Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [174]
They were coming after her now, a vengeful rabble. She let the first dozen rush uselessly by, becoming more scattered as they went. The thirteenth she killed, dancing from her hiding place to slash his throat and sever his bowstring in the same movement, and then away. A couple of them had seen her, then. The closest was too near to hide from, so she put out his eye with a swift lunge, seeing how his arms lifted his spear-haft to parry even after she had killed him. The other witnessed that, and she saw her casual poise reflected in his eyes, his bravado souring to terror in an instant. He backed away, struck a tree, turned and ran. She savoured the moment. Fear was a form of worship, after all. It was her proper due for her skills, just like coins thrown into a minstrel’s hat.
By then the bandits had realized their mistake, and they were calling out to each other, drawing close again. Uncaring, she slew another three as they did so, and knew they would be counting heads as they reassembled, realizing by just how much their force had been diminished.
No order was given, but they were running now, abandoning their spoils, fleeing through the woods. She kept pace with them effortlessly, feeling strength flow into her with each successive stride as though the very earth was urging her on. Those that stumbled or fell behind were her rightful prey.
Are you proud of me, father?
And she was sure she heard his voice reply, from far away, There is more yet to do.
Something had caught her eye ahead, and it was a while before she realized what. Her fleeing victims were not alone now, but seeking sanctuary with their fellows. Ahead of them, hidden neatly in the deeper woods, was a larger band – twice as many at least as the runners had started out with.
She slowed, watching carefully, seeking out the weak points. These were a better breed of brigand, she decided, with more sentries, and more alert ones, too. There were soon two score arrows pointed into the trees as the word spread.
So, a challenge.
Then she realized: Alain.
He would be bringing what men he could spare to put down an insurrection of fifty, not one hundred and fifty. He would not be ready.
I have to warn him. He can go back and find more soldiers. But in the meantime these bandits would be long gone, one step ahead of them as always.
But if they fight, we might lose . . .
She sensed a disappointment in the air around her. What are you thinking like? You are thinking like a cowardly Beetle, like a Spider. What is win? What is lose? Merely to fight is all. If you go back and warn your man, there will be no fight. How will you impress him then?
And there was no answer to that.
The fight had been glorious. Alain had brought perhaps ninety with him, a dozen nobles and the balance in peasant spearmen. The bandits had more archers, though Alain and his kin were better shots. The forest had not been grown with archery in mind, though, and although arrows picked off a handful on both sides, the spears met in short order, and then the real bloodletting commenced.
Tynisa had led the charge, exulting in it. The brigands she had picked as her targets had faltered, clearly recognizing her as the killer in the woods from just an hour before. They tried to keep her at the end of their spears, but they could as easily