Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Max stepped out to one side of the column and barely darted back before an arrow hissed by at the level of his throat. “Bloody crowbegotten woodcrafting slives,” he muttered. “Can you spot the archers?”

“Sure. Let me just stick my head out and have a look around, Max,” Tavi said. But he fumbled at his belt pouch and withdrew the small mirror he used for shaving. He lifted it above the ruined wall in his left hand and twisted it back and forth, hunting for the reflection of the archers. He found the attackers within a second or two-though they had been under a woodcrafting when they attacked, they must have dropped it to focus their efforts on precision archery. Half a second after Tavi spotted them, another arrow shattered the mirror and laid open his fingertip halfway to the bone.

Tavi jerked his hand back, clutching at the bleeding finger. It only tingled, but there was enough blood that Tavi knew it would be quite painful momentarily. “Thirty yards, north of you, in the ruin with the triangle-shaped hole in the wall.”

“Watch that flanker!” Max shouted, and flicked his hand around the column. Fire streaked from his fingertips, blossoming into an enormous cloud that reached toward the archers. Tavi heard Max’s horse scream in panic and bolt. Max sprinted around the far side of the column in the flame’s wake.

Tavi heard a crunch of stone on stone to the west and rose to a tense crouch, sling in hand and ready. “Hear that?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Magnus grunted. “If I reveal him, can you take him?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?” Magnus asked. “Because once I draw him out, he’s going to send an arrow at my eye. Can you take him or not?”

“Yes,” Tavi said. Somewhat to his own surprise, his voice sounded completely confident. To even more surprise, he found that he believed it. “If you show him to me, I can handle him.”

Magnus took a deep breath, nodded once, then rose, flipping his hand in the general direction of their attacker.

The earth rumbled and buzzed, not with the deep, growling power of an earthquake, but in a tiny if violent trembling, like a dog shaking water from its fur. Fine dust rose from the ground in a cloud fifty yards across. Not twenty paces away, the dust cloud suddenly clung to a man crouched beside a row of ferns, outlining him in grime.

The man rose at once and lifted his bow, aiming for the old Maestro.

Tavi stood, whipped the sling around once, and sent the heavy lead sphere whistling through the air.

The attacker’s bow twanged.

Tavi’s sling bullet hit with a dull smack of impact.

An arrow shattered against a tumbledown rock wall two feet behind Maestro Magnus.

The dust-covered woodcrafter took a little stagger step to one side, and his hand rose toward the quiver on his shoulder. But before he could shoot again, the man’s knees seemed to fold of their own accord, and he sank to the ground in a loose heap, eyes staring sightlessly.

From several yards to the north came a ring of steel on steel, then a crackling explosion of thunder. A man let out a brief scream cut violently short.

“Max?” Tavi called.

“They’re down!” Max called back. “Flanker?”

Tavi let out a slow sigh of relief at the sound of his friend’s voice. “Down,” he replied.

Maestro Magnus lifted his hands and stared at them. They trembled violently. He sat down very slowly, as though his legs were no more sturdy than his fingers, and let out a slow breath, pressing a hand to his chest. “I have learned something today, my boy,” he said in a weak voice.

“Sir?”

“I have learned that I am too old for this sort of thing.”

Max rounded a corner of the nearest ruined building and paced over to the still form of the third man. Blood shone scarlet on Tavi’s friend’s sword. Max knelt over the third man for a moment, then wiped his sword on the man’s tunic and sheathed it on his way back to Tavi and Magnus.

“Dead,” he reported.

“The others?” Magnus asked.

Max gave the Maestro a tight, grim smile. “Them, too.”

“Crows.” Tavi sighed. “We should have kept one alive. Corpses can’t tell us who those men are. “

“Bandits?” Magnus suggested.

“With that much crafting?” Max asked, and shook his head. “I don’t know about that third one, but the first two were as good as any Knight Flora I’ve ever seen. I was lucky they were dividing their attention to conceal themselves on those first two shots. Men that good don’t take up work as bandits when they can get paid so much more to serve in someone’s Legion.” He squinted back at the dusty corpse. “Hell, what did you hit him with, Calderon?”

Tavi twitched the hand still holding his sling.

“You’re kidding.”

“Grew up with it,” Tavi said. “Killed a big male slive after one of my uncle’s lambs when I was six. Two direwolves, a mountain cat. Scared off a thanadent once. Haven’t used it since I was thirteen or so, but I got back into practice to hunt game birds for the Maestro and me.”

Max grunted. “You never talked about it.”

“Citizens don’t use slings. I had enough problems at the Academy without everyone finding out about my expertise in a freeholding bumpkin’s weapon.”

“Killed him pretty good,” Max noted. “For a bumpkin weapon.”

“Indeed,” Magnus said, his breathing back under control. “An excellent shot, I might add.”

Tavi nodded wearily. “Thanks.” He glanced down at his bleeding finger, which had begun to swell and pulse with a throbbing burn.

“Crows, Calderon,” Max said. “How many times have I told you that you need to stop biting your nails?”

Tavi grimaced at Max and produced a handkerchief. “Give me a hand, here.”

“Why? You obviously aren’t taking very good care of the ones you’ve got.”

Tavi arched an eyebrow.

Max chuckled and bound the cloth around Tavi’s finger. “Just to keep the dirt out and stop the bleeding. Once that’s done, get me a bucket of water and I can close it up.”

“Not yet.” Tavi pushed himself to his feet and turned in the direction of the pair of archers. “Come on. Maybe they were carrying something that can give us a clue about them.”

“Don’t bother,” Max said, squinting at a point in the distance. His voice became very quiet. “It’ll take a week to find all the pieces.”

Tavi swallowed and nodded at his friend. Then he went and stared down at the man he’d killed.

His bullet had hit the man almost exactly between the eyes, with so much force that it had broken something in his head. The whites of his sightless eyes were filled with blood. A thin trickle of it ran from one of the man’s nostrils.

He looked younger than Tavi had expected, somehow. He couldn’t have been much older than Tavi himself.

Tavi had killed him.

Killed a man.

He tasted bile in his mouth and had to look away, fighting away a sudden attack of nausea that threatened to empty his stomach right onto his boots. The struggle was a vain one, and he had to stagger several paces away to throw up. He calmed himself afterward, spitting the taste out of his mouth. Then he shut his sense of revulsion and guilt away into a quiet closet in his mind, turned back to the corpse, and systematically went through the man’s belongings. He focused on the task to the exclusion of everything else.

He didn’t dare start thinking about what he had just done. There was nothing left in his belly to come up.

He finished and went back to the Maestro and Max, fighting not to break into a run. “Nothing,” he said quietly.

Max exhaled, a trace of frustration in it. “Crows. I wish we at least knew who they were after. Me, I guess. If they’d been here before me, they’d have killed you already.”