The other two riders were shouting to each other, and one pulled hard away from the fight, setting heels to his horse. The last warrior brought his mount round and lowered his lance.
Yedan urged his gelding into a thundering charge, but at an angle away from his attacker-in the direction of the fleeing scout. An instant’s assessment told him he would not catch the man. Instead he lifted himself upward, knees anchored tight to either side of the gelding’s spine. Drew back his arm and threw his sword.
The point slammed up and under the rider’s right arm, driven a hand’s breadth between his ribs, deep enough to sink into the lung. He toppled from his horse.
The last rider arrived, coming at Yedan from an angle. Yedan twisted to hammer aside the lashing blade of the lance, feeling it cleave through his vambrace and then score deep into the bones of his wrist. Pain seared up his arm.
He dragged his horse into the rider’s wake-the Liosan was pulling up. A mistake. Yedan caught up to him and flung himself on to the man’s back, dragging him from the saddle.
There was a satisfying snap of a bone as the Watch landed atop the warrior. He brought his good hand up and round to the Liosan’s face, thumb digging into one eye socket and fingers closing like talons on the upper lip and nose. He jammed his wounded arm with its loosened vambrace into the man’s mouth, forcing open the jaws.
Hands tore at him, but feebly, as Yedan forced his thumb deeper, in as far as it could go, then angled it upwards-but he failed to reach the brain. He got on to his knees, lifting the Liosan’s head by hooking his embedded thumb under the ridge of the brow. And then he forced it round, twisting even as he pressed down with his bloodied, armoured arm jammed across the man’s mouth. Joints popped, the jaw swung loose, and then, as the Liosan’s body thrashed in a frenzy, the vertebrae parted and the warrior went limp beneath him.
Yedan struggled to his feet.
He saw the scout with the punctured lung attempting to clamber back on to his horse. Collecting a lance, Yedan strode over. He used the haft to knock the warrior away from the horse, sending the man sprawling, and then stepped up and set the point against the Liosan’s chest. Staring down into the man’s terror-filled eyes, he pushed down on the lance, using all his weight. The armour’s enamel surface crazed, and then the point punched through.
Yedan pushed harder, twisting and grinding the serrated blade into the Liosan’s chest.
Until he saw the light leave the warrior’s eyes.
After making certain the others were dead, he bound his wounded arm, retrieved his sword and then the surviving lances and long-knives from the corpses, along with the helms. Rounding up the horses and tying them to a staggered lead, he set out at a canter back the way he had come.
He was a prince of the Shake, with memories in the blood.
Yan Tovis opened her eyes. Shadowed figures slid back and forth above her and to the sides-she could make no sense of them, nor of the muted voices surrounding her-voices that seemed to come from the still air itself. She was sheathed in sweat.
Tent walls-ah, and the shadows were nothing more than silhouettes. The voices came from outside. She struggled to sit up, the wounds on her wrists stinging as the sutures stretched. She frowned down at them, trying to recall… things. Important things.
The taste of blood, stale, the smell of fever-she was weak, lightheaded, and there was… danger.
Heart thudding, she forced her way through the entrance, on her hands and knees, the world spinning round her. Bright, blinding sunlight, scorching fires in the sky-two, three, four-
‘Highness!’
She sat back on her haunches, squinted up as a figure loomed close. ‘Who?’
‘Sergeant Trope, Highness, in Yedan’s company. Please, crawl no further, the witches-there’re wards, all round, Highness. All round you. A moment, the witches are on their way.’
‘Help me up. Where’s my brother?’
‘He rode out, Highness. Some time ago. Before the fourth sun rose-and now we’re burning alive-’
She took his proffered arm and pulled herself on to her feet. ‘Not suns, Sergeant.
He was a scarred man, face bludgeoned by decades of hard living. ‘Highness?’
‘We are under attack-we need to leave here. We need to leave now!’
‘O Queen!’ Pully was dancing her way closer, evading the scored lines of the wards encircling the tent. ‘He’s coming back! Witchslayer! We must ready ourselves- drip drip drip some blood, Highness. We brought ya back, me an Skwish an we did. Leave off her, you oaf, let ’er stand!’
But Yan Tovis held on to the sergeant’s wrist-solid as a rooted tree, and she needed that. She glared at Pully. ‘Drank deep, I see.’
The witch flinched. ‘Careless, an us all, Queen. But see, the Watch comes-with spare horses, white horses!’
Yan Tovis said to Trope, ‘Guide me out of these wards, Sergeant.’
She could hear the horses drawing closer, and, from the road, the suffering of thousands of people swept over her in an inundating tide-she almost gagged beneath that deluge.
‘Clear, Highness-’
She straightened. A fifth sun was flaring to life on the horizon. The iron fastenings of Trope’s armour were searing hot and she winced at their touch, but still would not let go of his arm. She felt her skin tightening-
Her brother, one arm bound in blood-soaked rags, reined in at the side of the road. Yan Tovis stared at the trailing horses. Liosan horses, yes. That clutch of lances, the sheathed long-knives and cluster of helms. Liosan.
Skwish and Pully were suddenly there, on the very edge of the road. Pully cackled a laugh.
Yan Tovis studied her brother’s face. ‘How soon?’ she asked.
She watched his bearded jaw bunch as he chewed on his answer, before squinting and saying, ‘We have time, Queen.’
‘Good,’ she snapped. ‘Witches, attend to me. We begin-not in haste, but we begin.’
Two young women, scampering and bobbing their heads like the hags they once were. New ambitions, yes, but old, old fears.
Yan Tovis met Yedan’s eyes once more, and saw that he knew. And was prepared.
Chapter Eleven
In the first five years of King Tehol the Only’s reign, there were no assassination attempts, no insurrections, no conspiracies of such magnitude as to endanger the crown; no conflicts with neighbouring realms or border tribes. The kingdom was wealthy, justice prevailed, the common people found prosperity and unprecedented mobility.
That all of this was achieved with but a handful of modest proclamations and edicts makes the situation all the more remarkable.
Needless to say, dissatisfaction haunted Lether. Misery spread like a plague. No one was happy, the list of complaints as heard on the crowded, bustling streets grew longer with each day that passed.
Clearly, something had to be done…
LIFE OF TEHOL
JANATH
Clearly,’ said King Tehol, ‘there’s nothing to be done.’ he held up the Akrynnai gift and peered at it for a time, and then sighed.
‘No suggestions, sire?’ Bugg asked.
‘I’m at a loss. I give up. I keep trying, but I must admit: it’s hopeless. Darling wife?’
‘Don’t ask me.’
‘Some help you are. Where’s Brys?’
‘With his legions, husband. Preparing to march.’
‘The man’s priorities are a mess. I remember how our mother despaired.’
‘Of Brys?’ Janath asked, surprised.
‘Well, no. Me, mostly. Never mind. The issue here is that we’re facing a disaster. One that could scar this nation for generations to come. I need help, and see how none of you here can manage a single useful suggestion. My advisors are even more pathetic than the man they purport to advise. The situation is intolerable.’ He paused, and then frowned over at Bugg. ‘What’s the protocol? Find me that diplomat so I can chase him out of here again-no, wait, send for the emissary.’
‘Are you sure, sire?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
Bugg gestured at the gift in the King’s hands. ‘Because we’re no closer to finding a suitable gift in reciprocation.’
Tehol leaned forward. ‘And why, dear Chancellor, is that?’
‘Because none of us has a clue what that thing is, sire.’
Tehol grimaced. ‘How can this thing defeat the greatest minds of the kingdom?’
‘I didn’t know we’d tried them yet,’ murmured Janath.
‘It’s bone, antler, inlaid pearl and it has two handles.’ Tehol waited, but no one had anything to add to that succinct description. ‘At least, I think they’re handles…’
