Silver-veined power surging towards him.
Galloping now, mad as any other fool this night, and he saw, off to his left, a deep, elongated trench-drainage for the camp’s latrines-and he forced his mount towards it, even as the sorcery raced for him on a convergent path from his right.
The horse saw the trench, gauged its width, then stretched out a moment before gathering to make the leap.
He felt the beast lift beneath him, sail through the air-and for that one moment all was still, all was smooth, and in that one moment Toc twisted at the hips, knees hard against the animal’s shoulders, drew the bow back, aimed-damning this flat, one-eyed world that was all he had left
– then loosed the stone-tipped arrow.
The horse landed, throwing Toc forward onto its neck. Bow in his right hand, legs stretching out now along the length of the beast’s back, and his left arm wrapping, desperately tight, about the animal’s muscle-sheathed neck
– behind them and to the right, the heat of that wave, reaching out, closer, closer-
The horse screamed, bolting forward. He held on.
And felt a gust of cool air behind him. Risked a glance.
The magic had died. Beyond it, at the front line of the advancing-now halted and milling-Letherii troops, a body settling onto its knees. A body without a head; a neck from which rose, not blood, but something like smoke-
A detonation? Had there been a detonation-a thumping crack, bludgeoning the air-yes, maybe he had heard-
He regained control of his horse, took the knotted reins in his left hand and guided the frightened creature round, back towards the crest.
The air reeked of cooked meat. Other flashes lit the night. Dogs snarled. Soldiers and warriors died. And among Masarch’s cavalry, Toc would later learn, half were not there to see the dawn.
High overhead, night and its audience of unblinking stars had seen enough, and the sky paled, as if washed of all blood, as if drained of the last life.
The sun was unkind in lighting the morning sky, revealing the thick, biting ash of incinerated humans, horses and dogs. Revealing, as well, the strewn carnage of the battle just done. Brohl Handar walked, half numbed, along the east edge of the now-dishevelled encampment, and approached the Atri-Preda and her retinue.
She had dismounted, and was now crouched beside a corpse just inside the berms-where, it seemed, the suicidal Awl had elected to charge. He wondered how many had died to Letherii sorcery here. Probably every damned one of them. Hundreds for certain, perhaps thousands-there was no way to tell in this kind of aftermath, was there? A handful of fine ash to mark an entire human. Two for a horse. Half for a dog. Just so. The wind took it all away, less than an orator’s echo, less than a mourner’s gut-deep grunt of despair.
He staggered to a halt opposite Bivatt, the corpse-headless, it turned out-between them.
She looked up, and perhaps it was the harsh sunlight, or the dust in a thin sheath-but her face was paler than he had ever seen before.
Brohl studied the headless body. One of the mages.
‘Do you know, Overseer,’ Bivatt asked in a rough voice, ‘what could have done this?’
He shook his head. ‘Perhaps his sorcery returned to him, uncontrolled-’
‘No,’ she cut in. ‘It was an arrow. From a lone archer with the audacity to outrun… to slip between-Overseer, an archer riding bareback, loosing his arrow whilst his horse leapt a trench…’
She stared up at him, disbelieving, as if challenging him to do other than shake his head. He was too tired for this. He had lost warriors last night. Dogs rushing from the high grasses. Dogs… and two Kechra-two, there were only two, weren’t there? The same two he had seen before. Only one with those strapped-on swords.
Swords that had chopped his K’risnan in half, one swinging in from one side, the other from the opposite side. Not that the blades actually met. The left one had been higher, from the top of the shoulder down to-just below the ribcage. The right blade had cut into ribs, down through the gut, tearing free below the hip and taking a lot of that hip out with it. So, to be accurate, not in half. In three.
The other Kechra had just used its talons and jaws, proving no less deadly-in fact, Brohl thought this one more savage than its larger companion, more clearly delighting in its violent mayhem. The other fought with perfunctory grace. The smaller, swordless Kechra revelled in the guts and limbs it flung in every direction.
But those beasts were not immortal. They could bleed. Take wounds. And enough spears and swords had managed to cut through their tough hides to drive both of them off.
Brohl Handar blinked down at the Atri-Preda. ‘A fine shot, then.’
