The Shadow Isle - Katharine Kerr [128]
“Are you hurt?” he said. “Bleeding? Hurt?”
She seemed to be about to speak, then suddenly lurched forward over the mule’s neck and snatched the dagger from Daralanteriel’s belt. Gerran shouted and spurred his horse forward, thinking she was going to attack the prince, but she turned the dagger to her own throat. Dar grabbed at her arm, but before he could stop her, she plunged the blade hard into the big vein at one side of her neck. The wound spurted and whistled—she’d cut into her windpipe, too. Without a cry or moan she fell forward, her eyes turning skyward, and rolled over the neck of her mount. The mule began to bray, then panicked, rearing and kicking.
Gerran dismounted fast, but by the time Nicedd managed to get the blood-streaked mule under control, the lass was dead.
“Daft,” Gerran whispered. “Ah, horseshit and a pile of it!”
Gerran took the prince’s dagger from her flaccid fingers. The hilt sported carved roses, blooming red now with her blood. Gerran wiped the blade off on the side of his brigga, then handed the prince the dagger. He mounted up again just as Salamander came riding out of the temple compound. When the gerthddyn joined the clot of men around Prince Dar, Gerran noticed that his face had gone pale with exhaustion, and under his eyes livid bruises throbbed.
“Ye gods!” Gerran said. “Are you wounded?”
“Merely tired.” Salamander’s voice rasped in his throat. “I’ve been fighting after my own fashion.” He leaned forward in the saddle and stared at the dead woman lying on the ground. “Ye gods, who killed the priestess?”
“Is that what she was? She slit her own throat.”
“Ai! There was a child with her.”
“The little lass?” Nicedd urged his horse up to them. “She was dead, slain by an arrow, when I got there, and her little pony, too.” He shook his head hard. “It ached my heart, a lass that young! Why would they bring a child to a battle?”
“They expected an easy victory, the bastard-born scum,” Gerran said.
“It’s more than that.” Salamander’s voice rasped again. “They thought their goddess would protect them.”
“Well, she didn’t,” Nicedd said. Suddenly he laughed, the choked laugh of a man who’s refusing to weep. “The arse-ugly demon-get fools!”
All afternoon the work continued on the field of battle. The Deverry men dug a trench and slung the dead Horsekin into it, but they put the priestess and the little lass into a proper grave some ways apart. The Westfolk tended what wounded horses they judged they could save and put the rest out of their misery. After they scavenged the horse gear, they left the dead mounts for the ravens and foxes. While the men worked, the commanders held a council back in the temple compound. When they met for dinner at Gerran’s tent, Gerran told Salamander, his page, and his silver dagger about their decisions.
“As far as we know, none of the Horsekin escaped to get back to the contingent holding the siege,” Gerran said. “Which means no one’s going to tell them the evil news. It’s close to twenty miles from here to the dun, so the besiegers won’t be expecting their men to ride back tonight.”
“Good,” Nicedd said. “Then we’ve got a chance to fall on them before they realize who we are.”
“Just that. Voran’s going to mount some of his men on the horses we saved, put them at the head of the line of march, just to fool them for a little while longer.” Gerran glanced at Salamander, who was staring slack-mouthed into the distance. “Are you well?”
“Um?” Salamander forced out a grin. “In perfect health, my thanks, just making sure that indeed, no Horsekin are riding from here to Honelg’s old dun.” He took a bite of flatbread and spoke with his mouth full. “They’re not.”
Nicedd made the sign of warding against witchcraft with his left hand.
“If naught else,” Gerran went on, “we can drive them off and rescue their prisoners. They’ve doubtless rounded up