Windwalker - Elaine Cunningham [4]
Fraeni exhaled on a curse and made the sharp, slashing hand gesture reserved for those Rashemi who flouted the cardinal laws of the land. When she caught Zofia's incredulous stare, she said defensively, "The boy is mad! It is death to wield a witch whip!"
"Yes, he is mad," Zofia agreed, "and yes, it is death-and may the Three be praised for it!"
By now other berserkers had broken through, dodging their way past Tuigan swords and stampeding horses. Fyodor continued on his suicidal path, lashing at the invaders, tearing them from their mounts and urging the horses into panicked flight.
Once unhorsed, the invaders could do little against Rashemen's battle-mad defenders. The fangs of Rashemen drove them away from the magic-dead circle, deeper into the valley. The witch whips awaited them there. They joined in deadly song with Fyodor's whip, lashing the Tuigan toward Imiltur, the army that awaited them there, and the Lake of Tears beyond.
When it was over, Zofia dismissed the witches to go among the wounded, to find and help those who might yet be saved. It was grim and dangerous work, separating the wounded from the dead, and the dead from the undead. Nor would they work alone:
The skies were already black with ravens, and the hungry cries of wolves rose from the darkening shadows of the Ashenwood.
Zofia quickly slipped into a witch's trance, sliding into the gray overworld that linked the living and the spirit realms. She reached out to the Sisters guarding the Watchtowers of Ashane. They must know what was coming their way.
She quickly touched the minds of the first Guardian, the witch who stood at the portal to the overworld, and conveyed without words what needed to be said. When the tower had been warned, she moved to the next and to the next. Here no entranced witch guarded the portal. Instead Zofia encountered a chaos of displaced spirits-
And a burst of power that threw her across the room.
The gray world exploded in a white burst of pain, and there was only darkness.
Zofia didn't hear the warriors come in, couldn't have said who had the effrontery to pour a swig of jhuild down her throat. She came to herself choking and sputtering, and her first words were a few choice phrases she'd learned in her days in the warriors' lodge.
A thin but still-strong hand captured hers and hauled her to her feet. "Save it for the Tuigan, Zofia."
She focused on the face of the aging huhrong then glanced at the white-faced youth who stood a pace to the side and two behind. Her gaze returned to the huhrong's face.
"We have won another battle, Hyarmon Hussilthar. Perhaps we should all have another drink."
"The time to celebrate has not yet come," the huhrong said coldly. "Young Fyodor broke ranks and should be dealt with accordingly."
Zofia let out a derisive laugh. "Broke ranks? Has your eyesight so faltered, Hyarmon, that you mistake our berserkers for Cormyr's Purple Dragons? The men of Rashemen do not march into battle like ants."
The old man's face mottled. "Wolves attack with more discipline and order!
"And with less ferocity," she countered. She nodded toward Fyodor. "That young warrior turned the battle. You know it."
"That young warrior is dangerous, and you know it. He is not his own master. What man in control of his wits would lay hands upon a witch whip?"
The Iron Lord reached over his shoulder and drew a long, dark weapon from the baldric slung there. This he threw onto the floor. It landed on the stone floor with a deep ringing clatter, like the bass-voiced bells that tolled a warrior's death.
"I will not deny that young Fyodor did his duty," the huhrong said in more tempered tones. "Now I must do mine, and you, yours."
It was the law of the land, born of stern necessity, and Zofia had no argument against his demand. She gave a curt nod that was both agreement and dismissal. The Iron Lord inclined his head and strode from the room.
She stooped to pick up the weapon. With both hands she held it at arm's length, sighting down the blade. It