The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [14]
They needn’t have worried. The ridge turned, just as the holter had predicted, forming a sort of cul-de-sac below. The hill dipped again as it curved, then began rising toward the high point where their enemies waited.
Now and then Neil heard shouted exchanges between Aspar, Winna, Stephen, and the men ahead of them. That was a relief, because it provided a further guide.
Neil found himself holding his breath. Annoyed, he forced himself to breathe evenly. He had attacked in stealth before; in the strands and high meadows of the isles he had fought many a night battle, positioning himself for surprise. But the islands were sand and stone, moss and heather. Moving with the easy silence of Aspar White through these treacherous hills and trees was well beyond his abilities.
He glanced at Cazio and found the Vitellian stepping with the same exaggerated care.
The shouting up ahead was growing nearer now. Crouching lower, Neil reached for his sword.
Aspar turned when he heard Stephen gasp.
“What?”
“All around us,” Stephen said. “Moving from every direction.”
“More of them? An ambush?”
“No, no,” Stephen said. “They’re quieter than they were before, much quieter, almost like wind in the trees. His power is growing, and theirs is, too.”
“Slinders,” Winna gasped.
“Slinders,” Stephen said.
“Sceat,” Aspar grunted.
Cazio stopped when he caught a glimpse of color through the autumn-shorn trees. The understory was thick and brambly with wild blueberry, harlot creeper, and cruxflower vine.
To his right he saw that Neil MeqVren also had paused.
The brush was both a boon and a problem. The archers among their enemies would have difficulty finding a target until they were nearly in the clearing. However, it would slow Cazio and the knight as they made their approach.
Wrong. Suddenly Sir Neil was charging, whirling that eerie butchering blade of his in front of him like a gardener’s bill, and the underbrush was no more resistant to it than was flesh or armor.
Wishing he could have known a little more about the plan, he fell in immediately behind Neil, excitement winding in him like the cord of a ballista arming.
The instant Neil burst into the clearing, Cazio dodged around him, neatly stepping into the path of a black-feathered shaft. It skinned along his belly, leaving a deep score of pain. He couldn’t tell if he’d been eviscerated or merely scratched, and he didn’t really have time to check, since a piggish brute with a broadsword came snuffling quickly toward him.
Cazio put Caspator out in a line; the rapier was easily twice the length of the hacking weapon his opponent carried. The fellow was bright enough to understand that and beat fiercely at the narrow blade to move it out of his path. He wasn’t smart enough to stop charging, though, apparently confident that his wild attack on the blade would succeed.
But with a deft flick of his wrist, Cazio avoided the searching weapon without withdrawing his line so that the man obligingly ran straight onto the tip of his weapon.
“Ca dola da,” Cazio began, customarily explaining to his foe what deftness of dessrata had just wounded him. He didn’t finish, though, because—impaled or not—the pig aimed a ferocious cut at Cazio’s head. He avoided it only by ducking, which sent a fresh sear of pain along his wounded belly.
The blade missed him, but the momentum of the swing carried the man’s sword arm into Cazio’s shoulder. Cazio caught the arm with his left hand and held it as he twisted Caspator free from the man’s lungs. For an instant sea-green eyes filled Cazio’s world, and with a shudder he understood that what he saw there wasn’t hatred, or anger, or even a seething battle rage but horror and desperation.
“Don’t…” the man gasped.
Cazio pushed him away, feeling sick. There was no ‘don’t.’ The man was already dead; he just wasn’t able to accept it yet.
What was he doing here? Cazio had been a duelist since he was twelve, but he had rarely fought to kill. It simply hadn’t been necessary.
But now it is, he thought grimly as he drew-cut a crouching