Kushiel's Justice - Jacqueline Carey [250]
I was still trying to decide when the Tatars struck.
There was a guard posted outside the eastern gate. I was near enough to hear him shout. Near enough that when his disembodied head sailed over the stockade, I flinched. Near enough to see the young Tatar who vaulted over the stockade, launching himself from the saddle. To see his ankle twist on landing, sending him to his knees. Near enough that he actually caught my sword-belt, hauling himself upright with a grimace, while I stood frozen with shock. He let go of me, hobbling to unlatch the gate. Tatars on horseback poured through the opening, some of them riding two to a horse.
It happened so fast.
I stared, gape-mouthed and paralyzed, as they opened the paddocks. Ignored the cattle, stole the horses. It was so swift. If it had been an Alban cattle-raid, it couldn't have been planned better. More guards came, pelting on foot. The Tatars wheeled, shooting arrows with short bows. The guards dodged. One of the Tatars extended his arm to the young man who'd opened the gates. The young man hopped on one foot, missed his grip. The Tatar rider shrugged, shouting somewhat in his own tongue.
And then, in a flurry of pounding hooves, they were gone.
The guards swarmed the injured Tatar, bearing him to the ground and seizing his weapons. I was still staring when a man pointed at me, shouting somewhat. Six or seven guards turned toward me.
"No." I put up my hands, palms outward. "Nyet, nyet!”
The man was still shouting. I recognized him from the bath-house. Other onlookers offered hostile comments in Rus. My mind was a blank. I couldn't understand a word they were saying. All I could think, with a dull, sick realization, is that they'd seen me loitering, seen the Tatar grab my belt and haul himself to his feet.
I shook my head. "I don't know him!”
The head guard pointed at my midsection and said somewhat.
"My sword-belt?" I asked, bewildered. "All right." I unbuckled it and handed it over. "Friend, da? Druk.”
He took the belt and pointed at my breeches.
I backed away. "Oh, no. No.”
When they swarmed me, I panicked and fought. It was stupid. There were a half a dozen guards, and dozens of onlookers willing to help. I was unarmed. My vambraces were in my pack at the inn. I was lucky they didn't kill me out of hand. They wrestled me to the ground outside the paddock, punching and kicking. Someone shoved my face into the cold mire, someone else wrenched my arms behind my back. Someone sat on my legs. Hands tugged at me, undoing my breeches.
All the horror of Daršanga, all the hurt and humiliation I'd managed to carry more lightly, came clashing down on me. I struggled, my body convulsing. It didn't matter. There were too many of them, men jumping in to help. They pinned my arms, put a booted foot in the small of my back. Dragged my breeches down.
A hard finger jabbed at me.
At the scar branded on my left buttock, marking me as the property of Jagun of the Kereyit Tatar tribe.
I closed my eyes. "Blessed Elua have mercy on me.”
They dragged me to my feet, filthy and besmirched, my breeches around my knees. There was a sword-point poking my back, another aimed at my breast. I stood without fighting, two men holding my arms.
"I am not Tatar," I said in Rus.
There was a woman wailing somewhere. The widow of the beheaded guardsman, I guessed. The guard captain thrust his face close to mine. "You help them.”
"No," I said wearily. "Ask. Micah ben Ximon. Friend, druk.”
A shadow of doubt crossed his face. "Ben Ximon?”
I nodded. "Go to Vralgrad. Ask.”
He didn't say aught else, but he gestured with his sword to the men holding my arms. They let go, although the sword-point pressed against my spine didn't move. I showed my empty hands, then stooped carefully to pull up my breeches. He let me lace them. My fingers were trembling.