but two or three of the warriors, under the direction of the priestling, were pulling a few bushes toward the rocks, and someone was getting down a bag that probably contained charcoal or grease. The rest of the warriors still waited facing the ledge, with their spears ready to lift. Maldron sat on his horse, looking smug, keeping the animal calm somehow with his knees while he drew out his ceremonial silver dagger.
“Light your damn fire quick or the storm gods will spit it out for you, priest!” As if to agree with Thorn, Meactira obliged with another bolt of lightning and Eajandur with a loud thundercrash. Thorn turned back to the sorceress. “Frostflower, either you put the brat down and grab the next bolt, or I’ll kill—” Kill the grub? Careful, Thorn, don’t trap yourself again the way you did when you threatened the priestess! “I’ll kill us now, first you and then me!”
Frostflower trembled and closed her eyes. “Yes. Perhaps it is best.”
Azkor’s claws, I don’t even have a good threat left! I’m dead anyway, Frost is the priest’s screw-pigeon if she survives, and she knows it. All she cares about now is the damn brat, and if I threaten him I may have to kill…
“Frostflower, I told the priestess how he was born!”
“You…”
“I had to tell her. Inmara knows you sorcered him out of me. Maybe Maldron knows it now, too.”
It might work. Frostflower was obviously aware of what priests did to babies they considered unnatural. “No! No, he would not kill—Inmara would not let him kill—”
“But you’ll never know. You’ll die first. Do you know why I wouldn’t let you give him to the merchant? Not for Spendwell’s safety, not for your safety—for the brat’s safety! Because Starwind had the best chance of staying alive in your arms!” Thorn put her knife against Frostflower’s throat. Oh, gods, sorceress, should I have whined and pleaded and begged you? Would you have listened to that better than to a bloody threat? Damn you, sorceress, don’t make me…“I’ll let you put him down. I won’t let either of us fall on him. What the priest does to him afterwards…”
“Let me take him to the merchant,” said Frostflower. “If they let me cross the ledge, if they do not strike me down, I…will try.”
Was the rock already beginning to get hot under them? Impossible. The stinking priest couldn’t get enough fuel to heat so much rock; he was just trying to panic them. Thorn moved her blade away from Frostflower’s throat and nodded. “Here. Take Stabber. You’ll need to cut Spendwell’s hands free.” And if they spear you and wound you, or get me before you, I hope you have the sense to use Stabber on yourself.
Frostflower took the knife and got to her feet. Here, the overhang was barely high enough for her to stand upright. “Tell you bitches to hold their spears!” Thorn shouted through the crack. “Unless you want to skewer the sorceress, too.”
Dowl whined and began to get up, but sat again when Thorn put her hand on his backside. Thorn did not watch the attackers. If, after all, the priest wanted Frostflower dead, or if one of his bitches broke discipline and threw her spear despite orders, Thorn did not want to know which of them was responsible. In her lust for vengeance, she might lose the opportunity to kill herself before they could disarm her. So she kept watching Frostflower.
The sorceress carried Starwind in her right arm, holding him toward the rock wall, away from the priest and warriors below. Stabber, looking foreign in her hand, would be in plain sight for them; but Frostflower never glanced down at the attackers. Her hair had almost completely unbraided and hung loose and tousled down her back. She walked…not slowly, not quickly…but tensely, with a nervous self-control that even to Thorn looked almost like pride. A few of Maldron’s bitches muttered, but the sorceress seemed not to hear them.
It must be true that the priest meant to take her unharmed. Nobody threw a spear, and the mutters stayed low and undervoiced.
When Frostflower was about two-thirds of the way across, another bolt of lightning struck somewhere to the near north. The sorceress paused for only a moment, glanced up at the stone overhang, and then walked on, while the thunder rolled and faded.
She reached the far side and went into the shadows. Thorn could see her kneel; she would be cutting Spendwell’s hands free, giving him the infant. Maybe she was telling him something, too…or maybe not. Then the sorceress returned, walking back toward Thorn’s corner. She still carried the knife, tightly and stiffly, as if she had clutched her left hand around a sacred trust and then her mind had forgotten it. She was playing with something in her right hand, four fingers and a thumb twisting and turning feverishly while the rest of her body seemed almost par
alyzed. Gods, she was playing with that silly acorn bracelet Spendwell had made for the grub—she must have forgotten to leave it with him.
Frostflower stopped midway, turned, and finally looked out at the scene before her. For a moment her head moved slightly as she gazed at the warriors and priests. Then she caught her breath, her fingers stopped twisting the string of acorns, and her left hand jerked outward as if unconsciously pointing. “Your knife! Priest! Drop your knife!”
Thorn peered around the rocks. It was quicker than looking through the chink, and she could pull back if she saw a spear coming. But nobody was watching her.
“Do you tell a priest of the gods to drop the symbol of great Jehandru’s justice?” Maldron raised his ceremonial silver dagger above his head, pointing it upwards. “Come down, sorceress! I offer you—”
Lightning. The flash, the noise—the sound that seemed to knock you empty—as when it had struck so close to Thorn herself that time before. Maldron and his horse were lying limp on the ground, his torch on the ground a few paces away. Other horses were screaming, plunging, running…
A spear came through the air toward Frostflower, but struck against the rock as the sorceress dropped to her knees with her hands to her face. Thorn dashed out and dragged her back behind the rocks before another spear came. Frostflower was sobbing. The acorn bracelet had slipped halfway down her right hand, catching on her thumb. Stabber was still clutched in her left hand—gods, if her fist had turned differently…! The gods watched an innocent with knives; the blade had left a shallow cut across the back of her right hand, but it had not even scratched her forehead.
They were all in confusion outside—shouts, curses, fear in their curses. It was sinking in that the sorceress had not been stripped of her power, after all. But—Azkor! Thorn had not expected her to kill him. Had hate gotten the best of her at last? Or was her control slipping a little? It was just as well for them that the bastard was dead; but if they did not follow up, finish scaring the bitches off before someone organized a rush—
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