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Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d -
And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.
The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.
With profound success.
Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.
Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball-though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled-to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle-with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.
A surprised look beneath the ornate helm-then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.
Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped-what he prayed-was the opposite direction.
A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’
And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.
The sergeant’s face was pushed into the sand and held there.
Corabb bellowed. The bulky, heavy sack was hissing in his arms. As if filled with snakes. It had clunked hard against his chest, arriving like a flung boulder out of the storm, and he’d time only to toss his sword away and raise both arms.
The impact threw him onto the horse’s rump, but his feet stayed in the stirrups.
The bag’s momentum carried it over his face, and the hissing filled his ears.
Snakes!
He slid on his back down one side of the mount’s heaving hindquarters, letting the bag’s weight pull his arms with it. Don’t panic ! He screamed.
Snakes!
The bag tugged in his hands as it brushed the ground.
He held his breath, then let go.
Tumbling clunks, a burst of frenzied hissing-then the horse’s forward charge carried him blissfully away.
He struggled to right himself, his leg and stomach muscles fiercely straining, and finally was able to grasp the horn and pull himself straight.
One pass, Leoman had said. Then wheel and into the storm’s heart.
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Now, if I was the commander of those bastards, I’d -
And suddenly figures flashed into view, scimitars and round shields, swathed faces and ululating warcries. Fiddler threw himself down against his horse’s withers as a heavy blade slashed, slicing through sand-filled air where his head had been a moment earlier.
The Wickan mare lunged forward and to one side, choosing this precise moment to buck its hated rider from the saddle.
With profound success.
Fiddler found himself flying forward, his bag of munitions rolling up his back, then up over his head.
Still in mid-air, but angling down to the ground, he curled himself into a tight ball-though he well knew, in that instant, that there was no hope of surviving. No hope at all. Then he pounded into the sand, and rolled-to see, upside-down, a huge hook-bladed sword spinning end over end across his own wake. And a stumbling horse. And its rider, a warrior thrown far back on his saddle-with the munition bag wrapped in his arms.
A surprised look beneath the ornate helm-then rider, horse and munitions vanished into the whirling sands.
Fiddler clambered to his feet and began running. Sprinting, in what he hoped-what he prayed-was the opposite direction.
A hand snagged his harness from behind. ‘Not that way, you fool!’
And he was yanked to one side, flung to the ground, and a body landed on top of him.
The sergeant’s face was pushed into the sand and held there.
Corabb bellowed. The bulky, heavy sack was hissing in his arms. As if filled with snakes. It had clunked hard against his chest, arriving like a flung boulder out of the storm, and he’d time only to toss his sword away and raise both arms.
The impact threw him onto the horse’s rump, but his feet stayed in the stirrups.
The bag’s momentum carried it over his face, and the hissing filled his ears.
Snakes!
He slid on his back down one side of the mount’s heaving hindquarters, letting the bag’s weight pull his arms with it. Don’t panic ! He screamed.
Snakes!
The bag tugged in his hands as it brushed the ground.
He held his breath, then let go.
Tumbling clunks, a burst of frenzied hissing-then the horse’s forward charge carried him blissfully away.
He struggled to right himself, his leg and stomach muscles fiercely straining, and finally was able to grasp the horn and pull himself straight.
One pass, Leoman had said. Then wheel and into the storm’s heart.
He’d done that much. One pass. Enough.
Time to flee.
Corabb Bhilan Thun’alas leaned forward, and bared muddy teeth.
Spirits below, it is good to be alive!
The detonation should have killed Fiddler. There was fire. Towering walls of sand. The air concussed, and his breath was torn from his lungs even as blood spurted from his nose and both ears.
And the body lying atop him seemed to wither in shreds.
He’d recognized the voice. It was impossible. It was… infuriating.
Hot smoke rolled over them.
And that damned voice whispered, ‘Can’t leave you on your own for a Hood-damned minute, can I? Say hello to Kalam for me, will ya? I’ll see you again, sooner or later. And you’ll see me, too. You’ll see us all.’ A laugh. ‘Just not today. Damned shame ’bout your fiddle, though.’
The weight vanished.
Fiddler rolled over. The storm was tumbling away, leaving a white haze in its wake. He groped with his hands.
A terrible, ragged moan ripped from his throat, and he lifted himself onto his knees. ‘Hedge!’ he screamed. ‘Damn you! Hedge !’
Someone jogged into view, settled down beside him. ‘Slamming gates, Fid-you’re Hood-damned alive!’
He stared at the man’s battered face, then recognized it. ‘Cuttle? He was here. He-you’re covered in blood-’
‘Aye. I wasn’t as close as you. Luckily. ’Fraid I can’t say the same for Ranal. Someone had taken down his horse. He was stumbling around.’
‘That blood-’
‘Aye,’ Cuttle said again, then flashed a hard grin. ‘I’m wearing Ranal.’
Shouts, and other figures were closing in. Every one of them on foot.
‘-killed the horses. Bastards went and-’
‘Sergeant! You all right? Bottle, get over here-’
‘Killed the-’
‘Be quiet, Smiles, you’re making me sick. Did you hear that blast? Gods below-’
Cuttle clapped Fiddler on one shoulder, then dragged him to his feet.
‘Where’s the lieutenant?’ Koryk asked.
‘Right here,’ Cuttle answered, but did not elaborate.
