The Blood Knight - J. Gregory Keyes [215]
“I only have to lift it once,” Neil pointed out.
“Jah,” Slautwulf managed, spitting blood as the greatsword dropped from his hands. The warrior hadn’t any armor beneath his battle skirt or undergarments, for that matter. Battlehound had pierced straight up through his groin, pelvis, intestines, and lungs.
Neil managed to roll away before the giant toppled. They lay there for a moment, staring at each other.
“Never worry,” Neil rasped in the Weihand’s tongue. ”Saint Vothen loves you. I see his valkirja coming for you already.”
Slautwulf tried to nod. “I’ll see you in Valrohsn, then.”
“Not just yet,” Neil said. He put his fist into the ground and began to push himself up.
But an arrow knocked him back down, and all the wind out of him.
I’ll just lie here a moment, he thought, gather up my strength. He closed his eyes, listening to his ragged breath.
The ships, he remembered, and he wanted to see them again.
His eyes felt as if they had been sewn shut, but after what seemed like an unimaginable effort, he managed to open them, only to find himself still facing Slautwulf. Sucking a deep, painful breath, he managed to turn his head to face the sea.
Another arrow thumped into his breastplate.
Right, he thought. Stupid. Now they know you’re still alive.
But he didn’t have to move anymore. He could see the ships, the Lierish ships. Had he saved them? If Edhmon and the others managed to take down even one of the siege engines, Artwair could risk another charge, and enough would get through to take the waerd. With the elevation of the waerd to provide cover, they could take down the Thornrath gate in a day. They didn’t even have to occupy the whole wall, just enough of it to allow ships to enter through one of the great arches.
If…
His vision blurred until the sails and sea began to melt together. He tried to blink it away, but that only smudged things more. Gradually his vision focused once more, but instead of the sea he now saw a face, high-cheekboned, strong, pale as milk, with eyes so blue that they seemed blind. At first he thought it was the valkirja he’d lied to Slautwulf about seeing.
But then he knew who it was.
“Swanmway,” he murmured.
Brinna, she seemed to say. Remember? My real name is Brinna.
He remembered kissing her.
He knew he ought to be thinking about Fastia, but as the light faded, it was only Brinna’s face he could hold in his mind.
STEPHEN SHIVERED as he stepped onto the ledge. His vision plummeted through empty space for what seemed the better part of a league before it reached trees and stone. It couldn’t really be that far, because he could make out the figures of the praifec and his men approaching a sort of cul-de-sac in the mountain.
Still, he gripped Zemlé’s hand more tightly.
“I think I’ll be sick if I stay out here,” he said.
“You’ve stone beneath your feet,” she answered. “Just remember that. You won’t fall.”
“If a strong wind comes—”
“Not very likely,” she assured him.
“Look there,” said Ione, the ancient Sefry who had led them to this high aerie. He pointed, flinching as his hand came in contact with the light. Fend and his warriors wouldn’t have any such worry; the westering sun had already filled the valley below with shadow.
Stephen leaned a little farther and saw what the old man was pointing at: a pool of deep blue water. And as if on cue, the woorm—khriim?—suddenly erupted from it.
“Saints,” Stephen prayed, “let me have done the right thing.”
Aspar froze for an instant, then grabbed for the pack on his back, cursing his luck. Naturally he would have his best shot at the thing when his bow was unstrung.
He fumbled out the watertight bag and pried at its fastening, but the wax made it tough to get the knot open, especially when he found himself glancing up at the woorm every few heartbeats. It grasped at the trees with its short forelimbs, dragging its tail from the pool, rearing almost as high as Aspar sat. A perfect target…
He heard the whir of an arrow and knew suddenly that the woorm wasn’t the only easy