The Magic of Recluce - L. E. Modesitt [135]
XLII
THE SQUAD LEADER looks over her shoulder. “Tell Gireo to drop back another hundred rods.” Her body adjusts automatically as her mount starts down the long slope that will lead to the Demon’s Triangle—the mythical intersection between Freetown, Hydlen, and Kyphros.
“A hundred rods?”
“Twice the separation he’s got now.”
“But we can’t reach him if they attack from the rear…”
“We can. We’re not his good-luck piece. He’s a big boy.”
“But…”
Her hand touches the hilt of the blade. “You replace Gireo.” Her soft voice carries across the road, still shrouded in the mist laid down before dawn. Under the cavalry cloak and hood, her long hair is tightly bound up in black cords.
The man shakes his head, but turns his mount back uphill.
In time, the trooper called Gireo urges his gelding up beside the dark-haired woman who has shed the cloak and folded it into a saddlebag. She wears the still-untarnished silver firebird on the collar of the leather officer’s vest.
Gireo’s eyes burn as he takes in the slender officer. On foot he would look down on the woman by more than a head.
Her eyes seem to look through the fog ahead.
He opens his mouth.
“Quiet.” The word barely carries the distance between them, yet it arrives with the impact of a quarrel.
Gireo shuts his mouth, but his teeth grate inside his cheeks.
“Gallian regulars,” mutters the squad leader. “Damned ghouls.” Her eyes look again into the mists. “Wizard…not this far from Gallos.”
She unsheathes her blade, nudging her mount into a quick walk. “Get the others to close up…quietly.”
Gireo drops back, but says nothing to the two troopers in file behind him, as he glances from them to the squad leader. The road flattens out as it nears the valley below, and the damp and packed clay of the roadbed dulls the sounds of the Kyphran squad.
Ahead, a flickering pinpoint of light appears, then disappears, shrouded and unshrouded by the ground fog rolling out of the Little Easthorns.
Gireo looks back toward the squad leader, but she has vanished into the mists. He frowns, but does not unsheathe his blade.
The Kyphran squad rides downhill.
Whhheeee…eeeee…eeee…
…eeee…eeee…
Clink…clunkh…
The sound of a single set of hoofs thunders toward the Kyphrans.
“Form up!” The single command is snapped out of the fog like an iron lash, and even Gireo turns his mount.
The squad leader lets her charger carry her past the first two files. “Move it!”
Almost reluctantly, the Kyphran troopers urge their mounts forward into a trot.
Nearly a dozen Gallians are in the saddle as the Kyphrans break out of the fog and lumber toward the invaders.
The squad leader has resumed the van, and her blade flashes, though there is little light to reflect from the cold steel.
Whhhsttt…hhstttsss…
“…damn…”
“Your right, Gireo!”
“…aiee!…”
All the sounds are from the Kyphran side. The Gallians fight silently.
Whhsttt…
“…you!”
“…chaos…bastard…”
Whhssttt…
In time, the Kyphran squad draws up not far from the abandoned fire that still flickers through the morning fog. One mount and man are missing. Another mount’s saddle is empty. A dozen figures wearing the purpled gray of Gallos are sprawled in and around the camp.
The squad leader reins up by the fire. “Gireo, get the weapons and strap them to one of the Gallian mounts.”
“Get them yourself.”
The squad leader sighs, but the blade is in her hands. “Do you want to die on your horse or on your feet?”
Gireo shrugs. “You couldn’t win on foot in an honest fight.” He swings off the chestnut gelding.
She smiles and dismounts.
He leaps forward even before her foot is clear of the stirrup.
She dives under his blade and emerges from the roll with her own blade before her.
Whhssskk…
Clinnkkk…
Whhhstttt…
His blade