young man’s skull and pulled the trigger.
Tobys Raimair stood frozen by the shock of the sudden shout, cursing himself for not having listened to that inner instinct. He should have listened! And how had he missed spotting the damned slow matches? They were coming out into the open now, glowing like blink-lizards, but he’d never even seen a thing before they did! He hadn’t paid even that much attention to his job, had he? Oh, no, not him! Instead, he’d let the girl and her brother walk straight into it, and now Then the gunshot roared in the darkness, and the blinding muzzle flash and echoing report jerked him out of his funk. He turned towards Irys, both arms reaching out, gathered her and her brother to his chest, and flung all three of them not to the ground, but into the pool below the waterfall.
“They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” Schahl bellowed, tossing the empty pistol into the river and grimacing distastefully at the blood and bits of brain matter which had blown back over his cassock. “They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” He drew a deep breath. “Kill the heretics!”
“ Down! Everybody down!” Phylyp Ahzgood shouted as he heard the three-word command and knew- somehow he knew -it had come from an inquisitor’s throat. Worse, the troopers out there in the dark would know the same thing, and the bone-deep reflex of obedience to the voice of Mother Church would finish what confusion had begun.
A matchlock flashed, thundering in the darkness. Langhorne only knew where the ball had gone, but another fired, and then another. Inaccurate at the best of times, it would take a special miracle for one of them to hit someone at this range under these conditions, but matchlocks weren’t the only weapons dragoons carried, and Coris knew what was coming.
Why God? a voice demanded bitterly deep inside him. Why did You let us come this far only to fail now?
God didn’t reply. Or not immediately, at any rate. But then “Take ’em, lads!” another voice shouted, and someone cried out in alarm, then screamed in anguish.
“Zhaksyn, make sure none of them get past us!” that same voice shouted-an extraordinarily young voice, Coris realized, but one which carried a hard ring of command.
Another matchlock fired, and then there was a different sound-a flintlock. A fresh muzzle flash stabbed the night, and suddenly half a dozen flintlocks went off almost as one, firing from the hillsides, upslope from and on either side of the dragoons who’d been hidden in the woods.
“Bayonets!” that voice yelled out of the darkness. “Up and in, boys! Up and in! ” it shouted, and the night was abruptly ugly with the clash of metal, the terrible wet sounds of steel driving into human flesh, with screams and curses.
“Quarter!” someone bawled suddenly. “Quarter! Sweet Langhorne! Quarter! ”
And then, that abruptly, it was over.
Silence fell, broken only by the crash and surge of the waterfall and the whimpers of the wounded, and Coris stood very slowly in the fragile stillness. Other sounds began returning to the night, as if creeping cautiously back into it, and he heard rough, sharp voices ordering surrendered men to their feet, herding them together, taking their weapons. It would, he decided, be prudent to remain where he was and avoid any… misunderstandings until that process was completed, and his eyes narrowed as someone stepped out of the darkness into the moonlight.
It was difficult to be certain in such poor light, but the newcomer certainly looked as if he wore the uniform of a Charisian naval officer, although it was obviously somewhat the worse for wear. He paused and cleaned his sword on the tunic of a fallen dragoon, then sheathed the weapon with smooth, economical grace. Coris was still staring at him when he heard a splashing sound.
“If you don’t mind, Phylyp,” Irys Daykyn said tartly, her teeth chattering slightly, “I’d really appreciate a hand.”
He turned quickly, reaching down to take Daivyn as she and Raimair boosted the shivering, obviously frightened boy out of the icy mountain water. The prince flung his arms around Coris’ neck, clinging tightly, and the earl patted his back reassuringly.
“It’s all right, Daivyn. It’s all right now,” he said soothingly.
“I know,” Daivyn said in a tight voice, and nodded once, convulsively, but he never relaxed his hold, and Coris looked helplessly down at Irys over her brother’s shoulder.
“Allow me, Your Highness,” someone else said in a pronounced Charisian accent, and the newcomer in the naval uniform was suddenly beside him, reaching down both hands to Irys. She looked up at him for a moment, then reached to take the offered hands. The Charisian wasn’t especially tall or broad-shouldered, but he boosted her effortlessly out of the water. Then he reached down again and hoisted Tobys Raimair out, as well.
“That was quick thinking, getting them below ground level that way when the shooting started,” he congratulated the sergeant. It was still a ridiculously young-sounding voice, Coris decided, but it was also crisp and decisive. A very reassuring voice, all things taken together.
“Excuse me,” its owner continued, turning back to Coris, Irys, and Daivyn. He bowed gracefully. “Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk, Imperial Charisian Navy, at your service. If you’re ready to go, I have two boats waiting about a mile downstream from here. It’ll be a little crowded,” teeth gleamed faintly in the moonlight which was finally probing into the darkness at the foot of the waterfall, “but I believe you’ll find the accommodations preferable to these.”
“I believe you’re right, Lieutenant,” Coris said gratefully. “In fact-”
“Beg pardon, Sir,” another voice interrupted, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk-and did that name indicate this youngster was who Coris thought he was?-turned towards the interruption with a frown.
“What is it, Mahlyk?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone.
“Beg pardon for interrupting, Sir,” the other voice belonged to what could only be a professional Charisian petty officer, “but I think this is important.”
“And what, exactly, is ‘this’?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk prompted.
“Well, Sir, Zhaksyn put the arm on this priest here when he tried to scamper off downstream,” the petty officer said, dragging a prisoner into the moonlight. “And we found the officer in command of this here ambush, too, Sir. Seems somebody ”-the petty officer kicked the prisoner to his knees, and Coris saw the priest’s cap and cassock-“blowed the poor bastard’s-beg pardon for the language, Your Highness”-he bobbed Irys a brief bow-“blowed the poor bastard’s brains out. ’Twasn’t any of us, because from the powder burns, whoever it was shot him from behind and real up close and personal, like. And a funny thing, Sir, but this here priest? He’s got blood and brains splashed all over his right arm.”
“Does he now?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in a deadly soft voice.
“I’m a priest of Mother Church!” the captive thundered suddenly, surging up as he started back to his feet. “How dare you-?!”
He went back down again, this time squealing in pain, as the petty officer casually, and with brutal efficiency, stamped down-hard-on the back of his right knee.
“A priest, are you?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in that same deadly voice. “And a servant of the Inquisition, no doubt?”
“A priest of any order is still a priest of God!” the prostrate cleric shouted furiously, both hands clutching at the back of his knee. “And he who lays a hand on any priest of God is guilty of blasphemy!”
“An inquisitor, all right,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said, and looked past the petty officer still standing over the Schuelerite. “Zhaksyn, go find me the senior prisoner. Bring him here.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“I tell you, you’re all-!” the priest began again, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk looked at the petty officer.
“Mahlyk?” he said quietly.
“My pleasure, Sir,” the petty officer said, and kicked the priest none too gently in the belly. The inquisitor
