Part 10 (1/2)

A band of Bone Faces had been sallying forth from this quarter, and it was time to be rid of them and find out if they were on their own or scouts for a far larger raiding party. Their goal was to kill most of these dung heaps but keep one or two for the Shoka warlord to question. This was going to be like shooting rabbits in a hutch.

Varro closed half the distance to the ravine, then his horse stumbled and rolled, throwing Varro wide into the tall brown and green meadow gra.s.s.

The horse screamed and struggled to its feet, but it couldn't stand straight. One of its forelegs was broken. Argoth winced; it must have stepped into a fox or ground squirrel hole.

The horsed limped, but Varro was up, running, cutting his way through the tall gra.s.s.

His pursuers gained on him, but not by much. Varro was a dreadman, one of those upon whom the Divines had bestowed a weave of might. He ran with the speed of that weave, flying through the meadow with enormous, quick strides. He was fast to begin with, and his weave doubled, almost tripled, the liveliness with which he ran.

But then he slowed.

What was he doing? This wasn't a time for tricks. All he needed to do was run into the ravine.

Varro slowed even further, slowed to the speed of a normal man. He glanced back over his shoulder, and when he turned back round, Argoth could see from his expression that something was terribly wrong.

Varro wasn't going to make the ravine. He wasn't going to make it out of the meadow.

Argoth rose. ”Mount up,” he called. ”Mount up!” It was possible the Bone Faces had a dreadman among them, but he wouldn't be one of those in heavy armor. Dreadmen only wore such when they were sure to be fighting their own kind. In most battles it was speed they desired. Brutal, blinding speed.

Argoth put away his doubts about sending Nettle to help Hogan with his harvest. This type of battle would have thrown the boy into a situation he was not prepared for. Exactly the type of situation into which he'd put his son, of a different wife and in a different land, so many years ago.

In one step he mounted his stallion. Then he gave him his heels and was flying down the narrow trail, hugging his steed's thick neck, dodging branches all the way to the bottom of the ravine.

By the time Argoth galloped out of the ravine, holding his bow and guiding his horse with his knees, the Bone Faces had surrounded Varro and beat him to the ground. He lay on his face with two men holding him down; Argoth could not tell if he was alive or dead.

The bare-chested man knelt at Varro's feet, binding them with a rope. The man's face, from his forehead to the crack of his mouth, had been painted black; from his lower lip down was white.

Argoth let out his battle cry and guessed if they had a dreadman, it would be the bare-chested one. None of them wore insignia, but that one had the hard-cut look of one who used a weave.

The Bone Faces turned.

Argoth stood a little higher in his stirrups and released his first arrow. He immediately took the second from the clutch he held in his bow hand.

The first arrow would have skewered a normal man. But Bare Chest dodged to the side, and the arrow flew past into the lower leg of the rider behind him, pinning the rider's leg to his horse.

The horse reared and screamed.

A volley of arrows from the thirty behind Argoth whispered past. Two of the raiders fell to the ground and writhed. More horses screamed and bolted.

Argoth raised his fist and made the sign for a split attack. There were two ways to deal with dreadmen. Either you smashed their support, or you ignored the support and hoped you got to the dreadman before he could build his Fire. Argoth chose the second. He signaled ten of his men to attack the regular Bone Faces. And he hoped with all his might they were indeed all regulars. Then he broke off with his remaining twenty men.

The two who had been holding Varro to the ground grabbed the reins of their horses and tried to mount. One took an arrow in the back and fell. The other made his saddle.

The end of the rope that held Varro was bound to the pommel of the saddle of a third rider. The rider put his heels to his horse and shot away. Varro yanked about and began to drag behind. But, thank the Creators, the man only dragged Varro a few yards before he cut him loose to gain speed.

Argoth focused on the dreadman. The man had not attempted to mount his horse. That, and the fact that none had been able to catch Varro before, meant that his horse had not been multiplied.

Bare Chest ran through the gra.s.s with a wild speed toward the wood. They couldn't let that happen. With the cover of bush and branches, he'd effectively reduce the odds to from one-to-twenty to one-to-two or three. And that would be suicide for Argoth's men.

Argoth raced his steed, gave him full rein, but it wasn't enough. The man was too fast. Argoth's men loosed another volley of arrows, but within two strides the dreadman stopped, turned, and all the arrows flew long.

Then the dreadman rushed at them, sword drawn. It was a simple tactic, and Argoth saw it for what is was, but they didn't have time to adjust. Within seconds they were upon him, still holding their bows.

The dreadman entered their charge on the far side, away from Argoth, and drew his sword.

Steel flashed. Two horses stumbled and cried out. The dreadman turned, pulled a third man from his saddle. Then the dreadman, running alongside, jumped onto the mount's back and guided it close to another of Argoth's men. Another flash of steel. An arm fell to the ground. The dreadman turned to another, threw a knife into the rump of the man's mount. When the horse cried out and stumbled, the dreadman leapt with his sword and severed the man's head from his body.

By the time Argoth shoved his bow into the hooks behind his saddle and drew his sword, the dreadman had either killed, dismounted, or incapacitated four others.

The remaining riders separated so the dreadman would be forced to commit to one target, allowing the others to regroup.

At that moment the dreadman could have made his move toward the wood, but he didn't. He rode after the closest man.

Brash, foolish. This one was a risk-taker.

Argoth wheeled his horse toward Bare Chest and gathered the Fire of his days. He didn't need a gift from the Divines to multiply his strength and speed, for Argoth knew the lore of the Divines. Or, at least, a part of it.

But none of his men would see it that way.

The Divines had proclaimed and enforced their lies for so long that none knew the truth when they saw it. According to the Divines, any power wielded outside their control was slethery, and since the Divines held the power who was to gainsay them? It was true many who had used the lore on their own became abominations and horrors, but even the Divines were not immune to that. It was true that many sleth stole life from others, but so did the Divines.

In fact, not only did the Divines steal Fire, they stole Soul. That was the difference between the secret order Argoth followed and that of the Divines. It was the Divines who were the sleth.

But who knew that secret? Not even his men would believe him if he told it to them, which meant that if he was exposed, they would kill him. They'd be bound to; they'd be compelled to, for in their minds he would present the worst danger they could imagine.

And they would have been right seventeen years ago before he found the Order. But that was all behind him now. He was a changed man; the Order had opened his eyes.

It was going to be risky going up against this foe, for who would believe a regular soldier, even one as skilled as he was, could best a dreadman? Nevertheless, he gathered his Fire, that spark of life that animated a man. Once he had enough of it gathered, he could expend it all in a rush, multiplying his natural abilities. Of course, it wasn't without cost. A man only had so much Fire, and when it was gone, the soul and body quickly separated from each other. But Argoth had decided long ago that there were things for which he'd trade the limited days of his life. Those close to him, including the men of his company, were worth such a sacrifice. But it took time to gather enough Fire to make any difference, and he didn't have time.

The dreadman galloped even with the hindquarters of another of Argoth's riders. He raised his sword and slashed the animal's rump. The horse faltered, and the dreadman pulled even with the rider.

The rider parried two blows from the dreadman, but the third took him square in the face, knocking him into the gra.s.s.

This couldn't continue: the dreadman would kill them all.

Argoth cried out a challenge.

The dreadman saw him and turned his horse.

Argoth was not fully multiplied. But he didn't care. This bare-chested piece of rot was going to be strung up with his own guts.

The dreadman put his heels into his horse, and, within a few strides, he and Argoth rode full gallop at each other. Relish gleamed in the dreadman's eye. Then the diseased goat-lover grinned.

Laugh now, Argoth thought, because your joy is at an end. He took his sword in his left hand, drew his bodkin, and then, with all the strength he could muster, threw it.

The bodkin flashed in the sun. The dreadman saw it and tried to swerve, but the blade buried itself in the horse just below its shoulder.

The horse stumbled and cast the dreadman off balance. But he didn't have time to leap away.

Argoth swung his sword in a backhanded arc that sliced the man in the side.