Empire of Ashes

Chapter XLI - Jaded Scars

It began with two wagons. It ended with three hundred and fifty swords, as many shields, forty spears, and one freshly forged slave.

I was lying on my belly in a ditch, picking dirt from under my fingernails, when Anlai threw a rotten cherry at me. I imagined I had missed his visual attempts to catch my attention, because when I shot him an exasperated look, he retorted with a rude hand gesture and a mouthed curse.

Wiping a smear of sticky juice from my cheek, I rolled onto my other side and passed the signal to Fendur, who passed it to Ark, who passed it to Eirac. Across the road, in another ditch, Tem, Colloe, Saqui and the two assorted corps members would be doing the same thing. Glyn and Melia were safe and sound behind the hedge.

The supply wagon was coming. If I listened carefully, I could hear the rumble of wheel rims against cobbles and the faint clip-clop of hooves. If I held my breath, I could make out the driver humming to himself.

There was no time to feel bad, and there was more at stake here than his life.

Anlai showed me five fingers and two thumbs. Two wagons, then, and two drivers. A five-soldier escort to discourage outlaws. This would be easy. I showed Fendur my own fingers and thumbs, and he shrugged, clearly thinking along the same lines.

We waited patiently, lying still as the rumbling and the clip-clopping drew ever closer. I adjusted my grip on my sword hilt and pulled my chainmail shirt down. When it felt like the earth under my chest was vibrating, a low whistle pierced the morning air.

Time to move.

I wasn't very quick. By the time I had hauled myself to my feet, clambered out of the ditch and taken in the chaos on the road, Anlai had already hacked a soldier's ribcage open. The wagons — huge, four-horsed structures, packed almost to overflowing — were coming to a panicked halt, while the northerners ripped into their escort.

And then a man wearing Anglian red swung a broadsword at me from horseback, and I stopped thinking and started being nothing more than a sharp piece of metal. Left, right, left, the blows reigned down, and I turned each and every one of them. My opponent wasn't well trained, but he was strong and heavy and every parry jarred me to the bone.

I didn't have the endurance to keep playing this game. When his horse spooked at a scream and he was knocked off balance, I swept a practised circle around his blade and stabbed into flesh. A gut wound. Not immediately fatal ... but certainly excruciating.

He fell from his horse, and the creature took the opportunity to bolt, frothing at the mouth and eyes rolling with terror. I stepped out of the way, then turned back to my wounded opponent. He would die in a day or two, anyway... It was kinder this way. I steeled my heart and hacked at his neck — a single, savage blow which did the job nicely.

I noticed Anlai looking at me. Burying my unease, I wiped my blade clean on the dead man's cloak and swore at the cart horses, who were making a racket in their fear. He gave me a grudging shrug, so I must have done something right. Once his back was turned and it became evident that the cart horses were not going to calm down on their own, I went to rub their necks and talk in soothing, patient tones.

Past the wagons, Eirac was bringing his bowstring to his cheek, eyes fixed on a rider galloping down the road. It was a difficult shot for even the most experienced of archers, but he just lifted his bow, sent an arrow flying in a lazy arc, and then turned and walked away without waiting to check that he had hit his mark.

A heartbeat later, the escaping man went tumbling with an arrow through the neck, and Temris, Fendur and Anlai broke into sarcastic applause.

All five soldiers were bleeding into the dirt, and the two drivers had been dragged from the wagons and gutted. I hoped they had fought back. We would have had to kill them even if they had surrendered and begged for their lives, so I really hoped they had fought back.