tucked the arrows between her left forefinger and the riser of the bow. Ready, ready.. .
“Platoooon… halt! Right face!”
The guerillas in Boise army gear came to a stop, crash-stamping in unison and turning to face the escort guarding the General-President’s family. A man jumped down from each wagon seat, hitting the quick-release catches in the military harness of the teams and making as if to take them to the troughs.
The Decurion in charge of the detail was wearing sunglasses as well as his helmet with its stiff upright brush of scarlet-dyed hair from a horse’s mane. They were probably for effect, given the way the day was turning overcast.
“What are you Fifteenth Battalion pukes doing here?” he asked, flourishing the swagger stick he wasn’t strictly entitled to. “This is an interdicted spot, so get your weevil-wagons and glue-bait mules and your own sorry Reservist asses out of-”
Nystrup was leading the guerillas playing escort. He didn’t waste time on talking. One hand flashed out and took the platoon-leader by the back of the neck under the flare of his helmet. The other drew and struck with his dagger, driving the point up through the gap in the jawbone and the palate and into the Boise soldier’s brain. The man toppled back
“NOW!” roared Hordle’s bull-bellow.
White fire erupted in Ritva’s mind, like glowing ice. The light sacks flew in every direction from the wagons as they spouted warriors. She came up to one knee in a smooth roll, stripping an arrow out of the bundle she held against her bow and onto the string and throwing arms and shoulders and gut into the draw. The arrow slid through the cutout in the riser as the lead kiss-ring brushed between her lips, and she let the string fall off the fingers. Less than a second and a half had passed, and the arrow drove over a snatched-up shield and into a man’s face with a solid moist crunching whack sound that might come back to her in the night sometime. Again, again, a torrent of whispering death from forty bows-
The guerillas on foot had all thrown their pila. They weren’t experts, but the distance was ten feet and there were thirty of them with strong arms and they were full of desperate hate. Some of the big javelins missed and smashed into the glass window. Others thudded into shields as the Sixth Battalion guard detail reacted with trained speed. Many found flesh.
The survivors crowded back towards the tall worked-bronze doors of the shop; not running, but backing with their shields up and putting their bodies between the unknown enemy and their ruler’s kin, slightly crouched with their blades out ready for the stabbing stroke. Whistles trilled, calling the alarm.
More arrows punched into the heavy plywood and sheet metal, crack-crack-crack, and more men fell or dropped the shields as the points gouged through into arms. Soldiers were pushing out through the doors to join them, the other half of the guard detail, and the formation was shaken for a moment.
That instant’s gap was enough. A great high silvery shout: “Lacho calad! Drego morn!”
The Dunedain war-shout, alive again in the Fifth Age: Flame light! Flee night!
And Astrid Loring-Larsson’s voice. She was moving, long sword and dagger in hand, like a human blade of black and silver, spired helm and elfboots, a soaring leap from the wagon to the trough and then another that sent her spinning in midair in a three-quarter tumble right over a man’s head and landing with the blades already moving.
In Dunedain training a move like that was called a Jakie, for some reason, and they did a lot of them. Many involved running up trees and going across buildings and leaping from rock to rock through the hills. Eilir was half a pace behind; she hit the wall running and went straight up it and spunflipped and landed beside her anamchara.
Astrid killed the man over whose head she’d jumped before he could make himself believe what she’d done, a thrust to the back of the neck that flicked out and back like a frog’s tongue after a fly and he dropped as limp as a puppet with the strings cut, in a sprawling crash of armor.
“Lacho calad! Drego morn!” Ritva shrieked as she dropped her bow.
She leapt, landed in a crouch, spun in a circle on one heel as her sword came out, blade a silver flash as it went snicking through a booted ankle and hamstring in a drawing cut, stripped her buckler off its clip on her belt. Ian was beside her a quick breath later, saber working in a frantic X as he guarded her back with steel and round shield. The Rangers poured forward in a leaping shouting glitter of steel. The four-foot blade of John Hordle’s greatsword swung in three quarters of a circle and broke a shield and the arm under it and gouged into a face hard enough to shatter it in a spray of teeth and blood. Alleyne was beside Astrid too, lunging and cutting and striking like a big golden cat.
“Arise, ye Saints!”
The Mormons poured after them, nearly as quick. A dozen of them locked shields and smashed into the display window, where the glass had already been weakened by the punching bodkin points of the arrows and javelins. It turned into a glittering wave of fragments, and then their hobnailed boots were trampling the mannequins and sending sprays of gold and platinum, diamonds and rubies and tanzanite into the body of the store.
The Dunedain followed, on their heels and then past them with a dreadful bounding agility, accompanied by one swearing, scrambling member of the Force.
Ritva vaulted a display rack, rolled under a thrust from a pila and cut backhand and upward into a groin; the man screamed astonishingly loud and thrashed, and blood sprayed across her torso. Another was beyond him, swearing as the dying man tangled his feet and display cases on either side pinned him in place; she charged, shoulder-checking him in his shield as he staggered. That was like ramming her shoulder full tilt into a brick wall, but he went over backward and two Mormons jumped on him, their sword-arms pumping like pistons.
It was obvious where the two Mrs. Thurstons and their children were; as agreed they were clutching at pillars and cabinets and screaming at the top of their lungs as their guards tried to drag them to what they thought was safety, adding one more element of chaos to the scene. The spot they’d picked to linger was cluttered, too; big leather sofas, discreet and heavy display cases with marble bases, and the desks and counters of the shop staff.
That left no room for the soldiers who hadn’t gone to hold the door to form a shield-wall. In an open field they would have been more than able to hold the Rangers and the Mormons both until help arrived, even outnumbered; they were strong, picked men, beautifully trained and equipped. The problem was that they were trained and equipped for one type of fighting and only that, each man a part in a single many-legged machine. This brawlmelee left them in isolated ones and twos facing Dunedain whose war-style brought a malignant perfection to a tumbling slashing stabbing scramble from ambush.
The Mormons simply swarmed those facing them under, showing a reckless disregard for consequences. The Thurstons kept screaming, a needleedge of distraction, and those trying to drag them away snatched up their shields as the swarming fight staggered near. Ritva forward-rolled around her sword-hand under the thrust of a gladius and came to a knee, hammered the edge of her little steel buckler down into the man’s foot in a grisly crunch of small bones breaking, then thrust upward into his throat and killed him as he bent over in swift involuntary reflex.
A leap forward, across a tile floor already slippery with blood, and she found herself facing the last soldier of the Sixth still standing. He’d lost his helmet and was flicking his head to get the blood out of his eyes from a cut on the forehead. He was a young man, younger than she, with bristle-cut red hair and a freckled face whose skin was tight over the bones and wet with sweat and blood. The green eyes were utterly steady as he set himself to die.
A flickering long-lunge towards a foot brought the shield down; Ritva knew somewhere far from the present all-consuming moment that she was moving to ten-tenths capacity in an impossible blur of speed, almost as fast as Astrid. She turned the lunge into a feint with a skip and a beat, and drove the sharp point of her long sword into the upper part of his arm, just below the spot where the leaves of the lorica segmentata stopped. The point ripped into meat and glanced off bone, and the soldier gave a muffled cry of despair and pain as the shield dropped out of his hand; the Boise type were held by a central grip, not loops with a forearm thrust through.
Two more lunges drove him back towards the Thurston family as the point flickered in faster than thought. He still had his short sword, but the gladius was not meant for fencing. As he felt the family at his back the soldier suddenly threw the sword at her and turned, grabbing Shawonda Thurston in his arms and wrestling her around by main force, putting his back between her and the blades of the attackers he thought menaced them for one last
