The Bandit King

“Hurry,” the voice overhead whispered. The filaments of Court sorcery drew aside, and the water-gate had been eased open.

“Go,” I said softly. Hooves rang against stone and I winced. Splashing, the indistinct shapes rode down the slope and into the water, loud as cannonfire to my straining ears. I counted—one, two, three.

Eight. Nine. Where were the rest of my men?

Twelve. Thirteen.

Fifteen. Here came another through the fog, the set of his shoulders reminding me of soft-faced Sarquis di Pothefeil. I could not be certain… but I thought twas he.

A pair looming through the grayness. Seventeen, one without a protective shell of illusion. Twas di Tierrce- Alpeis, grimacing as he held his shoulder, and my chest constricted. The scar twinged sharply, as if remembering the touch of steel.

“Go,” I whispered fiercely.

He nodded, and they vanished into the culvert’s dark mouth. The sound of their steps vanished too, cut off cleanly as if with a knife.

Nineteen, twenty. Four more of them threading through the Damarsene, with only their wits and such a thin protection of airy cloud and illusion.

Dawn had come and left, and the Sun, false friend, was strong. Twould be a perfect late-harvest day, mild enough for the ladies of a Court to accompany a hunt. Picnicking in the royal woods outside the Citte, easy riding sidesaddle for them, the Guard in their finest accompanying. A vision of pretty grace and easy laughter, and suddenly I realized I would give up anything I could call my own, even my nobleman’s name, to see Vianne di Rocancheil et Vintmorecy smile during a picnic again.

But the fog was already thinning, and it was discernibly warmer.

A cry went up. Another of my Guard loomed out of the vapor, a hoarse whisper-cry as his illusion-shell breached. Twas Antolan di Margues, his hat gone and his dark curls draggled. “Ware! They come!”

Twenty-one. I motioned him for the dark mouth, and his horse slid down the stone gully with a clatter.

Alarums began, muffled by the fog—but not nearly enough. I breathed a curse, since my shell was already broken. The Damarsene roused themselves, a roiling anthill. A breath of sulfurous sorcery—Graecan fire, simmering or newly ignited.

The Sun would not have to burn the rest of the fog off. Another fire would do just as well. Cracks of green like morning-vine tendrils curled through the warp of the fog, and the stink increased.

Four more. Where are they? “Come,” I muttered, without meaning to. “Come, my boys, do not dawdle.”

The green vines flushed with red. I smelled charcoal, and salt.

Clashing steel. Cries. Hoofbeats, and a roar as of some gigantic creature prodded rudely from its dreaming.

“Tristan!” The voice from above, a thin thread of sorcery used to disguise it, but it could not hide the frantic hiss in the middle of my name. “Tristan, for the love of the Blessed, come inside!”

An exquisite stroke along every nerve I owned. The Aryx, close. Delicate living green fought the harsh red for control of the fog, which thinned and tore, unable to serve both masters. More clashing steel, ringing hoofbeats.

One more, his horse bloody and foaming; his illusion-shell was breached as well. I flung out a hand, pointing, as Sieris di Montalban clattered down into the culvert and splashed through the darkness. He was a fine horseman, controlling even a pain-maddened animal so.

Steel ringing like a smithy. Another hoarse cry. Chill touched my nape. I dismounted, caught Arran’s bridle, and gave him to understand what I wished.

When I let loose of him with a “Ha!” he shot down the slope, into the culvert’s mouth. They would do well by him inside.

I drew my rapier. Settled my dagger along my other forearm, ignored the repeated plea from above. “D’Arcenne! Do not be a fool! Come!”

Jierre di Yspres had held the survivors of the Old Guard on the slopes of Mont di Cienne, waiting for me to appear, those many months ago. I could not do less for the men under my care now.

Never too late to begin becoming the man she once thought you were. Ware now, they come.

Great gaps tore in the fog. Through the thinning screen, an absurd three-headed shape. Twas d’Embrail and di Haseault, on foot, with Tieris di Siguerre slumped between them. Blood dripped, and he hung in a sodden mass. Their illusion-shells were gone, and they had all shed layers of protective cloth. Tieris was all over mud and missing his hat.

And behind them, the Damarsene. Just four pursuers for now, and gaining on the men carrying their wounded lieutenant.

“Move!” I barked, and the echo of the drillyard acted as a tonic. Their heads rose—except Tieris’s. They hastened, and I lengthened my stride, ignoring the cry from the tower above. Was it Vianne, watching this?

All the more reason to do what I must, then. I set myself, ignored the aching in my chest, and broke into a run.

Chapter Thirty

In Damar, those who fight afoot are largely peasants, and trained for it. The officers are a-horseback, and noble, since only a nobleman can afford a horse. It used to be a crime for any of the lower orders to own horseflesh. Oxen for plowing and pulling carts, horses for war and pleasure, is still their custom. Their peasants fight with pike and sword, and had I been facing four pikes twould have been a much different battle.

But these were officers, one could tell by the quality of their swords and by the half-armor they had been laced into. The extra weight would tell on them—or so I hoped. One let out a watch-cry, and the fog about us roiled afresh.

Behind me, Tieris and his helpers struggled down the stone slope, boots clattering. A short cry of pain before they began splashing, damnably slow, and I closed with their pursuers in a furious spatter of chiming steel and a short-snapped word of Court sorcery.

When you are faced with one-against-many, speed and maneuverability are your watchwords. My chest flamed with tearing pain, but it did not matter. The battle-madness was upon me, and in that fiery glow it did not matter that the wound might reopen, or that my limbs were leaden and weak, or that the fog had shredded and the Damarsene had realized what we were about.

Inquatorce, half-thrust, my rapier darting for the throat and I faded aside, shuffling, as two of the attackers tangled with each other. They are not normally bumbling idiots, but awakened roughly and forced to battle afoot in the heart of their own camp does tend to maze men used to discipline and a- horseback charges. Even the hounds of Damar trained from childhood to the martial.

My dagger left my hand, buried itself in the throat of another—he was not quick enough, and fell a-gurgling. The next I took intierce, his blade slid aside just slightly as I turned, inside his reach and thrusting, the rapier ramming into his lower belly where the half-armor was cut away for freedom of movement while horsed. Pulling it free with a twist, my hand searching for another knife and finding it behind my hip—not dagger but poniard, more suitable for throwing, but I had already tossed one knife and been luckier than I deserved. More choking, more cries and running feet. The fog lifted, flushed with red, the green tendrils shrinking as they folded into the earth’s embrace. More splashing behind me, grunts of effort.

A crossbow quarrel bloomed in the chest of my third opponent just as I slashed at his arm. His sword fell with a clatter, but the fourth had recovered his wits and I was almost lung-pierced again. I saved myself by lunging aside, chest tearing afresh and sick liquid heat in my throat. A line of tents before me blocked us from view, but