Honor among thieves

Chapter Ninety

The rider had come very close now. He could descend upon Croy and Bethane in the space of a moment and run them through with his lance. A quick death might be the best they could hope for.

“Your majesty,” Croy said, “when I tell you to run-run fast, and do not look back.” He drew Ghostcutter from its sheath. He could hear Bethane gasping for breath already. She must be terrified.

If he could, he would spare her what was to come-but not yet. Not when they still had some slim chance. Croy had been in this position before, on foot and facing a man on horseback. He knew how it was done.

He only wished he could see the others.

He knew he was being guided by the horseman, driven toward some ambush up ahead. There would be footmen there waiting for him, ready to encircle him, to stop his flight. He did not know how many there would be or how well armed they would prove. He would have to improvise and use his best judgment.

Croy could barely walk. His feet were numb, his legs just blocks of wood that he could still command but not rely on. His left arm was useless, and the wound in his side had stopped throbbing-always a bad sign.

But he was an Ancient Blade. He could still fight.

“Var!” the horseman called. Croy didn’t recognize the word. “Var uit!”

Was he calling to his prey, or to his fellow predators? It didn’t matter. The rider had driven them along a high ridge, a rocky escarpment with only one clear way down. Up ahead on the path the rocks fell away from a narrow cut, perhaps the remnant of some long dry creek bed. Walls of stone rose on either side. It was the perfect place for a trap.

Croy looked to his left, away from where the horseman ambled toward him. That way lay a treacherously steep slope of broken rock. He could break to the side and run that way but it meant hurtling down a hillside of loose scree. The grade was too sharp for him to climb down-at best he could manage a controlled fall down the slope. A few withered trees stood up from the slope, little more than skeletal bushes. Even if he could get Bethane safely to the bottom of the hill, there was precious little cover there.

He looked again at the cut, at the place where the footmen would surely be waiting. There was no longer any choice.

“Run,” he shouted, and pointed with Ghostcutter’s blade. Bethane hobbled forward and at once started skidding down the loose stony soil of the hill. She screamed as her feet flew out from underneath her and she kept sliding. Croy threw himself after her, his feet barely touching the ground as he danced down the hill. He reached out with his left hand and tried to grab at one of the tree trunks, but he lacked the strength to get a proper hold on it. The rough bark tore at the skin of his palm and only slowed him a little.

“Sir Croy!” Bethane screamed as she slid on her back, small stones bouncing around her face.

He bent his knees and jumped, arcing through the air to hit the ground again just next to her, rolling and bouncing as he tried desperately to slow his descent, to regain any kind of control on the steep slope. Her hands grabbed at his tunic and she pulled herself toward him just as he saw a tree coming straight at them.

For once he was glad for the numbness in his legs. He slammed into the tree with his left foot, hard enough to make his bones rattle. Somehow he got his knees around the trunk so he could hold on. Bethane whipped past him, her momentum pulling one of her hands free of his tunic. His left hand couldn’t grab her, not in time, and it certainly couldn’t hold her. The sword in his right hand had to go.

It felt so wrong-but he let go of Ghostcutter and watched it slide down the hill away from him as his right hand grabbed for the collar of Bethane’s dress. The sword was his soul-but she was his queen.

He managed to snag her garment with two fingers. His knuckles turned white as he took her weight. “I have you,” he called. “I have you, stop struggling!”

He glanced down at the bottom of the slope, looking for Ghostcutter. Without it he was defenseless. His fingers ached abominably but he cast this way and that with his eyes, seeking the blade.

Instead he saw the footmen. They were down there already, at the bottom of the slope. Waiting for him. Two dozen men carrying polearms. Their faces were hidden by the steel helmets they wore.

“Croy,” Bethane said, “please-please hold on-I can feel you letting go!”

Croy glanced at his right hand and saw she was right. His fingers were shaking. Little by little they uncurled, loosening their grasp. He was too weak to hold her weight.

“Croy, you are my champion,” Bethane said. “You are my protector, my-”

His fingers lost their grip and she slid away from him. Right toward the footmen.

He shouted her name and pulled his legs away from the tree trunk. Let himself fall as well. He would be by her side down there at least. He would fight those footmen with his bare hands, if he must. He gritted his teeth as he rolled end over end down the slope. He would fight to his last breath, to his last ounce of strength A rock slapped him across the temple and his vision went blurry. For a moment he was blind and his ears rang. He fought to regain his senses, fought to clear his head, but he was rolling, rolling out of control, and he couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t At the bottom of the hill he smashed into a boulder, right next to Bethane. His bones jumped inside his flesh and new agony erupted down his injured side, but he managed not to cry out. He was too busy looking at Bethane. She was unconscious but seemed not to have sustained any mortal injuries.

A clatter of steel made Croy’s heart leap. Suddenly the footmen stood in a circle around the two of them, polearms ready to skewer them. Croy tried to jump to his feet and found he could barely move his head.

He heard hoofbeats and then the rider came galloping around the side of the hill. The horseman slid out of his saddle and came running over. The footmen made room for him-was it to be his right, his honor, to kill a queen and a knight?

The rider came and stood over Croy, peering down into his face. His eyes were wide, as if he were surprised at what Croy had just done. “Var aus,” he said, as if Croy should know what he meant. “Var aus gevuirten, ha?”

“Give me one chance to stand up, and fight me like a man,” Croy howled. He tried to spit in the rider’s face but he couldn’t work up the saliva.

The rider shook his head and pointed at his ear, then his mouth. He shook his head again. He was trying to convey a message-that he couldn’t understand what Croy had said. Then he pointed at Croy’s chest. “You Skraeling,” he said, and nodded as if Croy had agreed with him. Then he placed his hand on his armored chest. “Me, Skilfinger.” Then he reached down as if he would take Croy’s hand. As if he would help Croy sit up. “Skrae ut Skilfing,” the rider said. “Skrae ut Skilfing friends.”