Page 59 of Court of Talons
My curiosity gets the better of me. “You’re all women?” I ask gruffly, turning to the marauder whose knife still hovers above me. Her face is completely wrapped in rags, and only her eyes are bared—eyes that stare at me with sharp cunning.
Too late, I realize my mistake. Another pair of marauders have emerged from the encampment and are edging between the piles of trash to my back. I’m trapped here, dressed in tournament finery but without my horse, without my guards, too low to the ground to pull a sword I have no hope of wielding.
“Warrior,” the marauder sneers, and she shifts her hold on the knife to slash down hard at me from above. At the well, the wounded woman says a word I can’t make out, making my attacker pause.
She glances back. “He’ll identify us,” she practically snarls. “I shouldn’t kill him?”
Only one word floats toward us in response. “Her.”
The marauder whips her gaze once more to me, but by now I’ve gotten my wits together. I spring to my feet, swiping fast enough with my knife that the marauder wheels back, giving me the space I need to yank my sword free. They don’t know I can’t fight with the thing. They only know what they see.
Even if they’ve already seen too much.
I take three steps to the side, turning so the others are no longer at my back, and face down my ragged opponents. Still, I wait for their attack—I have to be able to use their momentum against them, I know that much. “What, are you just going to stand there?” I demand, echoing the wounded woman’s taunt.
A cry of fury sounds from the encampment behind me, and a shrill whistle goes up from somewhere to the right and high—a lookout on a distant wall, has to be. The marauder lowers her knife, her gaze raking over me, my clothes, my sword.
“Her,” she grunts. She’s no less startled than I am.
There’s another shout, men roaring with bloodlust, and the two ragged women to my left shift urgently, their eyes on their leader, but their confidence clearly faltering. The marauder with the knife, however, continues to stare at me, defiantly. She won’t back down first.
I sheathe my sword, then point to the well, where the other women have disappeared. “Go,” I order with a strength I don’t truly feel. “I’ll keep your secret.”
She pauses the barest moment longer, then twists her mouth into a snarl. She flees.
I do as well, only I turn and run pell-mell back through the field of rotting carrion, toward the nearest commotion, hoping like the Light that I can blend in with the rioting crowd long enough to get back out in the open and find Darkwing. I’ll be bloody and covered in smoke and grit, but no one will know what I saw. No one will know what I know. I’ve kept my own secret so long, keeping another is no hardship.
I don’t understand it, can barely believe it—but I will keep the marauders’ secret…fromeveryone, I vow.
I suspect I won’t live long enough to worry about them keeping mine.
Chapter 24
Most of the warriors are already back in the procession by the time I stagger free of the encampment, and the crowd is alive with shouts of outrage that there was no marauder blood spilled. The villains had gotten away cleanly—and apparently, this isn’t the first time. Anger rumbles and rolls about the outlaws, though at least this day, they were interrupted. Rumors of a tent filled with pallets of gold rush along the breeze with whipped-up furor—a tent and holding that remained safe because of the intercession of the tournament’s warrior knights.
Caleb is there with Darkwing and helps me mount up, making no comment about my disheveled state. A cheer goes up all around us as we reform our procession, and now shouts of thanks drown out the grumbled protests. No one seems to know yet if anything was stolen, but at least no Light-honoring tournament attendees were harmed.
There’s no further opportunity for true conversation as we ride, though there’s plenty of murmuring about the attack. The guard nearest to me holds forth long and earnestly that these unusually bold marauders are some scourge from the west, possessed by the demons that live beyond the Protectorate’sborders. A grim smile teases across my face as I listen. How much more horrified would they be to know that on top of their apparent magical powers…these fell attackers were women?
Eventually, their talk dies away as we plod back to the First House. Unlike the morning’s journey to the coliseum, I’m now surrounded at all times by guards. I don’t know if they’re protecting me from further marauder attacks or ensuring I don’t flee, but the pain in my shoulder grows with every stride. By the time we wind our way back up the mountain passage to the First House, I’m drooping in my saddle.
At Nazar’s insistence, we don’t stop to rest until we’re back in the barracks of the First House, beneath the immense central tower. The priest sends Caleb to stand guard at the open door and to alert us if any should draw near. Then he moves quickly, slicing through the lacings of my sleeves and down the delicately picked-out embroidery stitches of my tunic.
“Should another guard care for you, he can take off your tunic in pieces,” he says, making no mention of the dirt and smoke that are now ground into the material.
I groan, leaning against the wall as he works. “If another guard cares for me, I’m already dead, Nazar. You know that.”
He purses his lips and pulls the last of the material away. The burst of blood on the outer tunic is nothing compared to what lies beneath it. The thick padding covering my breasts is soaked, and deep slashes mar my skin where the snake bit Gent. I frown down at it, despite my skin pulling taut at the movement. “Do people normally get hurt this badly?”
“People don’t get hurt at all. Warriors do. It is the way. In this battle, the serpent maintained the hold longer than prescribed, and that’s why the wound reached you. It’s a mark against Kheris that he allowed that to happen.”
“Or a mark against me that I couldn’t get it off Gent more quickly.” Disgusted, I sag back against the wall. “I thought—for one moment there, I thought we had a chance.”
“You completed your strike in one timing,” Nazar says. The salve he puts on the wounds instantly cools my skin. “You then should have hit with the cut of no design, no conception, but that takes much training. Training of the mind and of the spirit as well as the body.” He glances at me. “Gent’s arm is as a long stave or sword. The way is close to your understanding.”
“None of this is close to my understanding.” I sigh as Nazar finishes wrapping my shoulder. “There were flower petals at my feet when it was done, did you see that?”
He hesitates then motions me to lean forward. He drops a new tunic over my neck, standing back to review his handiwork. Then he nods. “Caleb,” he calls, and I look over as our squire ducks inside our quarters.