His hand was on his lance; his horse jerked its head up m astonishment at the tightening of his legs, then stepped forward.
He kicked it, startling it into a gallop.
Red-priestess Beakasi swung around
damn's superbly-trained mount, the veteran of many encounters, plunged up the stairs at the gallop, never missing a step.
The priestess held up her hands, as if she could ward off the lance with a gesture. The long, leaf-shaped blade impaled one of those outstretched hands, nailing it to her chest as it struck her heart.
She shrieked in anger, shock, and pain. The crossbar behind the blade slammed into her hand and chest. Clarrin took the impact in his arm, lifting her up off her feet for a moment, as he signaled his horse to halt. He dropped the point of the lance, and the priestess' body slid off the blade, to lie across the altar.
Clarrin leaned down as he wheeled his horse and started back down the stairs, sweeping the young girl into his arms without slowing. The horse plunged down the steps at the back of the altar, and they were away, the child clinging desperately to him. Clarrin held her protectively to his chest, and urged his mount to greater speed.
So far, they had escaped, but their luck could not last for much longer.
He heard horses behind him. Close,
The snarl turned to a gape, and the gape to a grin that held both elation and awe.
His own personal guard and fifty of his lancers, those that had served with him the longest, were following. Esda in the lead. Many had blood on their blades.
Clarrin slowed just enough for the rest to catch up with him. Esda waved an iron-banded torch—just like the ones carried by the priests. As they galloped past a rain-swollen ditch, Esda tossed the torch into the water. Green-yellow smoke and steam billowed up hi a hissing roar as they passed the place, and a vaguely man-shaped form twisted and jerked in the heart of the smoke, as if it were on fire.
Clarrin and Esda spat, and rode on, letting the evening breeze carry the smoke away in their wake.
The pursuit, when it finally came in the wake of blame-casting and name-calling, was vicious. Clarrin felt extremely lucky that they crossed into Rethwellan with twenty-six still alive.
Or rather, twenty-seven. Twenty-six men, and one special little girl, who could now live, and laugh, and play in the warm morning sun. Without fear, and without threat.
Fifteen days later, Clarrin crossed back into Karse, his men with him, all disguised as scholars. They quickly dispersed, each with provisions and a horse, and a series of uncomfortable questions.
There were more young ones to save.
And after all, at the right time and place, a question was more deadly than any sword.
The mine had obviously been abandoned for years. Not even dusk hid the broken timbers and the scree of rock that spilled out of the gaping black hole.
Jors squinted into the wind, trying and failing to see past the shadows.
No one at the farmstead had known why the mountain cat had come down out of the heights—perhaps the deer it normally hunted had grown scarce; perhaps a more aggressive cat had driven it from its territory; perhaps it had grown lazy and decided sheep were less work. No one at the farmstead cared. They'd tried to drive it off.
It had retaliated by mauling a shepherd and three dogs. Now, they wanted it killed.
Gevris turned his head to peer back at his Chosen with one sapphire eye.
The warm understanding in the mind-touch helped.
The cat had been easy to track. By late afternoon, they'd known they were close. At sunset, they spotted it outlined against a gray and glowering sky. Jors had carefully aimed, carefully let fly, and watched in horror as the arrow thudded deep into a golden haunch. The cat had screamed and fled. They'd had no choice but to follow.
The most direct route up to the mine was a treacherous path of loose shale. Jors slipped, slammed one knee into the ground, and somehow managed to catch himself before he slid all the way back to the bottom.
Behind him, he could hear hooves scrabbling at the stone and he had to grin.
jagged ledges, disappeared completely, then reappeared down where his Companion was standing.
If he squinted, he could easily make out Gevris sidestepping nervously back and forth, a glimmer of white amidst the evening shadows.
Jors chewed on his lip. He'd never heard his usually phlegmatic Companion sound so unsettled. A gust of wind blew cold rain in his face and he shivered.
