Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [264]
She knelt over Maure and reached out for whatever magic she could find.
‘Go to her!’ shouted Tynisa, or at least she tried to shout, pushing Thalric away. He gave her an exasperated look, then was flying towards Che, but surely too late to stop the arrow. Tynisa ground her teeth together and stood up, clutching for the sword that she had left behind. The mounted archer sighted carefully, and then his hand flew open in release, the string invisible as it whipped the arrow straight at Che.
The fist of wind that buffeted them all at that moment had to be a freak of the unseasonal weather, Tynisa knew. She saw Che stagger under its battering, and the archer’s horse reared madly. Where the arrow went, she could not discern.
Then Thalric had reached him, grappling the man off his horse under the full speed of his wings, and Tynisa heard the hiss of his Art burning into the archer’s body from point-blank range.
There was a tremor in the ground, a flicker of motion, and Tynisa tried to cast herself aside, managing only an ungainly collapse, the pain roaring through her like a fire, just as the next horse passed by, hoofs inches from trampling her. Without looking up, she knew, and was already forcing herself upright, determined to meet her fate on her feet. The strength – borrowed from who-knew-where – ebbed and flowed within her, always on the point of running dry, and yet she found herself standing up again, swaying and shuddering.
Salme Elass stared down at her icily, a long-hafted sword resting on her shoulder. The moment seemed endless as she studied her prey, and it was all Tynisa could do to stay standing and return the woman’s gaze.
‘Child of the Lowlands,’ the Dragonfly princess said, ‘what brought you here to kill my son? Tell me it was the business of the Empire. Tell me I have an enemy in some Beetle city. Make me understand.’ Her hand flexed on the sword’s grip, and Tynisa could envisage the diagonal cleaving stroke as Elass leant forward in the saddle to hack into her collarbone and come near to decapitating her. The princess was a skilled horsewoman who had judged the distance precisely, her victim well within reach.
None of Tynisa’s comrades seemed to be close enough to intervene, this time. Thalric was still protecting Che, and the bandits were looking after their own.
Well, then, let it be this.
‘Alain made me his sword to use in war,’ she said simply. ‘But when it then came to peacetime, he was careless and so he cut himself. Do not blame the sword.’
Elass’s face contorted in fury and her blade whipped forward even faster than Tynisa had anticipated. She closed her eyes.
The sound of steel on steel came in a single ringing impact, and then she heard Elass’s horse whinny, and its mistress curse. When Tynisa’s eyes opened, Elass was on foot, thrown from her horse, and the animal running off with its bridle swinging. Between her and Tynisa stood a pale figure. In fact Tynisa had never seen a paler. It was not just the grey leathers, which were torn and stained, but he carried the bloodless pallor of a dead man. Isendter, named Whitehand, stood before his mistress with his claw upraised. He was breathing like a dying sprinter, the red on his lips vivid against his blanched skin, and the web of bandages about his wound was running with fresh blood.
‘Traitor!’ Elass screamed.
‘This is shameful,’ came Isendter’s reply, his voice as weak and ragged as Tynisa’s own. ‘I swore to defend your honour. She won!’
‘Traitor.’ This time the word was flat and ugly. Tynisa saw the blow before it landed, and cried out in warning, but Isendter must surely have foreseen it too. He made no move, did not dip his upraised blade by so much as an inch, accepting the rebuke of his mistress.
She ran him through, ramming the straight blade beneath his ribs, hard enough to lift him on to his toes. With a scream,