The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [114]
Then he’d seen Jesp’s face, that ancient, pale Sefry face. She stood there for what seemed a long time, while he tried to talk, and then she knelt down and touched his face with her bony fingers.
“I’ll fix this,” she said. “I’ll fix you up, child-of-the-Naubagm.”
How she knew that about him, she never said. But she raised him, and filled him with Sefry nonsense, and she died.
He missed her. And now that he knew that Sefry stories weren’t all nonsense, he desperately wished he could talk to her again. He wished he’d paid more attention when she was alive. And maybe he wished that he’d thanked her, at least once.
But that was done.
He sighed and cracked his neck.
A few kingsyards north, something ran out of the forest, moving faster than a deer.
It was a man, dressed in the habit of one of the monks. He had a bow, and he was making straight for the sedos, where Aspar could still see the others.
With a silent curse, Aspar pulled a shaft from his quiver, set it to the string, and let it go.
The monk must have seen the motion from the corner of his eye—even as the arrow arced toward him, he dropped into a sudden crouch and whirled, firing at Aspar.
Aspar’s shot missed by a thumb’s breath; the monk’s missed Aspar by just twice that.
Aspar stepped behind the Naubagm as the monk fitted and fired another arrow. It struck quivering into the ancient tree.
The monk turned again and sprinted toward the mound and out of range. Cursing—and at a much slower pace than his adversary—Aspar ran after him.
The monk did a strange, twisting dance, and Aspar realized that Ehawk and Leshya were firing at him now. Both missed, and before either could draw new arrows, the churchman shot back. Aspar watched in throat-choking helplessness as Ehawk jerked weirdly and fell. Winna was crouching, but still far too large a target.
Leshya fired again and again without success.
The monk’s dodging gave Aspar a chance to get back in range, and he drew back to shoot, still running.
His bowstring snapped with a hollow thud.
He drew his ax, snarling.
Leshya drew and shot. This time the monk had to dodge so violently that he stumbled, but he rolled and came back up, facing Aspar.
Aspar threw the ax and sidestepped. The churchman’s shaft sang through empty air, but the ax also missed.
The monk suddenly jogged to the right, and Aspar grimly understood he had no intention of closing for close combat. He’d just keep running and shooting until they were all dead or he was out of arrows.
He reached into his haversack, found his extra sinew, pulled it out to restring the bow. An arrow struck his boiled leather cuirass with a thump, and he cursed and dropped to the ground. He finished stringing his bow. Another arrow plowed the soil right in front of his nose, and now the monk was hurtling toward him again, ignoring Leshya.
Aspar nocked the arrow to his string, the bow turned flat to the ground. It was an awkward pull, and he knew the other man would have one more shot before he got his.
But the monk stumbled, an arrow suddenly standing in his thigh. He shouted, turned, and loosed his dart toward the mound, but another arrow hit him in the center of the chest, and he sat down, hard. Aspar fired, hitting him in the right collarbone, and the fellow pitched over, howling.
Leshya was on him almost immediately, kicking the bow from his hands.
“Don’t kill him,” a familiar voice shouted.
Aspar looked toward the mound. Stephen stood there, holding Ehawk’s bow. Winna was running toward him, and nearly barreled him over with a hug.
Aspar couldn’t stop the