The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(107)
Just two yards short, with me still rising from my roll, the count’s foot snagged on some hidden root and his lunge, intended to skewer me, became an ungainly thing, jolting with those overlarge strides we take in such circumstances to avoid falling on our faces. He ended up impaling the beech tree, his blade buried two or three inches deep in the exact spot my head had been resting against the trunk.
To the little bastard’s credit he reacted swiftly, whipping out a knife fit for gutting oxen, and spinning round to brandish it at me.
“See here, Isen . . . bit of a misunderstanding . . .” The words felt wrong in my mouth after so long biting on the mask’s bit.
Still he came on, holding that hideous knife up high so I saw his eyes one to either side of it, their pupils tiny black dots of madness, mouth twitching.
“Wait!” I held my blade between us at arm’s length to fend him off. I struggled to think of a good reason for him to wait and of its own accord my mouth said, “Free your sword, man. I won’t have it said I beat you unfairly!”
Count Isen paused, frowned, and glanced back at his sword still jutting from the trunk. His frown deepened. “Well . . . knife fighting is beneath men of noble birth . . .” He shot me a look that showed some doubt on the question of whether I were truly sprung from royal loins, then backed toward the tree.
Genius! Years of habitual lying had left me with a tongue capable of invention without requiring any conscious input from my mind. I tensed up, preparing for the sprinting away stage as soon as he started tugging on that sword hilt. As I did so however, I noticed my right foot was resting on a sturdy-looking branch, about three foot in length—a splintered section broken from the tree in some recent storm.
Count Isen sheathed his knife and set both hands to his sword hilt, his back to me as he got ready to heave. I swapped my sword to my left hand, picked up the stick and advanced on stealthy feet. Slow steps brought me up behind the count, the gentle crump of leaf litter under my boots inaudible beneath his grunting as he strained to work the trapped blade free. I glanced at the stick. It had a good weight to it. I shrugged and—trusting to my longer legs to win me clear if anything should go wrong—I whacked him squarely around the side of the head. I’d had poor experience before pitting vases against the back of a man’s head, so I thought I’d try the side this time.
For a trouser-soaking heartbeat I thought Isen was going to stay on his feet. He started to turn, then fell into a boneless heap about halfway through the move. I stood there for a few moments, staring down at the unconscious count, breathing hard. At last it occurred to me to toss away the stick and at the same time I became aware of distant shouts and the clash of swords. I paused, wondering what the source might be.
“Nothing good.” Muttered to the forest. And with a shrug I set off. Left to my own devices I might have lightened the count’s purse to pay for the inconvenience and a new horse, but the sounds of fighting were drawing closer.
I set off at a decent pace, blundering through bushes into the bed of a dry stream that I proceeded to follow. I’d gone no distance at all when with a crashing of branches someone cannoned into me from the side, sending both of us tumbling in a confusion of twisted limbs and sharp elbows. A confused period of terrified shrieking and wild punches followed, ending with me managing to use my superior weight and larger frame to get on top with my hands around a scrawny neck.
“Poe?” I found myself looking down into the narrow and purpling face of Bonarti Poe. With a modicum of reluctance I unwrapped my fingers from his throat.
“T—” He hauled in a huge breath. “T-They followed—” He turned to the side and retched noisily into the leaf-filled streambed.
“Who followed what?” I got off him and stepped back, distaste twitching on my lips.
“T-Those men . . .”
“The Slavs?” I spun around, imagining them advancing on us through the undergrowth. Poe hadn’t the spine to try and stop me, but those three needed me back in their clutches if they wanted to keep their skins.
“They attacked Stevenas and Sir Kritchen.” Poe nodded, clambering to his feet. “I ran.” He looked a sorry affair now, his city finery torn and dusty. “To get help.” A hasty addition. He had the grace to look guilty.
Away to my right leaves rustled, twigs snapped—something advanced unseen toward us.
“Oh God!” Bonarti clutched his chest. “They’re coming!”
“Shut. Up!” I grabbed his arm and yanked him down with me as I crouched low. The main thing about panicking is to do it quietly. I clutched him tight, wondering how long he’d slow the Slavs down if swung into their path. Insects buzzed around us, dry pebbles ground beneath my boot heels, the urge to piss built relentlessly, and all the time the crashing in the undergrowth drew nearer. It didn’t sound like a charge directly at us so much as a meandering search that just might uncover us.
“We should run,” Bonarti hissed.
“Wait.” Running is all well and good but it has to be balanced against hiding. “Wait.”
The rustling and tearing grew suddenly louder and a small figure stumbled from the bushes into the streambed about thirty yards from us.
“Count Isen!” Bonarti sprung to his feet as if the count’s presence solved all his problems.
I leapt up a split second later, or tried to, but wrong-footed by the count’s sudden appearance, my feet lost purchase amid the pebbles and I went sprawling forward onto all fours.