He drew the string of his bow back, calculating the range before raising the bow so that the arrow pointed almost straight up. He took a slow breath then breathed it out, releasing the string as he did. The arrow flew high into the air, so high that it seemed to be meant to pierce the moon itself, and at such a height, it seemed it could land anywhere. But of course it could not, for once fired, arrows had only one destination, only one result, and the result of this one was to strike one of the rider’s at the front of the column.
Perhaps the man cried out, perhaps not. At this distance, there was no way to tell for sure, but Priest saw movement, a slight shifting of the shadows which he took to be the man falling from his saddle. His skills, then, remained even after fifteen years. He did not know whether to be thankful or sad for that fact. Perhaps both.
Saying another prayer for the fallen man, that he might pass through the veil with as little pain, as little fear, as possible, Priest made his way down the hill to his horse. The beast fidgeted as he secured his bow, as if it could read his troubled mood through his touch. He took a moment to gives its muzzle a rub, offering what comfort he could, taking what comfort he could. “It’s okay, boy,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
The horse tossed its head as if to say that whatever things were, they were far from okay, and with no argument to make, Priest swung into the saddle. “Come,” he said, “we must be fast now, for there is little time.”
And with that, he turned and rode back to the village at a gallop, pushing the beast beneath him to its limit. The arrow, appearing out of nowhere and striking down one of their number, should slow the troops down, but he knew that, when no others followed, they would resume their pace soon enough. He had bought them some time that was all, and he could only hope that it would be enough.
***
He stood as the great blaze died down, as those mourners who had gathered around it began to depart, seeking the shelter and the dubious comfort of homes that would, going forward, be emptier than they had. At least of people. There was the absence, of course, an absence they would feel at their shoulders, in their beds, an absence that loomed and brought with it a very painful, very loud silence.
They departed bit by bit, in small, grieving knots, and eventually he was left alone with the dead, to breathe air which felt thick with the grief that had concentrated there minutes ago. It lingered, grief, lingered even after the cause of it was nothing but dust. It was a truth Cutter had known for a long time, one he had been taught and had, in his turn and to his shame, taught to many others.
And into that grief, that silence, a sound intruded, the sound of a galloping horse. He turned in the direction from which it came and, moments later, he saw a horse racing toward him, one upon which Priest rode, the archer’s face grim. As he brought the horse to a rearing halt and leapt from his saddle, Cutter did not have to ask the man what was wrong, what the cause of his haste, for there could only be one thing.
“How long?”
The man gave a shake of his head, obviously weary. “Not long. An hour. Maybe less. Your brother and fifty men at least.”
Cutter nodded grimly. “Go wake the others.”
Priest nodded. “What will you do?”
Cutter glanced in the direction of the village gate, the one they had come through so recently. “If I know my brother, he will send a man ahead, a scout meant to locate us, to keep an eye on us. I will go and meet him. I’ll catch up with you at the inn.”
The man hesitated, watching him for a moment. “The man who comes. You will kill him?”
Cutter rolled his shoulders to rid them of some of the soreness standing still for so long had caused. “Yes.”
The man looked as if he wanted to say something more, but in the end he only nodded. “Good luck, Prince.”
With that, he turned and started away at a run, leaving his weary mount. Cutter watched him go. Good luck, the man had said, and while Cutter was grateful for the well wishes, he did not think that luck was needed, not for this man, at least. After all, the man needed to be killed, and in that, if in nothing else, there were few better than Cutter.
He turned and started toward the gate.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The greatest illusions are the ones we cast on ourselves.
Trust me—I should know. Gods help me, I should know.
—Challadius “The Charmer”
She was beautiful, the woman—and why not? After all, while the illusions he cast in his waking hours were always marred by one flaw or another, one often only he could see, the illusions his dream-mind created were far more thorough and, of course…entertaining.
The woman had a thin, toned waist, shapely thighs, and long hair that hung down into his face as she sat atop him. Beautiful, which was good. Eager, which was also good, but the best of all was that the woman did not scowl at him or make him feel like a fool with a single look, not the way Maeve did.
Beautiful enough, eager enough, that he
