The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [203]
The impact knocked Neil backward out of his stirrups, so he flipped over his mount’s haunches and down into the hooves of his next line.
Then there was blood and noise, and his body was seizing from the pain. Getting up was dark agony, and he wasn’t sure how long it took him to do it.
When he did, he found the causeway mounded with men and horses, but his men still were surging forward. Overhead, flame and stone and feathered death were wracking the battle ground, but their charge was pushing through it.
Winlauf was dying, and only a few men on either side retained their steeds. This was the moment; if they were pushed back now, most of them would perish in the killing zones of the siege engines. Here they were inside all but arrow range, and the presence of the defenders’ own men deterred that.
“One charge!” he howled, unable, really, to hear himself. Half his body felt like it was gone, but it wasn’t the half that was carrying Battlehound.
As the very sky seemed to catch fire, Neil put everything that was in him to killing.
“What is that?” Stephen asked Zemlé.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Ghosts? Witches?”
“Do you know the language of the song?”
“No. It sounds a little like the Old Tongue. A few words sound familiar.”
Stephen caught a shimmer, then, eyes reflecting fireglow. The dogs were barking and howling as if they had gone insane.
Whatever they were, they weren’t slinders, as he first had feared. They were coming far too cautiously. He couldn’t be certain, but judging by the behavior of the dogs, the intruders were actually circling the camp.
“Whoever you are,” he cried, “we mean you no harm.”
“I’m sure that’s of great comfort to them,” Zemlé said, “considering there are at least ten of them and we’re basically unarmed.”
“I can be pretty intimidating,” Stephen said.
“Yes, well, at least you’re not a blithering coward,” she observed.
“I am, actually,” he confided, though her assessment made him feel suddenly very warm. “But after a point you just get stunned and stay stunned. I don’t have the sense to be scared anymore.” He frowned. The song had ceased, but words were being exchanged, and then the sounds clicked into place.
“Qey thu menndhzi?” he shouted.
The wood fell suddenly silent.
“What was that?” Zemlé asked.
“What they’re speaking, I think. A Vadhiian dialect. Kauron’s language.”
“Stephen!” Zemlé gasped. The dogs dropped to the ground, still snarling, but oddly cowed.
Someone had stepped into the clearing.
In the firelight, Stephen couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, but they were large. His hair was as milk-white as his skin, and he was dressed in soft brown leathers.
“Sefry,” he whispered.
“Your Hadivar,” Zemlé said.
“You speak with old words,” the Sefry said. “We are thinking you are the one.”
“Who are you?”
The stranger studied the two of them for another moment or two, then tilted his head.
“My name is Adhrekh,” he said.
“You speak the king’s tongue,” Stephen said.
“Some,” Adhrekh said. “It has been a long time since I have used it.”
More Sefry appeared at the edge of the firelight. All were armed with swords nearly as slim as the one Cazio carried. Most had bows, as well, and most of the arrows in those bows seemed to be pointed at him.
“My, ah, my name is Stephen Darige,” he returned. “This is Sister Pale.” He wasn’t sure why he shied from the more familiar name he’d been using.
Adhrekh waved that away. “The khriim is here. You speak the tongue of the ancients. Tell me, what was his name?”
“His name? You mean Brother Kauron? Or Choron in your speech.”
Adhrekh lifted his head, and his eyes flashed with triumph. The other Sefry plucked the arrows from their bows and returned them to their quivers.
“Well,” Adhrekh mused. “So you have come, after all.”