The monster charged Bors, and he ducked under its outstretched arms, moving to the side as he cut down on its forward leg. But the axe head slid off the armor plate on the beast's thigh. The beast roared and reached for him, but Bors danced back, swinging the axe one-handed as he traded power for range. This time, his axe head cut into the leathery white skin along the beast's unprotected hip, and watery yellow blood and pus sprayed from the gash. Long Tam threw a dart that lodged in the back of the monster's head, and it spun, roaring toward her now.
"No!" Bors yelled, rushing forward and slamming his axe into its back, knocking it off-balance but only scoring sparks from the armored plate.
The monster turned back to Bors, far faster than he would have thought capable, hammering one of its huge pincers against his head, sending him flying across the office to shatter a foot table. Bors tried to rise but fell back again, spots of light dancing before him. He rose on hands and knees, shaking his head. Get up and fight, soldier! Fight or die.
Dizziness swept over him, and he slid forward once again, pulling the carpet that had been beneath the table with him. From where he lay, he saw Long Tam, scimitar in hand, charge the demon.
"No … Run," Bors mumbled, his fingers closing over the haft of his fighting axe.
Long Tam slashed, but her scimitar drew only sparks from the monster's armored hide. The beast smashed her to the floor with no more effort than a man battling a toddler. Bors was helpless as the monster picked up the cloth-bound mask with its pincers before also lifting the still form of Long Tam, casually tossing her over its massive armor-clad shoulder.
"Wait," he gasped, but the room spun about him wildly, and he had to close his eyes.
He must have passed out, because he woke to the sound of angry yells—Sly Tor's men!
Long Tam and the monster were gone.
Then he saw the exposed trapdoor beneath him that had been hidden by the rug and the table Bors had broken. He'll have a secret way out, Long Tam had warned him.
He pried the lid up, revealing a ladder and darkness. He swung his legs into the opening, resting them upon the ladder. Holding his axe beneath his arm, he tried to pull the edge of the carpet back over the trapdoor, but he slipped and fell, the trapdoor slamming shut above him. His shoulder flared with pain as he arrested his fall on another rung of the ladder. Too weak to hold on any longer, he fell into darkness.
Part III
Blood on the Hill
13
Bors knelt beside the hoof prints, trailing his fingers over their edges. He chewed the inside of his lip as he considered the tracks, before looking over his shoulder at the other horsemen, twenty-three of them, all Argot Light Cavalry, each man mounted on Kandori Jennets—steeds noted for their endurance and ambled gaits. Like Bors, the men wore light leather armor and half helms. Tied to their pommels were long horse swords, and each man held a lance, its metal head fire-blackened to ensure the sun wouldn't gleam from its tip and give away their presence. Every sixth man bore a horse bow as well. None of the men carried shields. They were scouts and under orders to avoid unnecessary battle.
"Well?" Collard asked, his face reflecting his unease. Collard was Bors's second-in-command. At eighteen, he was only a year younger than Bors, and his light-blond beard sprouted bravely from his chin but left bare patches along his cheeks. Despite his youth, Collard was a superb horseman; they all were.
"Two parties," Bors answered. "At least a hundred horses in total." Bors rose to his feet, staring northward in the direction of the river, where a series of hills rose above the forest. "The second party trailed the first, ruining the tracks, but I'd guess there were at least two or three times as many riders in the second."
"Not our concern, Bors. The duke's orders were clear: engage only in self-defense. We should report—"
"This is all wrong," Bors said. "Why so many horses, and to what end? Whoever it is, they waited for our army to ford the river and form up for battle. Why?" Bors stared ahead of the tracks, in the direction of the low, sloping hills that led to the banks of the river; then he turned east, following the trail of the second set of riders where it had come from an old logging trail in the woods. "And how did they even know the army would come this way? There are three fording points within a day's march, and two of them are better than the one Ergil chose." This makes no sense. Bors ground his teeth as he tried to untangle this knot. A force this size still wouldn't be enough for a surprise attack on our rear—even if they could ford the river without being seen—which seems unlikely. They could hit our supply lines, but Ergil only need send the reserve to run them off. Why hide a force behind us. Why take the risk?
"Bors," said Collard, his voice carrying an edge of concern. "Duke Ergil would want to know about this. Whatever they're planning, he can send a counterforce—if he knows about it."
Bors frowned. You mean if I do my job. He placed his foot in his stirrup and swung up into Azuth's saddle. His mount was ill-tempered and disagreeable, prone to wanting to choose his own route and snap at anyone trying to decide for him.
Much like Bors.
He pressed his lips together, his options clashing in his head. The obvious—smart—course of action was to follow his orders, but his gut warned he was missing something, something critical—and it involved the first party that had passed through. The enemy had risked much, lying in wait as the army passed by. They wouldn't have taken such a chance for a supply train. Besides, there were no wagon tracks.
He drew his lance from the holder on his saddle and balanced it atop his hip as he guided Azuth about with his knees to face the other men. The noonday sun beat down upon them, heating Bors's leather half helm and cooking his skull, but his thinking was remarkably clear. By the time Bors and his scouts returned to report this matter to Duke Ergil—or, more likely, one of his aides—it would be too late to stop whatever was going to happen. Bors glanced at Collard, smiling when he saw Collard shake his head and roll his eyes. "We're outnumbered, Bors."
"They don't know we're here. Besides, we don't need to win a fight, just ruin whatever it is they have planned. There's enough of us for that."
"Bors … the duke. He'll be furious."
Bors edged Azuth past Collard to address the others. "Brothers, the rebels think to play games with us. They insult us."
Collard muttered something about "fools and blood," but Bors ignored him, feeling his excitement grow. The men glanced warily at one another, and several of their horses pranced nervously.
"Oh, come on," said Bors, shaking his head at them. He stood in his stirrups, holding his lance in the air, looking down upon them. "Did you come all this way just to let other men fight for you? The enemy is right there!" He pointed forward with his lance, in the direction the tracks led, toward the wooded hills and the river on the other side. A single large hill dominated the terrain, and Bors instinctively knew that was where he'd find both groups of riders. "I know what you're thinking—there aren't enough of them for us to bother with."
Now, the men chuckled, smiling at one another.
"They're up to something, something sneaky, but only we get to be sneaky. Let's go ruin their day." He trotted Azuth past the men, meeting each one's gaze. "One charge, brothers. That's all we need. Hit them from behind, and then if we must, we'll leave them pissing after us." Bors saw in their eyes, they wanted to fight, not scout.
Even Collard was nodding in encouragement now. "One charge, Bors."
Bors edged his mount closer to his friend's and gripped his upper arm. "One charge. Just long enough to say 'hello.' "
The decision made, Bors led Azuth and the others at a fast canter. As they rode, the men fanned out into an arrowhead formation. Collard was right about one thing: if Bors failed, Duke Ergil would be angry. He'd take Bors's rank—if not his head.
The trail was fresh. The enemy must be only minutes ahead. Their mounts sped through the thin forest, gaining ground. He couldn't see the river through the trees, but he could smell the
water. As expected, the trail led to the large tree-covered hill. From its summit, it would provide an amazing view of the Lyrian army and the upcoming battle.
Azuth snorted, his senses so much stronger than Bors's. A moment later, Bors heard the screams of men and animals and the clash of weapons. The rebels had begun their attack. Bors urged Azuth on, breaking into a light gallop, lowering his lance. Soon, the woods resonated with the pounding of horses' hooves. Bors burst through the last of the trees, coming out at the base of the hill.
A battle took place upon its slope, where rebel horsemen came at a much smaller party of Lyrian warriors holding the hilltop, trying to overwhelm them with superior numbers. When Bors saw the golden banner displaying the red rose of Lyr flying from the hilltop, he understood the enemy's intent in a moment. He charged forward, urging Azuth to his greatest speed for the final burst.
Azuth exploded up the slope.
"Lyr! Lyr!" Bors screamed, his blood pounding in his ears.
Already engaged, the rebels couldn't turn in time. Bors's lance took an enemy rider in the back, shattering the wooden lance. Azuth crashed into the rider's mount, sending the poor animal tumbling to collide with other enemy riders.
Bors drew his horse sword—a three-foot-long curved blade—and cut open a man's face, sending him falling from the saddle. Another rider charged him, and their mounts thundered together, almost knocking Bors down. Their blades clashed and rebounded, and then they swept past one another before turning and coming back. Dozens of other men mirrored their battle, and in moments, the slope was a chaotic storm of blade, horse, and man.
The man Bors fought carried a round horse-shield and wore fine ring mail and an iron helm with cheek guards through which Bors saw dark rage-filled eyes and a pleated black beard. Twice now, the tip of Bors's blade scraped uselessly over the metal rings of the man's armor. His opponent, realizing his advantage, pressed Bors, standing upright in his stirrups to hammer down at him with a series of powerful blows. Unable to take the offensive, Bors could only weather the blows with his sword in a hanging guard. The man, perhaps sensing victory, leaned out farther, and Bors managed to grip the edge of his shield with one hand as he squeezed Azuth's flanks with his heels. The superbly trained animal danced back, pulling the off-balanced rider from the saddle.
Before he could climb to his feet, Bors rode over him, letting Azuth prance upon his body. Bors sought another foe, but engaged on two sides, the enemy broke, their courage shattered, and rode for their lives.
Several of Bors's men turned their steeds to give chase, but he screamed at them to stop. "Let them go. Help the wounded."
He climbed from Azuth, holding the panting animal's bridle as he whispered soothing words into his ear, his own heart thudding wildly in his chest. A man in burnished ring mail rode up to him on a breathtakingly beautiful white warhorse. The man wore a silver armband locked about his upper arm, his speckled helm sparkling in the sunlight, a well-trimmed red beard visible beneath it. Blood dripped from the longsword the man carried. Behind him rode four other men, all wearing the gold cloaks of the Kingsguard, their cold eyes sizing Bors up.
"Who are you, soldier?" the red-bearded warrior asked.
Bors dropped to his knees beside Azuth's trembling legs and bent his head. The nervous animal scuttled backward, giving Bors and the men space. "Horse-Sergeant Castin Borstarrion, my king," he said, his breathing wild. "Of the Argot Light Cavalry."
"Stand, Sergeant … Borstarrion. You've just saved your king's life. I won't have you on your knees."
Bors rose, aware now that those of his men who were close enough to recognize the king had already dismounted, including Collard, and had dropped to their knees.
"That goes for all of you, on your feet!" the king commanded. "Come with me, Sergeant."
The king turned and rode back up the hill.
All around Bors, men were calming panicked animals, tending to the wounded. As Bors followed the king, a quick glance showed him that most of his men were unhurt, with only two empty saddles. Speed and audacity had carried them to victory this day.
One charge, Bors thought.
Atop the hill, the king had dismounted and stood beside a small group of retainers and knights. Bors joined him, seeing immediately that his first guess had been correct: from the hill's summit, he had an unobstructed view of the river on the other side as well as the massed ranks of the Lyrian army in battle formation. The battle had not yet begun, and far off in the hazy distance, he could just make out the battle lines of the opposing rebel force.
"I came to see the battle," the king said, clapping Bors on the shoulder, "but found myself engaged. Foul luck."
Bors shook his head. "They knew you were coming, my king—or knew someone would be coming. We found tracks where they had lain in wait."
The king stared at him wordlessly for a few moments and then turned to regard one of his Kingsguard knights. The knight nodded. "He has the truth of it, my liege. I recognized their leader, Vant Ors. This was a trap."
"The Blood-Raven?" asked the king. "Was he among those who ran?"
The knight shook his head and glanced at Bors. "This one's horse trampled him."
So that was whom that man in the ring mail had been—Vant Ors, the Blood-Raven, a well-known Xi'urian mercenary famed for his audacity.
"A pity," the king snarled. "I'd know who betrayed—"
"Father!" A young woman in her early teens with long bright-red hair pushed past the bodyguards to throw herself upon the king, wrapping her arms around his waist. Tears ran down the girl's freckled cheeks.
"Be calm, Marina," the king said soothingly, holding her tight. "It'll take more than a Xi'urian mercenary to stop me." He stared at Bors. "What did you say your name was again, Sergeant?"
"Borstarrion, my king. Castin Borstarrion."
"Come closer."
Bors did, and the king removed his armband and snapped it in place around Bors's upper arm. "I think you're going to have a most interesting career, Horse-Captain Borstarrion."
The king stood back, beaming, and the Princess Marina gripped Bors's hand between her own. "May the Matron's love keep you safe, warrior. Thank you for our lives."
The men circled Bors—both the Kingsguard and Bors's own troop—and cheered, their voices echoing atop the hill.
Bors bolted upright in darkness, smashing his head against a low tunnel roof. His skin drenched in sweat, he stared about himself, trying to understand how he came to be here—wherever here was. His fingers trailed over the armband Long Tam had slipped in place over his bicep, and he remembered—the Mask of Storms, a monstrous demon, and—
It had taken Long Tam.
14
Long Tam awoke to find herself atop a large wooden worktable, her arms tied painfully back over her head, her legs bound together so tightly her toes had gone numb. The chamber, a vast round study of some type, stunk of filth and rot. Although the room was dark, sunlight cut through the wooden slats in the ceiling. A filthy rag had been rammed into her mouth, causing her jaw to ache fiercely and making it impossible to speak. Without the use of her fingers, she couldn't cast a cantrip, nor could she call upon any other tribal magic with the gag in place. She panicked, bucking her hips and thrashing wildly against the bonds but accomplishing nothing; they were far too tight.
However, her sudden movements did attract the attention of the old man bent over a nearby worktable. He rose, muttering softly to himself about "distractions" as he approached Long Tam. He was an ugly man with long, scraggly hair hanging limply from around the fuzz atop his balding head, his robes were stained and threadbare, and ink smudged his face and fingers. He stared down at her with a nearly complete lack of interest, a rare occurrence around men.
He began to speak but then coughed and hawked, clearing his throat of phlegm. "It's good you're awake, I guess," he finally said with a gravelly voice. "Although to be blunt, your state of awareness doesn't really affect the ritual." He smiled, patting her cheek. A
shudder coursed through her. His touch was cold, like that of a corpse. "To me, though, it seems wrong somehow to go through with it while you're not … participating fully, like cheating somehow. I'm a bit of a perfectionist. I like everything to be just right."
Ritual? What ritual?
She stared at him in confusion and then tried to make him understand with muffled grunts that she wanted him to remove the gag.
He didn't.
Instead, he began to unlace the front of her shirt, to pull it apart. She bucked her hips, thrashing about wildly. "Stop that," he said. "I have no such base interests in your kind. Your flesh is my canvas is all." Once he had exposed her breasts and belly, he turned away and ruffled among his belongings on another table. She remained still, sweat soaking the back of her shirt, her mind racing. From the shadows to her left, she heard an oddly familiar clicking noise. Craning her neck, she managed to lift her head high enough to see the monstrous man-beetle that had attacked her and Bors earlier. It crouched beside a bookshelf, making that clicking noise with its mandibles as it watched her, its one good eye shining hungrily. A current of terror ran up her spine, and she moaned in fear.
The old man came back, this time holding a brush and a glass vial of dark-red liquid. Was it blood? He dabbed the brush in the vial and began to paint markings upon her flesh, squinting as he worked, his thin, liver-spotted hand trembling. The fluid was cold and sticky, and she strained to raise her head to see what he was doing.
"The runes are also unnecessary for the ritual, if we're being honest with one another," he said with a wink. He paused and then cocked his head as he examined a rune he had drawn around her belly button. Grunting to himself, he touched up the mark before nodding in satisfaction. "You don't know who I am, do you?"
The Mask of Storms Page 8