A convoy was coming along the main road and approaching the fork. They were headed by a group of mounted cavalry, followed by two coaches, each with a trooper sitting alongside the driver. Another contingent of cavalry brought up the rear. The procession moved at a good clip, but short of breakneck speed.
'Hope the others are watching this,' Coilla added.
'If they're awake,' Haskeer muttered.
Stryke shot him a frown.
'Well, Dallog's with 'em.'
'He's a pro,' Stryke told him, 'and so are the grunts with him. So quit sniping.'
Haskeer grunted in a noncommittal way.
The convoy had reached the fork. The cavalry in the lead peeled off and headed for their barracks, as did the contingent bringing up the rear. The unescorted pair of carriages picked up speed for the home stretch.
Coilla gazed into the trees on the other side of the road. She couldn't see anything. Not that she had expected to. 'They're cutting it fine.'
'The timing has to be spot-on,' Stryke reminded her. 'Relax.'
She smiled at the thought of relaxation as she reached for her bow.
The convoy was almost on them. Coilla and Haskeer nocked their arrows.
'Make those shots count,' Stryke told them. 'You might not get a second chance.'
'I know, I know,' Haskeer came back irritably.
The convoy was almost level with their position when a loud crack rang out. Ahead of the first carriage a mature tree crashed down in a flurry of leaves, blocking the road. The carriages skidded to a halt. Another substantial tree fell behind the second carriage, boxing them both in.
' Now! ' Stryke yelled.
Coilla and Haskeer loosed their arrows. Coilla's struck the trooper next to the driver on the lead carriage. It was a righteous hit, pitching the man from his seat.
Haskeer's arrow missed. Stryke and Coilla glared at him.
Cursing, he fumbled for another bolt. Coilla reloaded first, took aim and brought down the trooper on the second carriage. Haskeer's next shot was true. It killed the first carriage's driver. By that time the driver of the second had scrambled down on the far side and disappeared into the trees.
'Remember,' Stryke warned, 'Jennesta's magic can be lethal. She should be in the first carriage, so leave that to me. Now move!'
They came out of hiding and charged toward the road. Before they were halfway there the rest of the raiding party, with Dallog to the fore, emerged from the foliage. Several of them still clutched the axes they had used to fell the trees. Two grunts ran to stand lookout at each end of the halted convoy. The rest made for the carriages.
An arrow shot out of the open window of the second coach. It was aimed at Coilla, and came near to claiming her. She dropped and hugged the ground. Stryke and Haskeer did the same. Coilla got off an arrow of her own. It smacked into the carriage door. Whoever was inside returned fire, but the bolt flew over their heads. Haskeer unleashed an arrow, sending it through the window. Somebody in the dark interior shrieked.
The sound of battering came from the far side of the carriage. Dallog's crew were laying siege to it. Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer got up and raced for their goal. As they approached, the door of the second carriage burst open and four troopers spilled out.
'You go ahead!' Coilla shouted to Stryke.
He sprinted off.
Swords drawn, the troops came at Haskeer and Coilla, who rushed forward to meet them. The chime of steel on steel echoed through the twilight. Almost immediately, Dallog and the others poured around the carriages and joined in. Jennesta's guards fought with spirit, but had no hope of not being overwhelmed.
Stryke reached the first coach. He hesitated for a fraction of a second at its door, then wrenched it open.
A bulky, shadow-swathed figure filled the doorway. It half fell, half leapt on Stryke, pinning him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. His sword was dashed from his hand.
Stryke immediately knew his foe as one of Jennesta's zombie bodyguards, if only from the foul odour it gave off. Struggling under the creature's oppressive weight, he was aware of its skin, dried out and wrinkled like ancient parchment. He saw the black chasm of its dead eyes.
The zombie encircled him with its fetid arms. Fists balled, Stryke pummelled the once-human, landing hefty blows to its head. But he couldn't break its iron grip. The zombie's abnormal strength began to crush the life out of him. Stryke writhed and kicked, but the bear hug held.
Then his flailing hand touched metal and he grasped the hilt of his dropped sword. He brought it up and round in an arc, striking the zombie's side. The blade cut deep, but brought only a puff of grey dust from what should have been a wound. It hardly troubled the zombie. Gasping for breath now, Stryke tried another tack. He hacked frenziedly at the creature's arm. After three blows it severed, exuding more rank dust. The arm fell away. Half free, Stryke exerted pressure and rolled the thrashing zombie far enough away for him to scramble clear. Quickly he found his feet.
The creature rose too. It looked about itself, lifeless eyes unblinking, and saw its amputated arm. Reaching down, it grabbed the arm, hefted it as though it were a club, and lumbered in Stryke's direction. Stryke charged and plunged his blade into the thing's chest. It met little obstruction. Its tip exploded from the zombie's back, liberating yet more dust. Stryke yanked the sword out and withdrew a couple of paces. The zombie kept coming, apparently unharmed. Stryke made to attack again.
Haskeer appeared and darted between them. 'It's mine,' he growled, facing the creature. 'You go!' Ducking to avoid its fleshy club, he commenced chopping and slashing at the zombie.
Stryke ran for the open carriage door, leapt up and jumped in.
Jennesta sat alone. She wore an expression that could have been called serene.
He seized his chance and thrust his sword at her heart.
It felt as if the blade had struck an anvil. The impact sent a shock wave up his arm that instantly suffused his entire body. It was a pain unlike any he had ever known. He imagined that being stung by a dozen venomous serpents would be like this. An energy ran through him, a malevolent force, bringing agony to every fibre.
He was flung backwards, landing on the floor, his back to the opposite seat. The pain immediately began to fade.
Jennesta was swathed in a semitransparent aura that looked like air rippling on a hot day. It was shot through with a brilliant violet hue that shifted, melted and reformed itself. Stryke knew a mere sword was no match for such sorcery.
'Did you think to find me unprotected?' she said.
'It was worth a try,' Stryke grated. He was fighting against his inbred deference for her, and his wariness of her powers.
She laughed. It was a disturbing sound. 'Your race may be unparalleled fighters, but you hardly excel when it comes to thinking.'
'If brainwork means something like you,' he replied defiantly, 'I'll stay dumb.'
'Insolent cur!' She made a movement with her hand, as though lobbing an invisible ball.
Stryke was hit by a jolt as powerful as the shock he'd just recovered from. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out.
'So you came here to kill me?' she added. Her tone made it sound conversational.
He said nothing.
'Or perhaps you hoped for a different prize,' Jennesta went on. For a fraction of a second, and apparently involuntarily, her eyes flicked to a bulky silk pouch on the seat beside her.
Stryke hadn't noticed it before, and now he willed himself not to look at it. 'Your death's the best prize I can think of.'
'Then you really do lack imagination, dullard.' She made the hand gesture again.
He took another punch of psychic force. The hurt inundated every cell in his body. He felt it in his bones, his teeth. And he knew he couldn't take much more; assuming she didn't simply kill him outright.
'Your view of the universe is so depressingly limited,' she said. 'You grasp no more than a sliver of the truth. If only you had the intellect to see how much more there is to reality.'
