Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [191]
She felt the swirl of fighting humanity about her eddy and shudder, and knew without seeing that the relief force must have arrived at last. That meant they had held up the brigands long enough for Lowre’s trap to be sprung, so it only remained for her to ensure that the bandit chief himself did not escape.
He was not trying to, however, or perhaps the wounds he had taken had deprived him of his flying Art. He glanced briefly at the dead scorpion and then went for her again, grimacing as he put his weight on to his injured leg. She stayed outside his reach, because his eyes promised further surprises, and when the spear came at her from behind, she was ready for it – turning to slash at the wielder, who got himself out of the way faster than she had expected. She saw a long-faced Grasshopper-kinden now staring at his truncated spear-shaft.
All around them the brigands were fleeing, some taking to the air to run the gauntlet of the Salmae’s own fliers, while others tried to reach the treeline again. The counterattack was mopping up most of them, throwing a ring around those that remained and driving them in towards Tynisa. The bandits continued fighting, but she guessed that those with any sense would start surrendering soon.
The Grasshopper was neither fighting nor fleeing. Instead he was still trying to find a way of coming against her to rescue his leader. That told her all she needed to know.
Thinking that she was distracted, the Dragonfly thrust at her again. She took his sword with her raper’s quillons and twisted it in a way that would have disarmed anyone with a Wasp-issue shortsword, but just sprained his wrist, and then she stepped back. As she finished moving, the razor edge of her sword was right under his chin, drawing a little blood, then she remained absolutely still, and so did he.
Without looking at the Grasshopper, she could sense him frustrated and angry and fearful for the life of his leader – and his friend, she decided. Had he been a Mantis, he would surely not have let such sentiment cripple him, she told herself.
‘Drop your weapons, both of you,’ she called out, loud enough to be heard over the fighting. ‘All of you,’ she added, because she saw she now had a wider audience. The brigands immediately around her were already surrendering, not out of love of their leader but because Whitehand and his followers had started killing any who did not throw down their arms. Tynisa glanced at the nearest. She saw the Wasp, now with an Imperial shortsword to replace his ruined nailbow. She saw the Grasshopper, and she saw a squat Scorpion-kinden man holding a short-hafted halberd and looking at her like blood and murder.
‘All of you,’ she repeated, with a tiny shift of the rapier. The Dragonfly hissed and dropped his sword.
‘You can’t kill us all,’ the Wasp tried.
‘Of course I can,’ she replied earnestly, and it was the utter conviction of her tone that finally disarmed him, and the Grasshopper. She turned her gaze to the Scorpion-kinden, who seemed disinclined to join them.
‘Ygor,’ the Dragonfly hissed, ‘it’s over.’
‘She killed my wife,’ the Scorpion growled. ‘She killed Scutts.’
He was going to swing his halberd at her, she knew. He was mired enough in grief to throw away his life, and those of his fellows too. She almost saluted him for it. It was the proper thing to do.
But then he sagged, and let the heavy weapon fall, the head burying itself in the earth, and the next moment the followers of the Salmae were binding the wrists of those bandits who, by surrendering, had bought themselves another tenday of life.
They insisted on extracting the arrow before she rode for the camp. A solemn Grasshopper healer removed the protruding head, and then carefully eased the shaft back out. As she sat gritting her teeth, she felt all the pain that had not dared trouble her during the battle, now returning with a vengeance. She did not cry out.
When the healer had