Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(45)
Before I have fully registered my surprise, Beast draws his sword and charges into the startled group of men before they can react. He aims straight for the three closest riders. The bank explodes in activity as soldiers scramble for their weapons.
As Beast rides into the fray, my body reacts without conscious thought. I drop my reins and pull my knives from my wrists. The first one strikes one of the mounted soldiers closest to me, catching him in the throat. My second knife takes the next mounted soldier in the eye so that he is thrown backwards just as his horse leaps forward. Some days, like today, my aim and timing is so true it takes my breath away and I feel certain Mortain’s hand guides my own.
As I reach for my crossbow, Beast gives a battle yell that fair curdles my blood. His sword arcs through the air, decapitating one soldier and then slicing a second man near in two on its backstroke. Before Beast can regroup, a third raises his sword, then reels in surprise when a stone from Yannic’s slingshot punches through his teeth, giving Beast time to finish him off.
My crossbow loaded and cocked, I turn to the riders by the stream and pick one off. Two others go for their own crossbows, but not fast enough. The bolt catches one and sends him stumbling into the second man, which gives me time to grab another of my knives and throw it, the silver blade whipping fast and sure across the distance to sink into his eye socket and send him reeling into the stream.
I use the time that buys me to reload my crossbow, but one of the mounted men breaks away from Beast and wheels in my direction before I can get it cocked. I drop the bow and pull the sword from its scabbard, getting it between me and my attacker. “Lady Sybel—” It is only when he hesitates long enough for me to get past his guard and cut off the rest of his words that I realize they have been ordered to take me alive.
Which gives me some small advantage, for I do not care if I kill them. Indeed, I pray that I will.
One of the remaining men is reloading his crossbow, which is aimed right for me. I am out of knives, and Beast is too far away to help. He shouts, drawing the man’s attention, and then I watch open-mouthed as Beast hurls his sword toward him.
I hold my breath as it spins through the air. The hilt catches the soldier full in the face, stunning rather than killing him. But it is enough to give the charging Beast time—he draws his ax, surges forward, and delivers a sickening blow to the soldier’s head. Yannic finishes off the last two of them with well-slung rocks.
The stream’s bank is awash in departing souls, shocking in their chillness, as if winter had suddenly returned. Some rush upward, eager to flee the carnage, even though it can no longer harm them. Others hover, like desolate children, lost, adrift, not sure they understand what has just happened.
It sickens me that I somehow manage to feel sympathy for them. To chase the unwelcome feelings away, I whirl around to rail at Beast. “What in the names of the Nine Saints was that? Throwing your sword? Is that some special trick of Saint Camulos?”
He grins, and I am startled by how feral he looks, all gleaming white teeth and pale eyes in a blood-splattered face. Indeed, I do not believe he is quite human in that moment. “It slowed him down, didn’t it?”
“By mere chance,” I point out. It was the most foolish, jape-fisted bit of buffoonery I have ever seen, and I am impressed in spite of that.
A short while later, as I stare down at the bodies of the six men I have just killed, I cannot help but wonder: Do I love killing? Of a certainty, I love the way my body and weapons move as one; I revel in the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact. And of a certainty, I am good at it.
But so is Beast. He is perhaps even better at it than I am, and yet for all that, he feels as bright and golden as a lion who roars in the face of his enemies and stalks them in broad daylight.
Whereas I—I am a dark panther, slinking unseen among the shadows, silent and deadly.
But we are both great cats, are we not? And do not even bright things cast a shadow? “Were they waiting for the men at the miller’s?” I ask. “Or are they a separate party of scouts altogether?”
“A separate party, I think. See?” Beast points to a series of hoof prints in the muddy bank where the men had just crossed the stream. “They were on their way back.”
My heart sinks. “Which means they have all the western routes covered. We will have to head due east and approach Rennes from that direction.”
We risk riding into the arms of the French, but at least they will simply kill us and not try to take us back to d’Albret. If the truth be told, I’d rather take my chances with the French.
By the time we stop for the night, Beast is gray with exhaustion and fatigue and hardly able to do more than grunt. As we make camp, it is hard to know which is the greater threat: d’Albret and his be-damned scouts or the blood fever coursing through Beast’s veins. In the end, I decide we must risk a small fire for the poultices, but by the time they are ready, Beast is fast asleep. He does not so much as stir when I place them on his wounds. As I stare down at his still, ugly face, I find myself praying that I will not be left with nothing but his limp, dead body to bring before the duchess.
By some miracle or stubbornness of constitution, Beast is better in the morning. Even so, I insist we travel at an easy pace, well away from the roads. When we stop for a midday break, I almost decide to make camp for the night then and there so Beast can rest, for he is exhausted again, and fresh blood flows from the injury at his thigh. He waves my concerns aside. “It is a good thing, for it will wash the foul humors from the wound.” He insists we keep going, as the farther we get from our pursuers, the better.