The Spirit Stone - Katharine Kerr [167]
‘You are?’ Rori said.
‘Gerran of the Gold Falcon. My honour, I’m sure, to meet you.’
Rori’s cornflower-blue eyes considered him—sadly, Gerran realized. ‘You won’t remember me,’ Rori said. ‘Ah well. Take a look at that blade, Gerran. You’re in for a surprise.’
When Gerran drew the sabre from its scabbard, he swore aloud. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this,’ he said.
The weapon, about four feet long overall, had a hilt that was more of a handle—a squared-off loop of steel decorated on one corner with a horse’s head in silver. The blade was not only curved, but towards its point it swelled to a sharp angle before tapering again. When Gerran laid a cautious finger-tip on the edges, he found it dull on the outer but razor-sharp on the inner. He slipped his hand in to the loop and gave the sabre an experimental swing. Thanks to the extra weight near the tip, it snapped around with extra force to match. If you rode a fleeing man down, Gerran realized, then swung at his neck, his head would come half off his shoulders with one smooth stroke.
‘It be called a falcata,’ Grallezar said from behind him. ‘Nasty little things. Very effective from horseback.’
Gerran rose, his hands full of the falcata and Horsekin dagger, and made her an awkward bow. Dallandra had accompanied her; she nodded at Gerran, then hurried past him to kneel down beside the wounded Horsekin, who was just coming around with a few mumbled words.
‘A scout,’ Rori said. ‘The others got away. I wanted you all to have a close look at that sabre. Arzosah’s off hunting, so she’ll keep a watch on the enemy camp.’
The Horsekin moaned and tried to sit up. He looked around him, saw Dallandra and the dragon, and fainted again.
‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ Dallandra said. ‘Your claws, I assume.’
‘I tried to keep from killing him, but without thumbs, it’s wretchedly hard to be delicate.’
‘Well, he’ll live. He won’t be trying to escape, either.’
‘I suppose that gladdens my heart.’ Rori sighed in a melancholy way. ‘I never appreciated thumbs before, I’m afraid. The things one learns too late!’
Although Gerran had certainly believed Salamander, that the dragon had once been a human being, he hadn’t truly understood what that might mean to the dragon himself. He did then, and bile rose in his throat. He covered the feeling by turning away and calling to Salamander.
‘The princes will want to see this falcata,’ Gerran said. ‘I’m cursed glad we know what we’re facing. Can you take it to them?’
‘The princes and the gwerbret are on their way here to listen to Rori’s report,’ Dallandra said. ‘Gerran, Ebañy you’d best leave those weapons with Grallezar and go back to camp.’
At sunset, the commanders summoned every lord of the rank of tieryn, as well as Calonderiel and Brel Avro, for a council. It was long after sunset when Cadryc returned to the Red Wolf camp and squatted down next to Gerran at his fire. While they talked, they kept a look-out for the gwerbret or any of his men.
‘They’re ready for us, all right,’ Cadryc said. ‘They had a good scatter of scouts posted. The black dragon saw two men riding like the Lord of Hell was chasing them. They reached the fortress just after dawn today. Not long after a small army rode out. They’re marching up from the fortress towards our position. They were some ten miles away, the last Rori saw of ’em.’
‘I’m not surprised, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘You can’t hide an army this size under a blade of grass.’
‘True spoken. That arrogant cub Ridvar was surprised, or he pretended to be. He had the gall to suggest we might have a traitor