Adrian Tchaikovsky - Heirs of the Blade

She saw him again: the same Dragonfly with greying hair, the man she had picked as their leader from the moment she saw him. He was right there in front of her, hauling the Wasp out of the way. His eyes met hers and the shock of recognition was mutual.

He suddenly shoved the Wasp away, his off hand reaching for his quiver. She thought she had him then, for she was closing the ground between them so swiftly that he could never have drawn the bowstring, but his wings flowered at his shoulders, casting him backwards over the heads of the scrum, and an arrow lanced from his bow even as he reached the apex of his leap. She felt the arrowhead already in her shoulder grating shallowly against her flesh as she ducked, felt his shot kiss the blade of her sword, enough to divert the shaft from her, and then she was going after him, felling anyone luckless enough to get in her way. The Dragonfly already had another arrow nocked, but he was clearly loath to risk killing one of his own, so she used that against him, not allowing him a clear shot until she was almost on him. A spearman tried lunging for her, and she whipped her rapier across his throat almost casually, her eyes still fixed on the brigand chief. She saw the moment when he understood that he would have no choice but to shoot, and she shared it with him. As he let the arrow fly she was already moving, tipping the collapsing spearman into the way so that the shaft ploughed into his dying flesh and not into hers.

The Dragonfly’s wings flashed once more, as she lunged for him open-handed, catching his ankle and feeling the pull of his wings, almost fierce enough to wrench her arm from its socket. For a moment she was off the ground, and then the two of them tumbled back into the fray.

Her left hand, which had been weaponless for a moment in order to seize him, found the comforting grip of her sword in it again, the weapon coming and going obedient to her will in accordance with the secret lore of the Weaponsmaster. Alive, he must be alive. She lanced for his leg, seeking to cripple him, but he rolled aside, coming up into a crouch with his bow raised and ready. In the frozen moment she could only admire his mastery, delighted to find a worthy opponent amidst all this dross.

Just as he had the string drawn back to his ear, she drew the tip of her blade across the taut arch of the bow, cutting the weapon in two.

The arrow struck her ribs, his aim a moment from driving it through her body. As it was the shaft spun at her sideways, staggering her but drawing no blood.

The loose and jagged end of the bow whiplashed back into his face, and he hit the ground hard with his shoulder, one hand pressed to the wound.

She had a fight on her hands then, for all around were his followers, and enough of them had registered their leader’s jeopardy and were trying to save him. She disposed of three with swift, economic passes of her blade, but then Whitehand’s men were on all sides of her, the Mantis himself leading their rescue attempt.

She dismissed them, let Whitehand fight the minions while she went after their leader. The man had got back to his feet now, although there was a bloody weal across his face. In one hand he had a Commonwealer punch-sword: a short, vicious blade projecting straight from a shielded knuckleguard. He must have known that she was by far the better duellist, and she expected him to take flight again and force her to chase him, but he went for her instead, trying to get in under her longer reach.

She drilled him in the thigh, where she had intended to catch him all along, and he fell back on to one knee, but his eyes remained watchful and waiting.

There. She turned, sensing a threat from her right, but it almost caught her anyway. Not a man but a beast: a low-slung hunting scorpion bolting towards her from the melee, one pincer opened wide and reaching to crush her ankle. She hopped aside, awkward with surprise, and its sting missed her leg by only inches.

The Dragonfly took advantage of the distraction, but she tilted aside from his lunge, letting the punch-sword pass within an inch of her back, while smacking her elbow into his chin. She stepped this way and that, dancing an angled course around the scorpion’s claws as it tried to pin her down, and then her blade severed the last three inches of its stinger and stabbed down to pierce the beast amidst its clustered eyes.

She felt the swirl of fighting humanity about her eddy and shudder, and knew without seeing that the relief force must have arrived at last. That meant they had held up the brigands long enough for Lowre’s trap to be sprung, so it only remained for her to ensure that the bandit chief himself did not escape.

He was not trying to, however, or perhaps the wounds he had taken had deprived him of his flying Art. He glanced briefly at the dead scorpion and then went for her again, grimacing as he put his weight on to his injured leg. She stayed outside his reach, because his eyes promised further surprises, and when the spear came at her from behind, she was ready for it – turning to slash at the wielder, who got himself out of the way faster than she had expected. She saw a long-faced Grasshopper-kinden now staring at his truncated spear-shaft.

All around them the brigands were fleeing, some taking to the air to run the gauntlet of the Salmae’s own fliers, while others tried to reach the treeline again. The counterattack was mopping up most of them, throwing a ring around those that remained and driving them in towards Tynisa. The bandits continued fighting, but she guessed that those with any sense would start surrendering soon.

The Grasshopper was neither fighting nor fleeing. Instead he was still trying to find a way of coming against her to rescue his leader. That told her all she needed to know.

Thinking that she was distracted, the Dragonfly thrust at her again. She took his sword with her raper’s quillons and twisted it in a way that would have disarmed anyone with a Wasp-issue shortsword, but just sprained his wrist, and then she stepped back. As she finished moving, the razor edge of her sword was right under his chin, drawing a little blood, then she remained absolutely still, and so did he.

Without looking at the Grasshopper, she could sense him frustrated and angry and fearful for the life of his leader – and his friend, she decided. Had he been a Mantis, he would surely not have let such sentiment cripple him, she told herself.

‘Drop your weapons, both of you,’ she called out, loud enough to be heard over the fighting. ‘All of you,’ she added, because she saw she now had a wider audience. The brigands immediately around her were already surrendering, not out of love of their leader but because Whitehand and his followers had started killing any who did not throw down their arms. Tynisa glanced at the nearest. She saw the Wasp, now with an Imperial shortsword to replace his ruined nailbow. She saw the Grasshopper, and she saw a squat Scorpion-kinden man holding a short-hafted halberd and looking at her like blood and murder.

‘All of you,’ she repeated, with a tiny shift of the rapier. The Dragonfly hissed and dropped his sword.

‘You can’t kill us all,’ the Wasp tried.

‘Of course I can,’ she replied earnestly, and it was the utter conviction of her tone that finally disarmed him, and the Grasshopper. She turned her gaze to the Scorpion-kinden, who seemed disinclined to join them.

‘Ygor,’ the Dragonfly hissed, ‘it’s over.’

‘She killed my wife,’ the Scorpion growled. ‘She killed Scutts.’

He was going to swing his halberd at her, she knew. He was mired enough in grief to throw away his life, and those of his fellows too. She almost saluted him for it. It was the proper thing to do.

But then he sagged, and let the heavy weapon fall, the head burying itself in the earth, and the next moment the followers of the Salmae were binding the wrists of those bandits who, by surrendering, had bought themselves another tenday of life.