The Liar's Key (The Red Queen's War #2)(108)

“You!” Isen pointed his over-long sword at me.

“I can explain!” I couldn’t.

“You just left me! You can’t abandon a man you’ve defeated!” He sounded disapproving rather than murderous. Sticky trickles of blood striated the side of his face below the spot where the branch caught him.

“Prince Jalan beat you?” Bonarti glanced round at me, surprised.

Count Isen advanced, a touch unsteady on his feet. “Found him in the forest, made my challenge, and had at him. Can’t remember much after that. Must have caught me on the head with the side of his sword.” He touched crimson fingers to his wound.

“Yes! Yes I did!” I got to my knees and shuffled backward.

The count paused a couple of yards before Bonarti and executed a short bow in my direction. “Well fought, sir!” He touched his matted hair again. “But—but, didn’t you run?” Confusion in those beady eyes of his, hardening toward anger.

“Of course I did! We were endangering honest citizens, swinging away on the queen’s highway like common brawlers. Besides, I needed to get clear of my captors and lead them into the forest where I could kill them without risk to the peasants.”

“Commoners! Pah.” Count Isen made to spit.

“Have a care, Isen.” I got to my feet. “Those are my grandmother’s citizens. The Red Queen says how their lives are spent, and nobody else!” I sheathed my sword just in case he should take offence.

Isen waved the matter away. “But you left me lying there!”

“I had to draw the Slavs off.” Sometimes my lies impressed the hell out of me. “I couldn’t have them find you unable to defend yourself. I would have stayed and fought them over your body but I couldn’t be sure enough of defeating all three of them if they all came at once . . . so I drew them off.” I straightened up to my full height and with both hands tugged my tunic forward across my chest in what I hoped would seem an authoritative, manly, and self-righteous gesture.

“Well . . .” Isen didn’t quite seem to know what to make of it all. I suspected his wits were still somewhat scrambled from the blow to the head. He narrowed his eyes at me, at Bonarti, at a nearby tree, puffed through his moustache, and at length sheathed his own sword.

“Right then!” I gave the smallest of bows. “Honour is served. Let’s go kill some Slavs!” And I led off in the opposite direction to the one in which I’d heard the clash of swordplay.

? ? ?

Forests, it turns out, are treacherous things. It’s damned easy to get turned around in among all those trees, and each one looks pretty much the same as the next. Somehow, despite declaring myself sure of the way and ignoring all of Isen’s advice about getting back to the road, we found the Slavs. Or at least two of them, sprawled inelegantly across the forest floor amid their own blood—thankfully face down. Sir Kritchen had been laid out with his arms folded across his chest, almost obscuring the wound that killed him. I spotted Stevenas last, sitting with his back to a fallen tree, legs stretched out before him, his sword across them, dark with drying blood. His arm and left side were crimson, the puncture wound in his shoulder bound about with strips of his torn shirt, the musculature of his torso on display.

“Where’s the other?” Isen, looking around, all business.

“Ran for it.” Stevenas nodded toward a dense thicket of saplings.

Isen gave a dissatisfied snort. “We’ll hunt him down soon enough.” A glance at Sir Kritchen then a wave toward Stevenas. “Get him up.” He paused for a moment, finding himself in the unusual position of not being able to order everyone around. “Bonarti, do it!”

Quite how Bonarti Poe, skinny and effete, was to get a slab of muscle like Stevenas off the ground I had no idea, but I damn well wasn’t going to help with a mere count watching on. Besides, the man had been brought along to ensure fair play as Isen carved me up so I had little sympathy for him. Though I did appreciate his work on the Slav triplets. That said, two out of three isn’t bad in many circumstances but here I’d really rather Stevenas had got the full set.

Count Isen and I watched on while Bonarti struggled with the warrior. Fortunately, despite his blood loss, Stevenas had enough go left in him to help out and soon we were following him as he led us back to the road, demonstrating considerably more competence than the rest of us in the business of navigation.

We clambered back across the ditch and onto the Appan Way once more, all of us rather more dirty, battered, and bruised than we had been a hour earlier. The crowd had long since dispersed but fortunately a pedlar had taken it on himself to park his cart and watch over all the abandoned horses. He’d probably spent the time weighing the chance of a reward against the profit in horse theft and juggling the odds of being caught alongside the rather harsh justice horse thieves tend to meet in Red March.

“Good man.” Isen tossed the fellow a coin and waved him on his way. “Wait!” The count held up a hand before the pedlar could climb back into his cart. “Poe, take this man into the forest and retrieve Sir Kritchen. We can put him in the cart and take him back to Vermillion.” He shook his head as if the thought of a knight reduced to cargo in a pedlar’s cart offended him.

Bonarti looked about to complain but thought better of it and trudged back toward the tree-line with the pedlar in tow. Stevenas meanwhile managed to get himself into the saddle where he sat, hunched about the pain of his wound.