Kushiel's Avatar - Jacqueline Carey [90]
He held a crossbow, fine and new and gleaming, and I've no doubt it was stolen. Still, he held it cocked and level, pointed directly at Joscelin.
And no more did he get out, for in a motion too quick for the eye to detect, Joscelin ripped one of his daggers from its sheath, hurling it at the bandit leader. The man's lips continued to move even as his hand rose, perplexed, fumbling at the hilt protruding from his throat, and his body slumped sideways.
In the instant of gaping surprise that followed, I clasped my hands together and brought them down hard on the head of the man whose knife poked at my ribs. He staggered and looked at me open-mouthed, but I had already set heels to my mare's flanks, hearing the ringing sound of Joscelin's sword being drawn.
"Cassiel!" His shout rose bright and hard on the midday air, the line of his blade arcing like a scythe as it sheared through flesh and bone, a spray of crimson blood following. His face was set in perfect fury. At a safe distance, I drew in my mare and sat her, trembling. Three men dead and another wounded, and he not trained to fight on horseback. He dismounted, stalking the remaining four. Seeing one retrieve the crossbow from their fallen leader, I drew breath to shout a warning, but Joscelin was already turning, braid flying out in a straight line, sword grasped in his two-handed grip.
The bandit closed his eyes and pulled the crossbow's trigger, whispering a prayer to any Caerdicci deities listening. There were none. The bolt flew and Joscelin's vambraces flashed, deflecting the quarrel. Cassiline Brothers actually prepare for such feats. He advanced, the backstroke of his sword perfectly level, catching his assailant even as the man fumbled to load another bolt. The bandit crumpled at the waist and lay bleeding into the dust of the road.
The others scattered. One of the packhorses balked and threw his head up hard, tearing the lead-line from his captor's hand; the other spooked. A pair of the remaining bandits waved their arms and shouted as they ran, endeavoring to scare it into the foothills. The wounded man followed at a hunched, limping run.
For a moment, I thought Joscelin would remount and pursue them,then I saw him gather himself. Thrusting his fingers between his lips, he gave the shrill, trilling whistle that summoned all our mounts. It is a trade-secret of Tsingani horse-trainers, though they taught it to us; more than that, I have sworn not to say. The errant packhorse came running, and my own mare's ears perked. I nudged her to a trot.
Joscelin stood in the road, breathing hard, blood sliding in crimson runnels toward the point of his lowered sword. "You're all right?" he asked without looking at me.
"I'm fine." I didn't wholly trust my voice.
He nodded, wiping his blade carefully on the roughspun tunic adorning the nearest corpse, and then, without warning, knelt in the dust. With his head bowed, he laid his sword down and crossed his forearms, murmuring a Cassiline prayer. The packhorses and I waited silently, while his gelding leaned in to whuffle his hair in curiosity. Joscelin's eyes, when he rose, were filled with anguish.
"It gets easier, you know." In one fluid motion, he sheathed his sword at his back and went to pluck his thrown dagger from the throat of the bandit leader, face averted from me. "Too easy."
"I'm sorry." There was nothing else I could say.
"I know." Cleaning and sheathing his dagger, he went about the business of splicing our severed lead-lines. "Give me a hand, you've a better touch with knots."
I worked without comment. When we had finished, we remounted and rode onward toward Pavento, where we sought lodgings for the night and reported the incident to the Principe's guard. No further hostilities troubled us that day or the next. If the local banditry had any network of information, I daresay word went out along the northern route that the pair of harmless-looking D'Angeline travellers were best left undisturbed.
On the next day, we