No, Hal thought, spitting out blood. That wound is not survivable, let alone ignorable. Not by any mortal man. I need to apologize to Talbot for questioning her description of the invading army.
The way things were going, he might never get the chance.
The two enemy soldiers were arguing now, in a language akin enough to Common that Hal realized that they were arguing over whether to kill him now or deliver him to the empress alive.
If they took him to the empress, would Lyssa Gray be there? Could he devise a way to rescue her and the busker?
“You know the empress will want this one alive,” one of the horselords said, pointing at Hal, and then toward the ship. “He is young and strong, and a good fighter.”
The skewered man fingered the hilt of his sword and scowled at Hal; the man’s jaw was set stubbornly, as if he took being skewered rather personally. “Celestine has many new recruits to choose from, Hoshua,” he said. “She can spare this one.”
“She will need many more bloodsworn in the coming days,” Hoshua said. “These wetlands have plenty of seasoned soldiers. They have been at war for years.”
Wetlands, Hal thought. That must mean that they are from the drylands across the sea. And what did that mean—bloodsworn? Was it simply the name used for the horselord fighters, or did it have something to do with their superhuman strength and stamina?
“I don’t want to have to keep watch on him all the way to Celesgarde,” the wounded man said.
Where is Celesgarde? Is that where they would have carried Lyssa Gray?
“Don’t worry, Enebish. We can chain him belowdecks. He won’t be any trouble.”
After a heated discussion, his captors finally agreed that maybe the empress could spare this one particular soldier.
“Take me to Celestine,” Hal said in Common, startling the two horselords, who looked down at him as if a rock on the beach had begun speaking. These bloodsworn might be relentless, but they were not particularly quick-witted.
Enebish, the skewered man, drew back his foot and kicked him. The movement caused the horselord to stagger a bit, as if his body was catching up to the fact that it was in serious trouble. That’s when Hal heard a familiar thwack. Now an arrow shaft was centered in Hoshua’s chest.
Hal rolled onto his side, gripped Enebish’s boot, and gave it a hard twist. Bone cracked and the horselord went down. Focus on breaking bones, Hal thought. That makes them less mobile.
Hal scrambled over the sand to where Enebish had dropped his sword, scooped it up, and turned to see Hoshua bearing down on him, as unconcerned about his arrow as Enebish had been about being run through. The bow sounded again, and the horselord stumbled as a second arrow hit him in the back. Hal took advantage of the distraction to behead his opponent with a two-handed swing. The head splashed into the water, but the body continued to stagger around, spraying blood from its severed neck until it tripped over a rock slab and went down.
“Matelon! Look out!” Hal turned, and Talbot was sprinting toward him, nocking an arrow as she ran. Between them, Enebish was crawling across the sand toward Hal, pulling with his arms, pushing with one leg and dragging the broken one, his dagger in his teeth. In desperation, Hal threw his shoulder against a slab of rock, toppling it over so Enebish was pinned underneath.
Breathing hard, Hal bent down, resting his hands on his knees, and tried not to spew sick all over the sand.
Talbot knelt next to Enebish’s head. She swore softly. “He’s dead,” she said, glaring at Hal. “I wanted to interrogate him.”
“Sorry,” Hal muttered. “But I . . . ah . . . questioned him before he died.”
Talbot eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean? What did you find out?”
It was the first time he’d interrogated someone from the wrong end of a sword, but he knew more now than he had before.
“They’re Empress Celestine’s army,” Hal said. “They sail out of her capital at Celesgarde, wherever that is. That’s where they likely took the busker and Captain Gray.”
Hal and Talbot chose new mounts from among the long-legged desert horses in the temporary paddocks on the beach. They stole weapons and other gear from the dead horselords. Hal wasn’t in love with the curved blades the pirates carried, but now he knew from experience that they were good at removing heads with a single swipe, which seemed to be one of the few ways to put these demon soldiers down for good. Their bows were strange, also—lightweight, with limbs that curved back toward the archer. Hal was good with a crossbow, and fair with a longbow, but it would take practice to learn how to use one of these.
They rode west toward Fortress Rocks, continuing until their horses were exhausted. When they didn’t dare push them any further, they found lodging at an inn along the road. To say they found lodging was being generous. The inn was already packed with refugees heading inland. Hal and Talbot slept in the barn, in a stall with three other people. Talbot had a small amount of money, but all Hal had were a handful of unfamiliar coins he’d taken from Enebish.
To say they slept was being generous.
Hal rose at first light and saddled his horse. He’d named the stallion Bosley because he was balky, full of himself, and obsessed with getting at the mares. Hal filled the panniers with food for several days, his quiver with arrows, and lashed a blanket roll behind his saddle. He was swinging open the barn doors when Talbot appeared, her hair in a tangle, wiping sleep from her eyes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded, her hand on the hilt of her sword.
“This is where we say good-bye.” Hal led his mount out into the stable yard, with Talbot hard on his heels.
“What do you mean, good-bye?” Talbot planted herself in his path.
