Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

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The Lord of the Grave must be pretty fucking pleased, Gwenna thought, wiping blood from her face with the back of her hand, trying to see through the cloud-shrouded murk, hoping to Hull that she’d dragged the last body far enough behind the tent that no one would notice it right away. Ananshael. Hull. Meshkent. She was starting to think she’d picked the wrong bloody lot of gods, but, with gore smeared across her blacks and half a million Urghul spread around her, there was no going back now.

They’d waited until just after midnight, long enough that many of the horsemen had taken to their blankets, enjoying one last night in the api . The tents would stay, Gwenna figured, judging from the fact that no one had bothered to take them down. Maybe a few score of the old, young, and infirm would stay with them, looking after the temporary city while the rest of the nation pushed hard for the border. That push had Gwenna worried. She’d seen the pace Long Fist’s riders set when crossing the steppe, when they’d been burdened with supplies and prisoners. Gwenna would have preferred to wait until more of the Urghul were asleep, but hours wasted now might prove crucial later, and so she found herself moving through the camp, stolen sword held flat against her leg, trying to look everywhere at once without moving her head.

As promised, Annick had managed to kill the young warriors guarding their tent. As hoped, they’d managed to slip unnoticed into the night. And as feared, they had to traverse a camp that spanned the better part of a mile before they could even think about stealing horses. Gwenna’s instinct was to hug the shadows, darting from tent to tent, using the darkness and her own slarn-sharpened vision to avoid as many people as possible. Annick shared the impulse, and for a while they crept forward, a few paces here, a few paces there, until Pyrre shook her head in irritation.

“I’m not sure what they teach you on your secret island hideaway, but this isn’t going to cut it.”

“We haven’t been seen yet,” Gwenna hissed.

“It’s not us I’m worried about them seeing,” Pyrre said. “It’s the four deceased Urghul with arrows in their necks we left stuffed behind the api . Once they’re found, our nighttime stroll is going to get a lot less leisurely.”

“If we’re seen-” Annick began, but Pyrre was already stepping brashly out of the darker shadows into the center of the muddy lane running between the tents. Without a glance over her shoulder, she tossed her hair, shrugged her shoulders, then set out at a brisk walk.

“Fuck,” Gwenna said, glancing over at Annick.

The sniper’s lips tightened. “Fuck,” she agreed tersely, then followed the older woman into the lane.

The Skullsworn’s approach worked surprisingly well; they didn’t have to kill anyone for at least a hundred paces. Between the darkness and the chaos of a military camp getting ready to move out, most people were so intent on their own business that they didn’t look twice at three figures moving purposefully through the greater gloom. Pyrre had slipped into something like the Urghul saunter, and she made no effort to hide her face, or shy away from the Urghul they passed. No one challenged them. No one bothered with a second glance.

Then they ran into the young men with the spears. Gwenna was just starting to think they might walk straight out of the camp when the three taabe stepped out from the darkness between two tents. The idiots were lugging twelve-foot spears-useful on horseback but potentially deadly in the confusion of a night camp-and they tangled up with Gwenna and Pyrre, wooden hafts and steel heads clattering, blocking the lane.

The youth in the lead shouted angrily in Urghul, a quick barrage of words Gwenna didn’t recognize, then yanked on the haft of his spear. The head ripped through her blacks, slicing into her arm. The wound wasn’t deep, but it took Gwenna by surprise, pulling her off-balance, and she cursed as the metal bit, then slid free. It was that curse that did it.

The head of the closest taabe snapped around at the unfamiliar language, his dark eyes locked on hers, and then, after a baffled heartbeat, his lips drew back into a snarl. He opened his mouth to shout, but Pyrre was already there, sliding a small blade across his neck, a subtle motion, almost gentle. Instead of a roar, a bloody lisp slipped from his lips as he folded to the earth.

The two others were still trying to free their spears, oblivious to the silent death of their comrade. Gwenna hacked one across the face, while Annick killed the other with an arrow shaft in the eye. The fight was over in less than two blinks, but the bodies lay hopelessly tangled with the long shafts of the spears, and Gwenna could see movement in both directions down the narrow lane. There was no time to hide corpses. No time to do anything but put distance between themselves and the bodies.

“This way,” Pyrre said, stepping from the path, sliding between the tents. Her voice was low, relaxed, but held none of her habitual mockery. For once, the assassin sounded as though she was taking things seriously. “Quickly, ladies.”

Gwenna didn’t care for the idea of taking orders from a Skullsworn, but the center of a hostile army didn’t seem like the time to contest the issue. She grimaced, slid into close-guard, and followed the woman into the tents. A dozen paces farther they emerged onto another muddy track running parallel to the first. Gwenna’s stomach clenched. The Urghul were everywhere, and worse, lit torches lined the path, flames snagging and ripping with the wind. Pyrre didn’t hesitate, striding straight across, aiming for the cluster of tents on the far side. She made it halfway before one of the Urghul-a tall bastard with a long yellow braid-noticed her and barked a question.

Pyrre turned to the man, a smile on her face, and opened her arms as if for an embrace. “Kwihna!” she said brightly. The word was nonsensical, but the language was familiar, and the warrior paused, confusion flitting across his face. Pyrre stepped into the pause, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pulled him close for a long, passionate kiss. When she let him go, the man toppled. Gwenna never even saw the knife.

They made it a few more streets before the alarm went up-shouting and bellowing followed by long blasts on a horn. The angry, accusatory note sounded again and again, chasing them through the night, drilling into Gwenna’s ears until she half wondered if she’d lost her mind. There was no telling which of the eight or nine corpses they’d left behind had finally done them in. It hardly mattered. The camp-shivering with screams and ululations-knew they were loose. The whole Urghul army knew.

“So much for discretion,” Pyrre said.

The next few minutes were all jolting flight, hot breath between the teeth, scrabbling to keep footing in the treacherous mud, Urghul faces stretched tight with fury, and killing. Lots and lots of killing. Pyrre cut down the warriors without breaking stride, slipping her small knives into throats and stomachs, skewering eyes and slitting tendons, each motion delicate, birdlike, and precise. Gwenna was anything but delicate. The Urghul swords she’d picked up off the dead guards were longer and heavier than the smoke steel with which she’d trained, and trying to keep pace with Pyrre it was all she could do just to hack at the bodies as she passed, huge sweeping motions that jarred her shoulder whenever the sharp edge bit.

“Less screaming,” Pyrre called back.

“What?” Gwenna shouted, burying her blade in some woman’s gut, twisting it, then wrenching it free. Blood ran hot over her hands. Hopefully someone else’s.

“You don’t need to scream each time you hit someone,” Pyrre said. “Try being more circumspect. They’ll still die.”