Kozmer took his staff, levered himself to his feet, and made his way over. “Didn’t you feel him coming?”
“No, I was meditating.”
“Meditating, or distracted?” There was a light edge in his tone that turned serious. “Your mind was wandering down strange trails—I felt your sowen bleeding off. Having second thoughts about returning to the mountains in the morning?”
Narina didn’t tell him that it was his own secret that had intruded into her meditation, although she wasn’t sure she could rely on that excuse. Not entirely. She’d set off from the temple several days ago thinking she’d grow more confident as the journey continued, growing into her role as master sohn and coming to a conclusion as to how to confront Lord Zoltan over his attack on the temple.
All while maintaining the peace. But there was no peace down here, only chaos spreading across the land, as inexorable as a river of flowing lava. She feared it would burn everything.
“No second thoughts,” she lied. “We’ll find a different way to get Balint his weapons. Then, when there’s no longer a reason for Lord Zoltan to attack us, we’ll have our conversation with the villain and set matters straight. Now,” she said, turning back to the dog, “what’s this about? Where are all the rest of them?”
Skinny Lad was all excitement, his aura a mess. There had been violence, she sensed, and the dog seemed to have run away in its wake. Worried, she tried to untangle the threads. Was Ruven injured? Andras? With those worries came more self-doubt. Why hadn’t she insisted they stay with her until they’d passed safely through the war zone?
Gyorgy emerged from the barn, complaining that Brutus was ignoring the hay served up to him, and stealing from the neighboring stall, where the boy fed two smaller, domestic goats who’d been penned up and left hungry when the farmers and their hands fled. He stopped when he saw the dog.
“Go outside the gates and see if you can spot Andras and the rest,” Narina told him. “Arm yourself first.”
She was still trying to sort through Skinny Lad’s aura when the boy returned from outside, shaking his head. No sign of them, he said. Narina kept working while Kozmer soothed the dog, calming him with gentle words while petting him with a gnarled hand. Soon, a picture began to come through.
She saw a dog fly through the air as if thrown, another dog hit by a stick. No, not a stick, a spear. No danger to the humans; it had passed, apparently. So where were they and why had Skinny Lad left them behind?
More images came. Horses. Men in chain mail. A small army of them, riding hard, ignoring the dogs and their masters, who lay cowering in the mud. Dozens of men, perhaps hundreds. There was urgency about these horsemen, and that urgency left Skinny Lad anxious. But not for Andras and his son.
“It’s not the ratters who are in danger,” she said as realization came to her. “It’s us.”
Gyorgy shook his head. “Huh?”
“Andras sent Skinny Lad to warn us—that’s why the dog tracked us down.”
Kozmer pointed his walking stick overhead. “Look skyward.”
Crows had been flying about since the companions had entered the plains, and Narina hadn’t paid them much attention for some time. Now she took a closer look. The crows weren’t any more numerous than they had been, but the smaller ones were gone, leaving only the large, glossy black ones. That was Zoltan’s flock, wasn’t it?
Even as she took note of them, a crow settled onto the farm compound’s wall. It cocked its head, fixed an eye on her, studied the others in turn, and took note of the dog, as well. Its aura was sharp, curious. Suspicious, even. Kozmer gripped his staff and shoved at the bird with his sowen. It lifted off and flapped away to the north.
“Enemies are near,” she said. “Zoltan himself, unless I’m completely wrong. Gyorgy, bar the gates, then fetch the swords. Kozmer, get into the barn.”
“What good will it do me cowering in the barn?”
“We’re all going into the barn,” she said.
“No point in that.” The elder stared after Gyorgy as the boy hurried off to obey his master’s command. “And I doubt barring the doors will do any good, either.”
With any luck, Kozmer was wrong. Even assuming Lord Zoltan got a report from his crow, it would be a jumbled mess, much like Skinny Lad’s impressions. There had to be thirty little farmholds like this within a mile or two, and if they hid in the barn going forward, Zoltan might not be able to find them before nightfall. They could slip away in the darkness.
And if they were attacked, horses couldn’t scale the walls, which meant that Zoltan either needed to assault the gate or send his men scaling the walls. They wouldn’t do it so easily as Narina, with her mastery of sowen and her physical training. In short, the compound was defensible.
“Stay here,” she told Kozmer. “I’m going to have a look myself.”
She leaped, grabbed the roof, and hoisted herself up to look for the enemy. Once on top, she ran lightly across the tiles with her thin slippers giving her a sure grip. She leaped atop the eastward-facing gate, crossed it with arms held out for balance, and continued to the northernmost part of the farm compound’s walls. Here she got a better view across the fields and patchwork rice paddies than Gyorgy would have enjoyed from a lower vantage point when he’d gone out for a better look.
Smoke trailed into the sky from the northeast at several points, three smaller fires, and one larger conflagration that might be a village going up in flames. The smoke added to the general haze that was settling over the land now that the rain had died. That would be from Manet Tuzzia erupting to the south. She wondered if the people of the plains saw the lava glowing on the horizon at night and worried that it was a portent of destruction.
Narina was beginning to wonder herself. That volcano had been asleep. Now the demons were out and attempting to burn the forests, while lava poured forth in a fiery river and an ash cloud blasted skyward in an eruption that showed no sign of abating.
Before her mind could follow this path any farther, she sensed a disturbance to the north. Her eyes and ears didn’t perceive it yet, but she could feel something rippling through the auras, moving across the landscape at a steady clip. It came from plants being trampled, worms and moles retreating into their holes as hooves pounded over the top of them, and the occasional rabbit or pheasant exploding out of its hiding place before it could be trampled.
Shortly, the disturbance approached a visible stand of trees planted as either a windbreak or a source of wood. It moved around the backside, as if the riders were attempting to shield themselves. She jumped back down from the roof to rejoin the temple elder.
“I take it they’re close,” Kozmer said.
“You read the auras from down here?”
“No, but I can read your face. Still think we can hide?”
Narina sighed. “No, there’s no point in it. They likely had us pinpointed earlier, and that last crow only confirmed.”
She could hear horses now. Gyorgy came up, strapping on his swords, his expression worried. He handed Narina her own weapons—or rather, her father’s—and she tied them at her waist.
“Fetch Kozmer a weapon.”
“Oh, I don’t want a weapon,” the man said. “You know that. Anyway, can’t the two of you manage?”
Narina pointed Gyorgy to the cart, still sitting in front of the gates where Brutus had left it after being unhitched. “Bring him one of the swords we forged for Stronghand. You’ll stand at the gates with my student,” she told Kozmer as the boy set about his task.
Kozmer’s response came out in a grumble. “What is the point in that?”
“You were a sohn at one time, and you are still a bladedancer. Your muscles will remember when a sword is placed in your hand. Your sowen will carry you forward.”
“It’s not the muscles, Narina, it’s the joints. I can barely grip this walking stick, you know.” He shook his head with an exasperated look, as if he were liable to cut off his own leg once the sword was put in his ha
nd. “And you will be where, exactly, while we’re guarding the gate?”
“On the roof. Negotiating. I don’t expect either of you will need to fight, but if someone breaks through the gate, you’ll fight them back.”
“And if they come over the top?”
“Then fall back and defend the cart until I join you.”
Narina didn’t wait for his response, but climbed back up to the roof, just as the horsemen came around the copse of trees and broke hard toward the compound. Her initial estimate was correct; a casual glance showed a good two hundred men and horse, while the crows flying over the top in great numbers confirmed that the crowlord himself must be leading them, though she couldn’t yet pick him out from his men.
Narina imagined what her father must have thought as Miklos’s men poured out of the forest that day. Some sixty of them, according to the man’s boast. Her father had died in the fight, but then again, he’d been caught somewhat off guard. And alone.
She was not alone, although admittedly, she wished she had Abelard and Katalinka at her side, not a student and an old man who claimed he couldn’t so much as pick up a sword. And she was not unprepared. She knew the men were coming, thanks to Skinny Lad, knew what they wanted. On the other hand, this was a lot of horsemen, and Zoltan would have his best fighters at hand.
One of the riders spotted her and shouted a warning to his companions. The horsemen grew wary and slowed their pace, with all eyes on her. She wore no cape, and crossed her arms so they could see the black and white hilts jutting out from her hips. A confirmation of what she was, and what they risked by confronting her.
Nevertheless, the riders didn’t withdraw or come to a halt. They fanned out as they drew near, moving to encircle the compound. When they had the walls surrounded, a single rider pushed through the mass of spears and drawn swords of his companions.
He was a strongly built man, about forty years old, broad in the shoulders and tall in the saddle. A hard look glinted in his eyes. A battle-axe hung in a sling by the side of the horse. It had a wicked, curving edge on the cleaving side and a sharp point on the other. She reached for the weapon’s aura and felt the power. The axe had been crafted in a sword temple, most likely by the warbrands.
The man called up to Narina in a deep, carrying voice. “You know why we’re here and what we want.”
“No introductions?” she said. “Isn’t that the way these negotiations usually begin? You tell me you’re Lord Zoltan, commander of two hundred armed horsemen, all ready to kill at your command. And I say that’s very good, but I’m Sohn Narina, and I can cut your two hundred down to size.”
A wave of murmurs and muttered curses passed through the riders. There were a few angry shouts among them, but there was worry on their faces, as well. Nobody could think facing off against a bladedancer would be a good idea. Zoltan lifted a hand, and the noise died, leaving only the stomp and snort of horses.
“I don’t want any bloodshed, woman. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Good, neither do I.” Narina cocked her head. “But if my memory serves, that line has been crossed already. A good number of your men fell by the sword already, and you drew blood, as well.”
“Why did you do it?”
“The temple made an agreement. We’re only delivering what was agreed upon, and asking that nobody else try to break our agreement, either.”
“That’s a question for another time,” Zoltan said. “Yes, I would like to know why you’d think to arm a villain like Balint Stronghand. But for now, tell me why you slaughtered my men.”
“You want to know why we killed your men?” Her voice rose, and her sowen slipped. She felt the storm rise inside her, an anger that blurred her vision with its ferocity. “They died murdering my father, who was only defending himself.”
“My man came to you in peace. You attacked his riders while they slept.”
“Your man? You mean Miklos? Is that what he said, that we killed his men in their sleep? Either he’s a liar or you are. The demons scald you both.”
“I know what happened up there.”
“Did you notice that Miklos is uninjured, and did you wonder why? I’ll tell you. It’s because he was attempting to distract me with gentle words while his men caught my father alone so they could kill him and steal the weapons.”
“I see what you’re doing. You want to confuse matters, make me back away.” A grim smile came across Zoltan’s face. “Miklos didn’t come back alone—other men are on hand to confirm your treachery.”
Narina shook her head. Either Miklos had invented a narrative to explain his losses at the temple, or Lord Zoltan was in on the lie and needed his army to believe it. To believe that their lord’s motives were virtuous, and not simply a grasping attempt to seize the weapons that he’d failed to acquire earlier.
“I was there,” she said. “I know what happened, whether you believe it or not. But it doesn’t matter either way. You won’t get those weapons. Those are promised to Lord Balint, and I will deliver them. If you want them, you’ll have to take them from him on the battlefield. I swear by demon and demigod that you won’t get them from me.”
Zoltan gave a little toss of the head that almost could be taken for a nod.
A sudden shift in the auras whispered a warning in Narina’s ear. She clenched her sowen, and movement seemed to slow down. Her swords were in her hands, even as a half dozen crossbow bolts—fired from weapons apparently hidden beneath their owners’ cloaks—streaked toward her from several directions.
She leaned away from the first to arrive, and it zipped past her left ear. A second bolt was off target, but its companion, an instant behind, was aimed true at her unarmored belly. Her demon blade came around with a flick of the wrist and cut it in two. The dragon blade took another, which would have hit her thigh, and a quick dodge to one side narrowly avoided one that would have hit her shoulder. The final bolt, fired late and from hands perhaps shaky with fear, flew wide, and she ignored it.
There were gaping faces below as she relaxed her sowen. Even Zoltan looked surprised, though he quickly recovered, and a steely expression returned.
“You thought you could take me with arrows?” she said. “That’s an impossibility, you fool.”
That wasn’t entirely true. A hail of thirty or forty might have taken her. Not now, though, when her stance was better, and her command of her sowen awakened and singing battle inside her.
“I know your strengths and weaknesses,” Zoltan said. “You are not invincible.”
“I don’t think you fully understand,” Narina said, “or you wouldn’t throw away the lives of two hundred men, plus your own. What will become of your wars then?”
“I’m not taken by your bluff,” he responded. “Even when you caught Miklos asleep, his men killed three of your number and wounded three more. We are not asleep this time, we are wary, and we are mounted. Also, you are surrounded. Even if there were ten of you inside—and the crows have given me your exact numbers, so I know that is not the case—you wouldn’t survive. Hand over the weapons and leave these lands. It’s the only way to save your life.”
“You are wrong in so many ways,” Narina said. Swagger had failed—maybe a gentler approach would work. “I don’t want this fight, either. Let me and my companions go about our business while you return to the battlefield. Maybe you can negotiate with your enemies to bring the war and suffering to an end.”
Zoltan threw back his head and let out a long, bitter laugh. His tone was acidic. “My enemies. If you knew what kind of people they were, you would never suggest it.”
With that reaction, Narina knew two things. First, that Lord Zoltan was convinced he was in the right, not only in attacking her, but in his wars against Balint and Damanja. Second, that there was no way of resolving this standoff except with bloodshed.
Nevertheless, she tried one last time. “Then if your war goes badly, come to us at the temple and negotiate your own purchase. We are reasonable people.
We will listen.”
Zoltan ignored this final effort. He lifted a gloved hand and formed a fist, and his men made their move.
Chapter Seventeen
Miklos waited about an hour after Lord Zoltan departed before he set his plan into motion. First, he moved into the crowlord’s tent, called up Davian, and explained what he intended to do. The old soldier’s face was grim, and his scars seemed to glow with a pale light in the dim environment of the tent.
“And when Zoltan returns?” the man asked.
“If he returns, the army will be committed. There will be the chaos of battle—he’ll take command of his troops and try to carry the day, or at least manage an orderly loss. We’ll either flee in the confusion, or. . .”
“Or. . .?”
“Or perhaps I’ll settle matters in a different way. We’ll figure that out later. But I don’t think Zoltan returns. I think the bladedancers take him.”
Davian looked skeptical. “Two hundred men on horse. Against three bladedancers, with one being an old man, and another a beardless boy of seventeen.”
“The third is a master sohn.”
“Even then.” Davian shook his head. “I’ve seen Zoltan in battle, and I saw the cavalry he held behind, the ones he took with him today. They’re good men, and he knows how to command them. We’d better be ready for his return, by god, and armed with the bladedancer weapons, too.”
Could Davian be right? Miklos wasn’t sure one way or another. He’d met Narina, felt her sowen, knew its potential. Yet she hadn’t guessed at his identity, hadn’t broken through his disguise. Her father had been the master, with his daughter untested, naive. There was an excellent chance that Narina would fall on the battlefield and some remnant of Zoltan’s men would return. What if the crowlord himself were one of the survivors?
Narina’s death wouldn’t end the bladedancers—not with other sohns at the temple—but it would weaken them for the upcoming struggle. He’d deal with the other two in due time. Meanwhile, whether or not she died, he didn’t think Zoltan would return, and if he did, Miklos intended the situation to look very different when he arrived.
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