Barbara Hambly - The Ladies of Mandrigyn

He got to his feet cautiously, though he knew there would be no second arrow, and began to walk. Through the sweeping darkness that surrounded him, he thought he sensed movement, stealthy in the shadows of the windbreaks, but he did not turn to look. He knew perfectly well they would be following.

He felt it very soon, that first sudden numbness and the spreading fire of feverish pain. When the road dipped and turned through a copse of dark trees, he looked back and saw them, a flutter of cloaks crossing open ground. Four or five of them, a broad, scattered ring.

He had begun to shiver, the breath laboring in his lungs. Even as he left the threshing shadows of the grove, the starlight on the plain beyond seemed less bright than it had been, the distance from landmark to landmark far greater than he had remembered. The detached comer of his mind that had always been capable of cold reasoning, even when he was fighting for his life, noted that the poison was fast-acting. The symptoms resembled toadwort, he thought with a curious calm. Better that—if it had to be poison—than the endless purgings and vomitings of mercury, or the screaming hallucinatory agonies of anzid. As a mercenary, he had seen almost as much of politics as he had of war. Poison deaths were nothing new, and he had seen the symptoms of them all.

But he was damned if he’d let that sleek, toothy President win this one uncontested.

He was aware that he’d begun to stagger, the fog in his brain making the air glitter darkly before his eyes. Tiny stones in the road seemed to magnify themselves hugely to trip his feet. He was aware, too, that his pursuers were less careful than they had been. He could see the shadows of two of them, where they hid among the trees. Soon they wouldn’t even bother with concealment.

Come on, he told himself grimly. You’ve pushed on when you were freezing to death; this isn’t any worse than that. If you can make it to the next stand of rocks, you can take a couple of the bastards out with you.

It wasn’t likely that the President would be with them, but the thought of him gave Sun Wolf the strength to make it up the long grade of the road, toward the black puddle of shadow that lay across it where the land leveled out again. He was aware of all his pursuers now, dark, drifting shapes, ringing as wolves would ring a wounded caribou. Numb sleep pulled at him. The shadow of the rocks appeared to be floating away from him, and it seemed to him then that, if he pushed himself that far, he wouldn’t have the strength to do anything, once he reached the place.

You will, he told himself foggily. The smiling bastard probably told them it would be a piece of cake, rot his eyes. I’ll give them cake.

In the shadow of the rocks, he let his knees buckle and crumpled to the ground. Under cover of trying to rise and then collapsing again, he drew his sword, concealing it under him as he heard those swift, light footfalls make their cautious approach.

The ground felt wonderful under him, like a soft bed after hard fighting. Desperately he fought the desire for sleep, trying to garner the strength that he felt slipping away like water. The dust of the road filled his nostrils, and the salt tang of the distant sea, magnified a thousand times, swam like liquor in his darkening brain. He heard the footsteps, slurring in the dry autumn grass, and wondered if he’d pass out before they came.

I may go straight to the Cold Hells, he thought bitterly, but by the spirit of my first ancestor, I’m not going alone.

Dimly he was aware of them all around him. The fold of a cloak crumpled down over his arm, and someone set a light bow in the grass nearby. A hand touched his shoulder and turned him over.

Like a snake striking, he grabbed at the dark form bent over him, catching the nape of the neck with his left hand and driving the sword upward toward the chest with his right. Then he saw the face in the starlight and jerked his motion to a halt as the blade pricked the skin and his victim gave a tiny gasping cry. For a moment, he could only stare up into the face of the amber-eyed girl from the tavern, the soft masses of her pale hair falling like silk over his gripping hand.

Under his fingers, her neck was like a flower’s stem. He could feel her breath quivering beneath the point of his sword. I can’t kill her, he thought despairingly. Not a girl Fawnie’s age and frozen with terror.

Then darkness and cold took him, and he slid to the ground. His last conscious memory was of someone jerking the sword out of his hand.

“Ari sent you away?” Starhawk looked sharply from Little Thurg to Ari, who stood quietly at her side.

Thurg nodded, puzzlement stamped into every line of his round, rather bland-looking countenance. “I thought it funny myself, sir,” he said, and the bright blue eyes shifted over to Ari. “But I asked you about it then, and you told me...”

“I was never there,” Ari objected quietly. “I was never in Kedwyr at all.” He looked over at Starhawk, as if for confirmation. They had spent the night with half of Sun Wolf’s other lieutenants, playing poker in Penpusher’s tent, waiting for word to come back from their chief. “You know...”

Starhawk nodded. “I know,” she said and looked back at Thurg, who was clearly shaken and more than a little frightened.

“You can ask the others, sir,” he said, and a pleading note crept into his voice. “We all saw him, plain as daylight. And after the Chief had gone off with that woman, I thought he met and spoke with Ari. May God strike me blind if that isn’t the truth.”

Starhawk reflected to herself that being struck blind by God was an exceedingly mild fate compared with what any man who had deserted his captain in the middle of an enemy city was likely to get. The fact that they were in the pay of the Council of Kedwyr did not make that city friendly territory—quite the contrary, in fact. You can dishonor a man’s wife, kill his cattle, tool his goods, Sun Wolf had often said, and he will become your friend quicker than any ruling body that owes you money for something you’ve done for them.

She settled back in the folding camp chair that was set under the marquee outside Sun Wolf’s tent and studied the man in front of her. The sea wind riffled her pale, flyaway hair and made the awning crack above her head. The wind had turned in the night, blowing hard and steady toward the east. The racing scud of the clouds threw an uneasy alternation of brightness and shadow over the dry, wolf-colored hills that surrounded Melplith’s stove—in walls on three sides and formed a backdrop of worried calculations, like a half-heard noise, to all her thoughts.

Her silence was salt to Thurg’s already flayed nerves. “I swear it was Ari I saw,” he insisted. “I don’t know how it came about, but you know I’d never have left the Chief. I’ve been with him for years.”

She knew that this was true. She also knew that women, more than once, mistaking her for a man in her armor, had offered to sell her their young daughters for concubines, and the knowledge that there was literally nothing that human beings would not sell for ready cash must have been in her eyes. The little man in front of her began to sweat, his glance flickering in hopeless anguish from her face to Ari’s. Starhawk’s coldbloodedness was more feared than Sun Wolf’s rages. A man who had taken a bribe to betray Sun Wolf could expect from her no mercy and certainly nothing even remotely quick.

She glanced up at Ari, who stood behind her chair. He looked doubtful, as well he might; Thurg had always proved himself trustworthy and had, as he had said, been with Sun Wolf’s troop for years. She herself was puzzled, as much by the utter unlikeliness of Thurg’s story as by the possibility of betrayal. In his place, she would have thought up a far better story, and she had enough respect for his brains to think that he would have, also.