Chamtivos laughed. “Considering your current situation, I don't have to give any assurances, but just for the sake of argument...”
Serovek didn't hear the rest. He'd judged the quiet hunter's height based on his shadow—a shorter man than himself with a slimmer build. One more step and Serovek pivoted away from the tree, crouched down enough that his would-be assailant blocked the archer from a clear shot at him.
He caught a glimpse of the man's surprised face just before he hurled the dirt into his his eyes. Anagan. The one who'd gotten away earlier to warn the others of Serovek's location. Anagan stumbled back with a cry, but not far enough. Serovek lunged forward with an upper jab, impaling Anagram. The blade sank all the way through his chest wall and out his back. The man's eyes eyes bulged, and a bubble of blood burst from his half open mouth.
Using the impaled man as a shield, Serovek hoisted him on the blade and rushed toward Chamtivos and the archer. The mortally wounded Anagan convulsed when two thumps sounded in quick succession. Serovek almost lost the momentum of his charge as the archer planted a pair of arrows into Anagan's back in the hopes of hitting Serovek as well.
“Kill him!” Chamtivos bellowed, his face pale with shock as he met Serovek's gaze over Anagan's drooping shoulder.
In the moment, time slowed to a series of vivid images: the archer reaching back for a third arrow, horror on his face at the sight of Serovek charging them with a dead man as his shield, Chamtivos's mouth wide as he shouted to the archer, his body leaned forward in the act of lunging toward Serovek.
Serovek had one chance—only one—to survive. He let go of the sword and the dead Anagan, freeing both his hands, and pulled one of the pilfered knives from his belt. He flung it hard, praying for accuracy.
The gods answered. The blade took the archer in the throat. He dropped to his knees, letting go of the bow to clutch the hilt as blood streamed over his hands, then fell face first into the dirt. Fueled by battle fury and pain, Serovek spun back, braced a foot on Anagan's corpse and yanked the sword free just in time to block a skull-cleaving strike from Chamtivos.
He deflected a second blow, delivering three of his own which Chamtivos defended against with ease.
The two fought on the uneven ground, through the maze of trees. Serovek, vision graying at the edges, felt the strength draining from him like water from a cracked ewer. Chamtivos, sensing his foe's diminishing prowess, renewed his attacks with even greater force and speed. And with more boasting.
“I will take your head, margrave,” he said between pants. “And parade it through my stronghold for all my followers to see. I'll do the same to the monk and to the gray bitch. The people will cheer and praise my name, and the Jeden Order will fear me again. I will rise to my rightful place in these lands, not as lord but as king.”
Fury, cold and resolute, cleared Serovek's vision and pumped renewed vigor into his limbs. He beat back Chamtivos's next attack, fierce enough that the other man staggered, nearly losing his footing. Serovek saw his opportunity, pulled one of the rocks from the pouch at his belt and pitched it straight into Chamtivos's face. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed. The warlord screamed and staggered, clutching his face one hand.
Serovek followed him, circling to the side to slash at the warlord's leg, severing the tendon behind his right knee. Chamtivos howled and fell, holding his crippled leg.
The ragged gray edges once more began their creep across Serovek's vision. He struggled to maintain a grip on his sword. He stared at Chamtivos, feeling no pity or mercy for this creature who murdered his own family to rise in the world.
Every breath he took felt as if he inhaled broken glass, and he spoke between exhalations that made a mule's kick seem gentle. “I rode into battle against the galla with a man who is king in all but name. A man who stood tall under the weight of a heavy crown. Who sacrificed much to save many. That man understands the meaning of kingship.” He raised the sword, heavier than a blacksmith's anvil now. “You know nothing of kingship.”
He swung the blade with the last vestiges of strength still in his arms. The sword, slick with Anagan's blood, offered mercy in its sharpness. It effortlessly cut through flesh and tendons, bone and arteries, with one strike. Chamtivos's body fell to one side while his head bounced once on the ground before tumbling in the opposite direction.
The scenery in front of Serovek melded together in a watery mural of greens, grays, and blacks. He blinked several times, ignoring the sharp agony in his eyelids each time he did it. He wove a meandering path to Chamtivos's head, lifting it up by the hair before staggering to the closest tree where he dropped down to recline against the trunk.
Footsteps sounded nearby, but he remained where he was, finished. If this was more of Chamtivos's lackeys, he was easy pickings. At least once he was dead, he wouldn't hurt or feel like retching up his insides.
He peered at the two figures striding toward him, one a tall gray-skinned woman with yellow eyes and a mouth he'd sell his soul to kiss one last time. The other figure he didn't know but recognized the clerical garb. A Nazim monk. Before passing out, Serovek lifted Chamtivos's head and tossed it toward the monk. “A gift,” he said, slurring the words. “You're welcome.”
Chapter Eleven
She had never been, and would never be, a prey animal.
The island's rugged terrain provided numerous opportunities to hide, to slip away unnoticed, and especially to ambush. What it didn't offer was the ability to easily escape its confines. It boasted only one patch of beach and sat in the middle of a lake patrolled by large serpentine shadows, discouraging anyone from swimming in the waters.
Anhuset shrugged off her grim thoughts and took up a lofty post that gave her a bird's eye view of the beach where she expected Chamtivos to return with his party of bloodthirsty minions in a couple of hours. She'd used the time to create false traps, lay down more misleading spoor, and make a strap in which to keep the makeshift spear Serovek had made for her tied to her back until she needed it. Three throwing were tucked into her tunic for easy reach.
Things could be worse, she thought. She could be waiting on an open plain, easy pickings for anyone who could draw a bow and hit the side of a castle wall. At least the warlord liked a challenge when it came to stalking his quarry, and she intended to give him one he wouldn't forget. Or survive.
Leaving Serovek behind to act as a distraction didn't sit well with her, even when she acknowledged—and he agreed—that it was the most practical thing to do. He was too injured to go running about the island like she could. He was also more valuable to Chamtivos than she was. Killing the Beladine margrave of High Salure was a notch on the belt and would raise his status among his followers. Killing the Khaskem's sha would only sweeten the triumph.
“I will bury you, warlord,” she said, watching as long, sinuous shapes glided just below the lake's surface, following the paths of fading moonlight plating the water.
If she knew how many men would come and what weapons they'd carry, she could plan her attack better. However, all she knew for certain was where they'd land the boats and the time they'd arrive, and she didn't trust Chamtivos to tell the truth regarding the latter.
She checked her small cache of hastily made weaponry. Half dead, with only an eating knife and materials Anhuset had scavenged, Serovek had done an admirable job of arming her and himself with weapons that would be useful in this environment, even against opponents with swords and bows. Archers presented the greatest threat, and Karulin had warned Anhuset there were four among Chamtivos's group who were exceptional. They'd be her first targets to neutralize. She just had to get close enough to them without getting shot full of arrows.
Gods forbid one of them find Serovek. The bramble barrier she'd erected provided some camouflage for him, as did the island's topography. He was an exceptional fighter, especially on horseback, but these were different circumstances with unique challenges, including the injuries he'd sustained from a brutal beating. Anhuset hoped Serovek was as
good with that sling as he boasted.
She ran a claw lightly along her lower lip, the memory of the kiss she'd shared with him still making her skin tingle. If they both emerged from this ordeal alive and mostly in one piece, she planned to scratch the itch he'd incited and swive him for days—once he healed, of course. She'd once told him he wouldn't survive her. An empty threat now. She hadn't carried him up a hill to save him only to kill him in her bed. The memory of his teasing her made her smile for a moment. Her humor fled as images of Serovek's battered features replaced the finer memories of his humor and his kiss, and by the time she spotted the pair of boats skimming across the lake at dawn, her fury had turned the blood in her veins to ice.
From her hidden perch atop a steep embankment, she watched the two boats come ashore, a half dozen men in each, with Chamtivos at the prow of one. They disembarked, allowing Anhuset to take stock of their numbers and the weapons they carried. Karulin wasn't among their party. Anhuset was glad for it. He'd betrayed Chamtivos by giving her the knife and decried the warlord's actions regarding the hunt. Anhuset had hoped she wouldn't have to fight him, but she'd been prepared to do so if forced.
She was too far away to hear their words or see their expressions, but their demeanor told her much. The coming hunt excited them.
Anhuset's eyes narrowed. She had never been, and would never be, a prey animal, and forest fighting was a defender's game. “Today is a good day for all of you to die,” she said softly.
The party split into two groups of six men each. Four archers were among them, two in each group. Anhuset wondered if these four were the ones Karulin had warned her about. The rest, including Chamtivos, carried swords, spears, and knives. And one carried a sling.
One group began a hike into the treeline on the side of the island where Serovek waited. The second one traveled farther down the beach in the opposite direction. They were the ones Anhuset followed and would deal with first, starting with the archers and the slinger.
She'd had neither the time nor stamina to build real traps, but she made the appearances of some. Leaves mounded a certain way over half buried tree limbs hastily cut and sharpened, their exposed ends made to resemble hints of pit traps with their lethal spikes that swallowed and impaled their victims. The hunters might investigate them further and discover they were bluffs, but by then the damage was done. They'd be cautious after that. And slower.
The six who tracked her and whom she tracked in return, didn't split off in different directions but hiked through the trees in a short column, with one archer leading and the second one acting as rear guard. They stayed together, no more than six paces apart at any time.
Anhuset targeted the rear guard archer first, hurling one of the spikes at him from behind the barrier of a broad oak. The spike took him in the shoulder, spinning him so that he dropped the bow he held and fell with a pained yelp, clutching the injured spot.
She darted behind the tree again, only to reappear on the other side just as the front archer pivoted and fired the arrow he'd nocked. It struck the trunk close to where she'd stood. He already had a second arrow nocked in place when she threw another spike. It struck him in the hand, and while he lost the shot, he kept his feet and held onto the bow.
Bark shattered next to her ear, pelting the side of her face as the hunter with the sling returned fire with several stones. Anhuset bolted into the trees, using the forest's stately columns of trees and dappled shadow to hide from her pursuers.
The spikes had done their job in disabling one archer and injuring the second. She still had all six men to contend with, but she'd improved her odds.
Broken bark cracked nearby as the hunter with the sling hounded her through the forest. Anhuset sprinted past one of her false traps as she climbed the slope toward the island's peak.
The running footsteps behind her stopped abruptly. Alarmed yelps and expletives echoed through the trees. They'd spotted her trap and momentarily paused in the chase.
She sprinted even harder to put more distance between them, leaving more obvious spoor to lead them higher up the slope. She was far more careful on the way down as she circled back and ended up behind the hunters. She'd neutralized the archers enough that they'd resorted to their swords and knives. One of the spearmen took up the rear guard position now.
Anhuset bided her time, allowing the group to move farther ahead, their movements twitchy, faces grim as they realized they were not only the hunters, but also the hunted.
They paused a second time at the sight of another trap, and it was then she struck, this time to take down the spearman.
He made only a gurgle before she grappled him from behind and snapped his neck. He dropped the spear he carried. She caught it before it hit the ground. His limp body thumped once against hers as the slinger hurled a stone, and Anhuset blocked it with the spearman's corpse.
Anhuset hurled the spear. The slinger fell, still clutching his next round of ammunition.
“And now the hunt begins in earnest,” she told the remaining three in Common tongue.
Her words and the shock of their comrade's swift death sent them fleeing in different directions. Anhuset caught one of the archers before he got far, using her stick to crack his skull open. His body rolled down the slope to disappear in a pile of leaves. She killed the second man in a similar fashion.
The archer with the injured hand was the only one remaining, and she chased him all the way to the island's peak, losing him twice when she had to dodge a clumsily shot arrow and again when he flung his knife at her.
She trapped him on the island's crown with its spectacular view of the dangerous waters below. Later, Anhuset could only guess why her opponent suddenly decided to charge her. Maybe in the hopes of throwing her off the nearby edge, into the water, maybe to tackle her with the idea of brawling to the death. Whatever plan he had, she'd never know it. He raced toward her with a war cry and his sword raised. She'd simply pivoted out the way at the last minute and kicked him in the back. His momentum and her kick propelled him over the edge and into the lake below. She thought he might drown until a long shadow sped toward him as he thrashed in the water.
Anhuset raced back down the slope, angling toward the place where she'd left Serovek, fearful that Chamtivos and the remaining hunters had found and butchered him. A glimpse through the trees at additional boats landing on the shore to deposit yet more armed men sent her heart hurtling into her throat. “Gods' damn it,” she snarled. “Will this never end?”
Serovek would have to fend for himself a little longer while she dealt with this newest problem. She crept closer to the shore, pausing at the sight of these newest invaders, heavily armed and wearing clerics' garb. Anhuset recognized their clothing. Megiddo had worn something similar when he first presented himself to Brishen at Saggara. Nazim monks.
They lingered on the beach for a moment, talking among themselves. Tired of waiting for them to do something other than chat, Anhuset edged out of the forest's shelter far enough for them to see her. She was too far away for them to shoot at her if they proved to be hostile.
Instead there was much exclaiming at the sight of her, though they didn't approach. One monk stepped toward her, hands out in a sign of peace. “Sha-Anhuset?”
Wary, Anhuset remained where she was. He knew her name. Had Erostis or Klanek made it to the monastery to get help? She didn't have time to question him or exchange introductions and idle conversation.
“Yes,” she said. “And if you're through having a convocation on the beach, the margrave needs our help, and Chamtivos needs to die.”
Her remarks galvanized them all into a rush toward her and the forest. Three monks remained behind while the rest raced with her through the forest toward the protected ledge where Serovek sheltered.
The found him sprawled against a tree, long legs splayed, head drooping so that his chin rested on his chest. One hand lay limply in his lap, the other by his side. Were it not for the bruises mottling his face, he'd be as
pale as the moon. Even his lips had lost their color. He looked to Anhuset like a broken doll tossed aside by a bored child.
She hurried to him, skirting Chamtivos's head where it had rolled between her and the Nazim monk who accompanied her. The warlord's death mask was one of bafflement, as if wondering why his gaze looked upon such a skewed perspective. Anhuset crouched beside Serovek and pressed her fingertips against the side of his throat, trying to ignore the panicked thud of her own heart. She scowled, torn between relief and worry. His pulse thumped faintly under her touch but was unsteady. She searched his body, looking for new wounds, for blood. Her relieved sigh must have been loud because he twitched the tiniest bit.
“Anhuset,” he said on a ghost of a breath before falling silent again. His eyelids fluttered but remained closed.
“Were Chamtivos and the margrave enemies before this?” The monk had joined her, his expression puzzled and sympathetic. “We've rescued others from the warlord's clutches. Those taken hostage were never brutalized this way.”
“I don't think the two even met before the attack,” she said, gently tucking a lock of Serovek's hair behind his ear. With Chamtivos dead, they'd never know why he'd visited his malice on Serovek's body, but she could guess. Jealousy and envy made even good people ugly at times. For those like Chamtivos, murderous and petty, with a streak of madness and a thirst for power a league wide, it made them monstrous.
“I'll return with two of my brothers to help carry him to the boats. Or I can stay with him if you wish to go.” The monk gestured to the slope below them. “We could try to carry him ourselves, but it would be a slower trip, and we might injure him even more if we jostle him too much.”
Anhuset held back a wry smile, recalling the grueling climb up the same slope with an unconscious Serovek draped across her shoulders and back. “You go; I'll stay.” The monk, unburdened by fatigue and the exertions of a battle, would be much faster than she any way in rounding up his fellow monks for help. And truth be told, she needed to be here, beside this resilient warrior who'd managed to kill six men, including their leader, by himself while injured and barely able to stand. He defied every assumption she'd ever made about humans, and Anhuset was heartily glad he'd proven her wrong.
The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three Page 24
