of this.”
Something about the knight’s voice as he responded jolted Senya. “I certainly hope so,” he said, and she suddenly knew where she’d heard his voice before. She threw her head back and laughed, spurring the knights flanking her to wheel on her again, and she kicked herself for not realizing sooner. What appeared to be plate armor under the tabard of the knight leader was actually the armored plating of a warforged soldier. And not just any warforged.
It was Cart.
As the surrounding knights charged, Senya leaned over and grabbed the reins of the rider on her left, pulling his horse closer. Too close for him to swing his sword. He turned in his saddle to face her, trying to free his sword arm. She brought her left hand, clenched around his reins, up into his throat. His horse reared, and Senya leaned over to grab his sword hand. She yanked the sword from his hand as the rider toppled backward out of his saddle.
Senya yanked the reins farther back, keeping the horse off balance, and it finished her work-one of its hoofs crushed the fallen man’s chest. Releasing the reins, she brought the dead man’s sword around in a wide arc to her right, just in time to block the other marshal’s sword as it sliced down toward her leg. As she found her balance in her saddle, she kicked the other horse’s flank, sending it prancing forward, carrying the rider out of reach. She sat up, wrapped her reins firmly around her hand and wrist, and took stock of the battlefield.
The Sentinel Marshals were terribly outnumbered-there had been at least two foes for each Sentinel Marshal before Senya made herself part of the equation. Still, they were hardened warriors, and they had so far acquitted themselves well against Cart’s soldiers. Four soldiers in Thrane colors lay dead or dying, one of them crushed beneath his bloodied horse. Cart was locked horse-to-horse with Arrakas: she saw him raise his axe high over his head as he pushed Arrakas away with his shield. The man Senya had unhorsed lay motionless on the ground, but he was the only Sentinel Marshal who had fallen.
The other Sentinel Marshal brought his mount under control and wheeled it around to charge her. Senya braced herself in her stirrups and kicked her horse forward to meet the charge head-on. Both horses shied at the last moment, rebelling against their riders’ evident desire to bring them into collision. Senya was thrown from her saddle and hit the ground rolling. She somersaulted away from the stamping hooves and stood again, relieved to have solid earth beneath her feet again. She was no more used to mounted combat than her horse was, bred as it was for speed and not war.
The Sentinel Marshal kept his seat and held his sword low as he charged. Senya settled into a relaxed, balanced stance and watched him come, looking for the perfect place to strike. The marshal drew his sword back as he came nearer. She waited as long as possible, then dropped to the ground, slicing her slender blade along the horse’s flank. The sword’s point traced a line of blood along the charging horse’s skin, then caught the saddle strap and cut through it. The horse screamed and bucked, sending rider and saddle flying through the air.
“What would the Valaes Tairn think of me?” Senya muttered. The warrior elves of Valenar revered their horses almost as much as they did their ancestors, and they frowned on attacking an opponent’s horse. Senya’s mind leaped back to Shae Mordai, and she was off guard when the marshal charged her again, this time on foot.
“Die,” the marshal snarled. His sword arced toward her neck, and she lifted her left arm just in time to prevent the blade from cutting deep where her neck and shoulder met. As it was, the sword cut through the leather and flesh of her arm, struck and broke bone, and lodged between the two bones of her forearm before the marshal wrenched it free. Senya felt blood spatter her face and blinked hard to clear her eyes.
“Not yet,” Senya gasped.
Her opponent reeled backward with the momentum of pulling his sword back, and she drove her own blade into his belly. He collapsed on the ground, staring blankly up at her, his face contorted in pain. She stabbed him again, in the throat, then rolled him over to stare at the ground. Dropping into a crouch beside him, she took stock of the battlefield again.
Cart and two of his men, still on horseback, ran down a Sentinel Marshal who was trying to flee on foot. Two other men in Thrane colors fought on foot against a second marshal. Otherwise, the battle was over. Senya ripped the midnight-blue cloak off the marshal she’d killed and, using her teeth and one hand, tried to rip it into bandages she could use to bind her arm. The wound was excruciating, and her right hand shook violently as she worked.
Her trembling hand slipped as she tried knotting the first bandage around her arm, sending a fresh jolt of pain from the wound. Her head grew light, and she put her right hand on the ground and lowered her head to steady herself. Just as her vision cleared, a weight settled on the back of her neck, accompanied by the gentle bite of a blade resting against her skin.
“I lost four good soldiers for you.” Cart’s voice was heavy, and his axe blade on Senya’s neck shifted as he spoke.
“You call those good soldiers?” Senya said. “They had the Sentinel Marshals outnumbered two to one, and I took out two marshals by myself.”
“I said they were good soldiers.” Cart lifted his blade off Senya’s neck, and she pushed herself to her feet and faced him. “Not champions. It’s good to see you again, Senya.”
Senya smiled, but she had stood too quickly, and she slumped to the ground in a dead faint.
CHAPTER 42
The streets of Stormhome were choked with people, most of them staring into the sky. Bordan had been right: it had not rained within the city walls in the memory of any living resident, though the rolling hills of the island enjoyed mild showers from time to time. The people of the city acted as though the world were about to end.
Let them, Gaven thought. Let it rain. Let the world stop. Arnoth d’Lyrandar is dead.
In front of Gaven walked two dwarves, trying to remain calm and gentle while they nudged people aside to clear a path. Another walked behind him, a hand on his manacles and an axe at the ready. Ossa and the dwarf spellcaster guided Rienne. The last time Gaven had stolen a look backward, the tip of Ossa’s dagger was still pressed into the skin of Rienne’s neck. Bordan brought up the rear of the strange procession, seeming nearly as disconcerted by the rain as the residents of the city were.
Rienne was manacled and walking under her own power, so the paralyzing spell had ended. He briefly toyed with plans for an escape. He tested the strength of the manacles, trying not to alert the dwarf holding them. He didn’t think they would give-they were probably reinforced with magic-and he thought they might even be dampening his own magic. With his hands free and alert to the threat of the spellcaster, Gaven was sure that he could handle the five dwarves and Bordan by himself. With Rienne, he might be able to handle them with his hands still bound. But as long as Ossa’s dagger was pressed into Rienne’s neck, he couldn’t take the chance.
Gaven didn’t know where the dwarves were taking them. He had assumed at first that they’d bring him to Stormhome’s jail, to hold him until they could arrange transport back to Dreadhold. But the jail was near the center of the city-unless it had relocated during Gaven’s imprisonment-and they were headed toward the northern neighborhoods. A few dragonmarked houses had enclaves in the northern district of Six Corners, but neither the dwarves’ House Kundarak nor Bordan’s House Tharashk were among them. House Deneith’s Sentinel Marshals also occupied a large tower in the city center, not far from the jail. The docks were situated to the southeast, but Gaven realized that he didn’t know where in the city airship mooring towers might be concentrated. That became his working assumption: The dwarves and Bordan would load him on an airship for immediate transport back to Dreadhold.
The rain fell harder as they walked, and the mood of the people in the streets grew worse. When lightning flashed in the sky, Gaven heard a woman scream, and he suddenly realized the flaw in his theory. Bordan and Ossa were not stupid enough to put him on an airship-they had both been aboard the Morning Zephyr when storms forced her to the ground.
The dwarf behind Gaven yanked on his manacles, and he stopped walking. The leaders of their cavalcade were embroiled in an argument with a group of men who had apparently objected to being pushed aside. The dwarves kept their voices calm, but the men yelled and waved their arms.
“Gaven, listen to me.” The dwarf behind him still had a hand on his manacles, and he whispered up to Gaven.
