Paladin of Souls - Lois McMaster Bujold [61]
And, even more dizzied: Do I?
Gleaming sword and gray horse both swung around without pause to charge the crossbowman, now frenziedly winding again. The sword passed from right to left hand once more, and its point dropped like a lance. The momentum of horse and swordsman was monstrous, and perfectly aligned; the sword’s point smashed into the bowman’s chest and pierced his chain mail, unseating him and carrying him over his horse’s rump to pin his corpse to a tree behind him. His buffeted horse fell and scrambled up, flanks heaving as it plunged off. For a moment, the heavy sword was ripped from its deadly master’s hand, but he spun his horse around immediately, lunged for the hilt, and yanked it free again. The dead Jokonan slumped to the ground, his blood watering the tree’s roots.
Ista nearly fainted at the white whirl of screaming, distraught souls swirling around her. She clutched her pommel and forced herself to stay upright, open eyes denying the second sight. The worst gore now spread before her eyes was less terrifying than these unwanted visions. How many had died . . . ? The commander, the crossbowman . . . neither of the two rear guardsmen were going to stir again, either. One horse and rider were gone, their exit marked by a trail of blood. At the ravine’s mouth, the translator-officer, his sword abandoned in the green-and-red muck, was scrambling up on a loose horse. He jerked it around and galloped downstream without looking back.
Not even breathing heavily, blood dripping from his sword’s lowered tip, the gray horseman frowned after him for a moment, then turned and looked in concern at Ista. He nudged his horse toward hers.
“My lady, are you all right?”
“I’m . . . uninjured,” she gasped back. The ghostly visions were fading like the lingering dazzlement in eyes that had stared too directly at the sun.
“Good.” His grin flashed again, exhilarated—battle-drunk? His wits were clearly unimpaired by fear, but also by anything resembling good sense. Sensible men didn’t charge six desperate enemy soldiers by themselves.
“We saw you carried off,” he continued. “We split up to quarter the woods for you; I thought you must come out this way.” His face turned as he checked the ravine’s rim for any sign of further threatening motion; his eyes narrowed in satisfaction at finding none. He wiped his sword clean upon his befouled tabard, raised it in a brief salute to her, and sheathed it with a satisfied click. “May I know what lady I have the honor and pleasure of addressing?”
“I . . .” Ista hesitated. “I am the Sera dy Ajelo, cousin to the provincar of Baocia.”
“Hm.” His brows drew down. “I’m Porifors.” He glanced toward the ravine’s bright mouth. “I must find my men.”
Ista flexed her hands. She hardly dared touch her darkly lacerated wrists, crusted, bleeding, and abraded. “And I mine, but I have been tied to this fool of a horse since midnight last night. Without rest or food or water, which first seemed cruel but now seems kind. If you would cap your morning’s heroism, do me the kindness of guarding this animal and my modesty while I find a bush.” She glanced doubtfully up the ravine. “Or a rock, or whatever. Although I doubt my horse has any more desire to go another step than I do.”
“Ah,” he said, in a tone of amused enlightenment. “But of course, Sera.”
He swung lightly off his warhorse and reached for her reins. His smile faded at the sight of her wrists. She dismounted like a sack of grain falling; strong hands caught her. They left smudged red prints upon her tunic. He held her upright a moment to be sure she had control of her feet.
His smile vanished altogether as he looked her up and down. “There is a deal of blood on your skirts.”
She followed his glance. The folds of her split skirt were mottled with patches of blood, dried and fresh, at the knees. That last gallop had flayed her raw skin to shreds. “Saddle sores. Trivial hurts, for all that they are mine.”
His brows rose. “What do you call severe, then?”
She staggered away past the