Kath set her shield, bracing for the clash, sweat dripping from her forehead.
Then the screams started.
Squeals of terror erupted from the horses, a chaos of thrashing hooves. The disciplined line shattered. Warhorses bucked and bellowed, throwing their riders. A wild madness gripped the horses. Rearing, they turned on their fallen riders, lashing out with iron-shod hooves. Kath watched as a foam-flecked stallion trampled his rider, crushing the man’s head like a ripe melon. The rider lay still as death, yet the horse kept stamping, churning the body to a slushy red gore. The grisly scene repeated across the battlefield. Enraged warhorses fought like demons on four legs, biting and kicking, a frenzy of hooves slashing in all directions, pounding their riders to a bloody pulp. Soldiers fought against their own mounts, a desperate slash of steel. Hamstrung horses bellowed in pain, struggling to stand. Screams of the dying mingled with the squeals of the maimed. The grasslands became a killing field, a blood-soaked horror.
Kath and her companions gaped in shock, held spellbound by the carnage.
A battle horn sounded, a wild trill of notes.
The slaughter began to slow, the numbers thinned by death. A stallion reared, bellowing a challenge. A lone officer answered, raising his sword in defiance. A straggle of soldiers formed a circle, fighting back to back, a desperate bristle of spears holding the horses at bay.
Quick as summer lightning, the madness fled. Blood-spattered horses stamped and snorted, milling across the field but they did not fight. A foam-flecked stallion reared and whinnied, issuing a clarion call. The remaining horses answered. Together, they fled into the steppes, galloping as if chased by hell-damned demons.
A harsh stillness settled over the battlefield. Mangled bodies covered the field, blood and gore soaking the steppes. Only seventeen soldiers remained standing, seventeen out of a hundred, all of them wounded. Surrounded by a sea of carnage, the survivors turned their weapons toward the companions. Issuing a guttural growl, they threw down a gauntlet of hate.
For a moment, neither side moved.
Duncan’s voice broke the spell. “Finish them.” Lifting his longbow, he loosed a shaft. His arrow whistled straight for the enemy. A lone scream marked another death.
The enemy charged, releasing a blood-curdling yell.
“Stand your ground! Let them come to us!” Kath waited, letting the enemy come, letting the arrows do their work.
They charged like berserkers, racing across the bloody ground. Arrows thinned their numbers, but still they came, screaming a wild howl of vengeance.
Kath reached for a throwing axe, waiting till she could see the hatred in their eyes. She picked a worthy target. A big brute towered above the rest, wielding a sword in each hand, his face a snarl of rage. She threw her axe and reached for the second. Two whirls of steel flew towards the brute. He deflected the first, but the second took him in the face, one less enemy for her sword.
The charging line was nearly upon them, black-fletched arrows sprouting from shields.
Kath unsheathed her sword. Crouched behind a dead horse, she hurled a prayer to Valin.
Five strides and the battle was joined. The first blow struck her shield, a mighty sword stroke that nearly drove her to the ground. Struggling to keep her footing, she dodged sideways. Her shield arm went numb but she kept her sword raised. Seeing an opening, she lunged under the man’s guard, stabbing at a weak point in his armor. A sword blocked her thrust. Steel clanged against steel, locked in a dance of death.
Beside her, Blaine bellowed, “For the Octagon!” but Kath kept her stare on her opponent, her world narrowing to the clash of swords.
Parry and thrust, she fell into the wild rhythm of war. More than once, the chainmail saved her life, deflecting a fatal blow. The wolf fought beside her, snapping and snarling, darting in to hamstring her opponent. As the soldier’s leg crumpled, she lunged for the kill. Wrenching her sword free, she pivoted to face the next threat. Another sword sliced toward her face. She ducked and parried, striking the enemy across the face with her shield. The fight became a blur, a flurry of sword thrusts. Her muscles began to ache, her lungs gasped for breath, locked in a desperate struggle.
The footing became treacherous, the ground slick with blood. The battle seemed never-ending, a test of endurance. The chainmail weighed her down. Her sword arm ached. Her left thigh throbbed with pain. Wiping the sweat from her eyes, she parried a sword thrust but lost her footing, slipping to the ground. The soldier leered above; a big man with a beard, moving in for the kill…but a blue sword took his head in one mighty stroke. Headless, the body staggered for two steps then toppled at her feet, releasing a gush of blood.
Stunned, Kath lay on the bloody ground, gasping for breath. A man screamed and another yelled a curse and then the clash of steel fell silent. She gripped her sword, looking for the enemy. Struggling to rise, she slipped in the bloody muck.
Blaine loomed over her, offering his hand, bloodstains on his surcoat.
“Is it over?”
He nodded, pulling her to her feet.
Weariness hit her like a warhammer. She could hardly stand.
Blaine steadied her. “Are you harmed?”
Everything ached, especially her left thigh, but she was alive. “I’ll live” She gave him a weak smile. Struggling for breath, she tried to make sense of the blood smeared field, a nightmare from hell. The sounds hit her first, wounded men crying for mercy, the faint nicker of dying horses. Bodies lay everywhere, the dying next to the dead, men next to horses, a bloody swath of carnage. Kath shuddered; amazed to be alive…but then a new fear seized her. “Duncan? The others?” She gripped Blaine’s arm, terrified of the answer.
“This way.” He turned her around, leading her back toward the vee of dead horses.
Limping, she clutched his arm, amazed that she’d come so far into the killing field. Her memory was a fog, full of blood and steel. Kath shook her head, struggling to clear the fog of war. But then she saw him, broad shoulders in black leather, kneeling with his back toward her. “Duncan!”
She half-ran, half-staggered toward him, needing to know he was unharmed.
He turned, a smile lighting his tanned face. “Kath.”
His voice was a balm, easing a weight from her heart. But then she saw the blood…and the body lying on the ground. She gasped, “Will he live?”
Duncan’s face turned grim. “That remains to be seen.”
Her heart hammered. “What can I do?”
“I need a fire, two strips of leather, flasks of wine, and some blankets.”
Blaine said, “I’ll get the blankets.”
Kath nodded. “I’ll look for the rest.” She turned to survey the battlefield. Their packhorse was long lost, sacrificed in the mad flight from the hellhounds, but the field was strewn with the enemy’s slain horses, a battlefield of supplies waiting to be harvested. She sheathed her sword and walked out into the killing field, searching for dead horses with fat saddlebags. Finding a likely candidate, she knelt, fumbling with the buckles, cursing her fingers for their slowness. Slicing the strap with her dagger, she tumbled the contents onto the bloody grass. Searching through the jumble, she tried to ignore the personal items, preferring to think of the slain soldiers as enemies instead of men.
A hand grabbed her ankle, yanking her off balance.
Kath spied a flash of steel as she fell. Kicking sideways, she knocked the dagger from his hand. The ground hit hard, stealing her breath. Gasping, she reached for her sword but the soldier rolled on top, his weight crushing her down. He pinned her sword hand with his knee and wrapped his hands around her throat. A veteran with gray in his beard, he glared at her, his face contorted in hate. “Die, witch!”
She bucked beneath him, trying to win free, but his weight was too much. His hands tightened to a deadly choke. She pounded him with her left fist, but he only sneered, his hands squeezing harder. Desperate for air, she stretched her left arm, reaching for a gleam of steel.
His rank b
reath hissed in her face. “You bewitched the horses. You murdered my men.”
Darkness threatened. Her hand reached the dagger. She plunged it into his neck, all the way to the hilt. His eyes widened in surprise. She jerked the dagger free, releasing a fountain of hot blood. His hands went to his neck, as if he could holdback the tide of life. Gasping, she pushed him away, and rolled to her feet.
Blaine rushed to her side, his blue sword in his hands. “Are you hurt?”
Kath struggled to keep her voice steady. “Be careful of the dead.”
He nudged the dying soldier with his boot and then swung his great sword in an overhead arc. Blue steel descended in a rush, severing the head. “Good advice.”
Shuddering, she took a deep breath and resumed the search; careful to make sure the nearest bodies were truly dead. Keeping the dagger in her fist, she ransacked the saddlebags. It took six horses before she found everything she needed.
She carried the load back to Duncan. “I found a surgeon’s set of tools.” Unwrapping the leather bundle, she displayed a set of sharp knives and bone crackers, instruments fit for a torturer.
“Good. I’ll need them.” He sent a passing glance toward her but then his eyes widened, staring at her blood drenched chainmail. “Are you hurt?”
“One of the dead got rowdy.”
He studied her face and then nodded, reaching for a flask of wine. “I need a fire.”
Zith moaned in pain.
Kath shuddered, afraid of losing another companion. “Where’s Danya?”
Duncan’s voice was weary. “She seems unharmed, no sign of any wound, but I could not wake her.” He shrugged. “The monk needs our help or he’ll surely die.”
“I’ll start the fire.” Numb with worry, she ripped up fists full of dry grass, using her dagger to dig a shallow pit. One of the dead horses had carried a bundle of fagots, a stroke of good luck. She retraced her steps, dragging the bundle back to Duncan. Stacking the wood in the bottom of the pit, she added bits of dried grass for tinder and used a flint to strike a spark. It was the first fire they’d had in many days. Kath stared at the flames. “A beacon for our enemies.”
“It can’t be helped.” Duncan worked to staunch the flow of blood.
She nodded. “What now?”
“I’ve tried to get some wine into him but it won’t be enough.” He set a dagger in the fire, placing the blade in the heart of the flames. “Get a stick for him to bite on, and keep it in his mouth.” He looked at Blaine. “Do your best to hold him still.”
They moved into position. Kath cradled the monk’s head in her lap, working the stick into his mouth, while Blaine pinned his shoulders down. The wound was wicked. Splintered bone protruded from the torn flesh of his left arm, only a strip of muscle holding the hand to the forearm. Kath stared at the wound, knowing it could well cost his life.
Duncan doused the wound with wine.
Zith writhed in pain, a muffled scream.
Kath held the stick in place, her stomach churning.
Duncan selected a knife from the surgeon’s tools. “Hold him still.”
Kath looked away, unable to watch.
The monk bucked and screamed, his gaze wild, his face ashen.
Duncan hissed, “Keep him still!” the rasp of a blade cutting bone.
Blaine pressed the monk’s shoulders into the ground while Kath held his head. A scream bubbled from the monk’s throat…and then he lay still. Duncan finished cutting, discarding the severed hand in the flames. The fire snapped and sizzled, releasing the stench of burnt flesh.
“And now to seal the wound.” Duncan retrieved the dagger from the flames, the blade glowing cherry-red.
Kath closed her eyes, sending a prayer to Valin.
Hot steel hissed against flesh. Kath’s stomach roiled, but mercifully the monk never woke.
“It is done.” Duncan sounded weary to the bone. “Now it is up to the gods.”
Unable to keep the bile down, Kath staggered away from her friends. Kneeling in the grass, she bent double as her stomach convulsed. The horror of the day swept over her, so much blood, so much death. She heaved till her stomach was empty, and then lay spent in the grass, too tired to move.
The sun set in a blaze of red, a bloody sky for a bloody day. The moans of the dying fell silent, muted by death or the mercy of a dagger. Weariness claimed her. She lay on her back, searching for the first star, for a ray of hope in the darkening sky.
“Are you well?”
She hadn’t heard him approach, a shadow in black leathers. Embarrassed to be seen wallowing in her own stink, she tried to rise, but the chainmail weighed her down.
Duncan knelt beside her, his hands gentle. “Let me help.” He eased the harness for her throwing axes from her shoulders and then helped her out of the chainmail. She sighed, relieved to be free of the weight. He pulled her to her feet. Pain lanced through her left leg. She bit back a scream. Her left leg crumpled under her weight. Duncan caught her, a pillar of strength. “Are you hurt?”
Suddenly slick with sweat, Kath shuddered. “One of the god-cursed hellhounds clawed my thigh. I’ll be all right.” A strangled laugh bubbled out of her. “Was it only this morning that we fought the hounds?”
“A hell of a day,” he lifted her into his arms, “and a lifetime ago.”
He carried her back to the fire, a single blaze holding back the night chill. The others surrounded the fire pit. Zith lay swathed in blankets, pale as death, but at least he slept. Blaine lay on the far side of the blaze, huddled next to Danya, his arms wrapped around the dark-haired girl.
Duncan whispered, “Is she awake?”
Blaine shook his head, his face lined with worry. “She hasn’t moved or made a sound since the battle.” He tucked a blanket under her chin. “She’s pale as a ghost and cold as death but she still breathes.”
The wolf whined, burrowing next to the girl.
“Keep her warm. Perhaps she’ll wake with the dawn.” He eased Kath down onto a bedroll. “Now let me see this wound of yours.” He pulled her boots off and then used a dagger to split the leg of her pants, peeling the leather away from the wound.
Kath gasped with pain, surprised by the ugliness of the wound. Five claw marks ran the length of her thigh, puffy and raw, surrounded by bruised skin.
Duncan hissed, “You fought on this?”
“There wasn’t much of a choice.” She shrugged. “Besides, it didn’t hurt so much before.”
“Well it’s going to hurt now. Those claw marks are shallow but they have to be cleaned.” He handed her a flask. “Have a swig of this, but don’t drink it all.”
She took a sip and almost choked, liquid fire burning down her throat.
“More.”
She tipped the flask and forced herself to swallow, tears crowding her eyes.
“Good.” He took the flask and handed her a strip of leather. “Bite on this.”
She tried to make light of it. “At least the scars will be interesting.” She bit the leather and closed her eyes. The strap tasted foul, almost as bad as the liquor.
Agony exploded in her thigh, a searing sting. She arched her back, biting the leather, fighting a scream. Pain pulsed through her, seeming to last for an eternity, but then it faded to a dull ache. Spitting out the leather, she lay still, breathing hard, drenched in sweat.
Duncan tore long strips from a blanket, doused them in brandy and bound the wound. “Now let me see your arm.”
She tried to sit up but her head spun. “My arm?”
“You’ve got a sword cut on your right arm but it doesn’t look deep.”
She stared at the shallow cut. “I never noticed.” She lay back and let him work, staring up at the night sky, too many clouds to see the stars. His hands were gentle but she hissed when he cleaned the cut. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“Growing up in the Deep Green, you see a lot of wounds from clashes with the white eyes.” He shrugged. “We all learned.”
; Prejudice again. She regretted the question.
“Are you hungry?” He finished binding the cut.
“No.” She closed her eyes, remembering the gore of the battlefield. “Not after today.”
“Tea then.” He crushed leaves into two mugs, lifted a kettle from the fire and poured, releasing a billow of steam.
She struggled to sit up, wrapping her hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth and the soothing taste. They sipped in silence, sitting inches apart, heavy with thought. The truth of the day hit hard. “We should have died today.”
“Yes.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw warhorses running amok, trampling bodies beneath ironshod hooves. “Their horses became demons, death on four legs.”
He nodded, his voice a whisper. “The power of a Beastmaster revealed.”
A shiver raced down her spine. She glanced over at Danya but the wolf-girl lay still as death. Kath shook her head, her words a whisper. “They fought like something possessed.” Images of the battlefield clashed in her mind. “They didn’t just kill, they destroyed.” Shuddering, she made the hand sign against evil. “Little wonder Beastmasters are so feared.”
“She saved us all.”
Kath stared across the fire at Danya’s pale face. “Just so”
“And now we have to protect her.”
Something in his voice caught at her heart, a warning she did not want to hear. “What do you mean?”
“There were survivors. Some of the soldiers ran.”
She nodded, afraid to follow his logic.
“They must be hunted down and killed.” He raised a hand forestalling her argument. “Tales of this battle can never reach the Mordant.” He lowered his voice. “Five stood against a hundred. It is the stuff of legends.”
She shivered, feeling the touch of the gods.
“The Mordant is sure to see the magic behind the defeat.” Duncan leaned toward her, his voice a whisper. “What will the Mordant do to claim such a power?”
Her mind balked at the question.
“If word reaches the Mordant, all the might of the north will be arrayed against a small band of five.”
Her heart thundered. “I’ll go with you. We’ll hunt them together.”
The Skeleton King (The Silk & Steel Saga) Page 10
