Listening intently, Basilard crept down the path. He heard nothing more than the gurgle of the water, but one of the bushes below moved infinitesimally. The breeze? Basilard was about thirty feet above the canyon floor. He took a few more steps, but worried he was making himself an easy target for an archer crouching in hiding. The bush trembled again. Not the breeze.
Basilard spotted a waist-high boulder protruding into the trail, one he would have to squeeze by carefully. He pretended to trip right in front of it. He lurched forward, arms flailing, and fell flat onto his stomach. Between the boulder blocking the view and his elevated height, those watching from below should struggle to make him out. Quietly, he slid over the side of the trail, careful not to brush any rocks free. He lowered himself, searching for a foothold. The wall was smoother than the place where he and the others had climbed out the night before, and his toes swept over sheer, vertical rock. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea. They were sure to see him. He only hoped they would think he hadn’t fallen on purpose and that gravity was about to solve their problem.
Finally, with his arms stretched to their fullest, he found a thin ledge. He rested both sets of toes on it, found a crack for his fingers, then let go of the top. A rustling came from the bottom of the trail. He dropped quickly, turning the foothold into a handhold, then searching for another foothold. Another ten feet lower, and he could risk letting go and dropping.
Two men stood up. Even in the dark, Basilard could make out their silhouettes. They were turning sideways in archer stances. He found another foothold, then another, lowering himself as quickly as he could. Before he reached that ten-foot mark, he let himself drop, afraid that was all the time he had. He was right.
He did not hear the soft release of the bows over the rippling water of the stream, but he definitely heard one of the arrows crack off the rock he had just been holding on to.
In the dark, it was hard to judge the distance to the bottom, but he had practiced jumps and landings often in his training with Sicarius. He anticipated the ground’s approach, coming down between two bushes, and threw himself into a roll as his feet touched. The rocky earth pummeled him, making him glad he hadn’t fallen from a greater height, but he managed to come up in a crouch ten feet away from the wall with nothing broken or twisted.
Basilard darted behind a log, dropped to his belly, and crawled along its length, using it for cover. The archers would be searching for him in a heartbeat, and he could not let himself be found where they expected. At the end of the log, he rose to a crouch, using another bush to advance his position.
The crunch of pebbles shifting under someone’s foot alerted him to the archers’ approach. They were together, running toward the bushes right under the trail. They must not have seen him roll. He came around the bush, and it brought him out behind them. Knowing he would be in trouble if he hesitated, he leaped for one, his dagger in his hand. He grabbed the man’s long braid of hair, yanked his head back, and sliced the blade across his throat.
The second man was already whirling toward him and lifting his bow. Wrong choice. They were too close, and Basilard knocked the weapon to the side, then lunged forward. The man’s hands were tangled up in trying to release the bow and grab a sword at the same time. Basilard didn’t give him the time to do so. He drove his dagger into the man’s chest.
Basilard checked to make sure neither guard had survived and was able to cry out and warn others. A part of him hated how easily he returned to the ways of a pit fighter. He was glad his people weren’t there to see him.
The sense that he was not alone came over him again. He crouched with his back against a shrub, watching and listening, expecting more Kendorians. But the pair of men moving quietly down the same trail he had used were familiar, their short hair cupping their heads instead of flowing down their back in braids or tails.
“Leyelchek?” one whispered as they neared the bottom.
The shame Basilard felt over the easy way he had killed the guards almost kept him still, his legs frozen in the hope that his people wouldn’t see him—that they hadn’t seen him fighting. But he forced aside the useless emotion. The Mangdorians had come to drive out the Kendorians, and they believed he would be their guide in that matter. To leave them alone in the canyon of the enemy would be unthinkable.
He rose, stepping out of the shadows to join them. They nodded as if they had known where he was all along. Perhaps they had. His people might not be warriors, but they were excellent hunters.
Come, Basilard signed, though he knew the men would not see his hands. He touched their shoulders and pointed up the canyon.
They headed for the encampment. Major Diratha would not go down as easily as the two watchmen, and reaching her without being noticed was unlikely.
• • • • •
The clangs that had echoed from the mines earlier had stopped, but the camp remained alert. Numerous people walked along the canyon floor on patrols, with bows or muskets in hand. Torches and lanterns burned on both sides of the river, driving back the night. Even those who were not on guard were awake, with men talking quietly in clumps, eyeing the outpost above and the darkness at both ends of the canyon. More voices came from within some of the still-lit tunnels.
This was not the somnolent camp Basilard had hoped to sneak into during the dark hours before dawn; the shaman had forced this confrontation far too soon, and he worried that the guerrilla tactics Sicarius had spoken of would not work on those who were alert and ready for them.
“Perhaps we could hide here until they settle for the night?” Nakka, one of the young men accompanying Basilard, pointed to the half-collapsed mouth of a tunnel next to their group.
They had sneaked as close to the camp as they could and crouched just outside of the influence of the lanterns, hiding behind a pile of debris next to the wall. A scrubby dygota bush rose at their backs, one of the few small shrubs that had not been cleared from the encampment. In this shaded spot, it did not receive much sun, and a few blooms remained on its leaves, the spicy-sweet scent reminding Basilard of childhood, since his mother had cooked the edible pods often. He had lost his parents to the Black Fever before his twentieth birthday, and it had been some time since he had thought of them, missed them, so the feeling of nostalgia surprised him. Perhaps it was that he did not want to wreak carnage and longed for a simpler time again, a time before he had been cast out by his people.
“Leyelchek?” Nakka asked softly.
Basilard shook his memories away, reminding himself that some of his people were here and needed his help. He pointed toward the camp. As soon as Sicarius deals with the shaman, he and Amaranthe will come down to blow up the dam. We can’t delay.
He was talking to himself, since they could not see his signs, but he trusted they would understand when he rose, a dagger in hand. He pointed across the river, touched their bows, and pointed again.
“You want us to provide a distraction?”
Basilard nodded. Stay in the shadows. Don’t let them find you. He waved back the way they had come, where the canyon hadn’t been cleared so assiduously and one could find hiding places.
“But don’t get caught?” Nakka added dryly.
Basilard nodded again. He did not want to take them into battle. They would be easily outmatched by soldiers. And as foolish as the thought was at this point, he did not want them to see him slitting the throats of human beings, either. It was one thing to want to fight for one’s country; it was another to have the enemy’s blood spattered across one’s chest.
“We’ll be careful,” Nakka said. “You be careful too. They’re clearly waiting for an attack.”
I know.
Staying close to the cliff, Basilard headed up the canyon, moving slowly and only when nobody seemed to be looking in his direction. Someone else might grow impatient or find the pace tedious, but it was no different from when a hunter drew close to the deer that was meant for the dinner table.
Basilard spotted the
large cave that he had thought would be collapsed after he had hurled the blasting sticks. The workers must have cleared it out again, because much of it remained open. He had hoped he had deprived the major of her access to the communication orb, but perhaps she had already called for reinforcements. Hoping he would find her there, perhaps without guards, he continued along the cliff, avoiding the pools of light from the lanterns.
A boom came from above almost directly overhead, and Basilard froze.
“The outpost,” someone yelled.
A boulder slammed to the ground less than ten feet from Basilard. It broke into a thousand pieces with shards flying everywhere. He turned toward the cliff, lifting his arms to protect his head.
Rocks and charred logs crashed down from above. He scooted a few feet, finding a concave hollow in the rock that sheltered him somewhat.
The Kendorians were whirling to face the cliff top, some of them raising weapons and others scurrying back from the falling debris. Nobody fired—they were too far down to do anything, and Basilard doubted any targets up there were visible. Even from his spot directly below the outpost, he could tell that flames leaped, because the entire area above had grown brighter. Maldynado must have found a way to make use of his meager explosives. Basilard was glad and hoped he had done a great deal of damage, but the timing had been poor. He dared not continue sneaking toward the cave with so many faces turned in his direction. Still, some dust was rising up, thanks to all of the falling debris. Maybe with everyone looking up, they wouldn’t notice him following the base of the cliff.
“Look out,” came a Kendorian voice from across the river. “Saw someone with a bow.”
Basilard lifted his head. His archers. Several Kendorians turned in that direction. Someone fired a musket. Basilard’s stomach twisted at the idea of one of his young hunters being shot, but he had to thank them for the distraction.
He continued toward the cave, leaving the cliff only to skirt torches that leaned against the stone. The dust made his nostrils itch and his eyes water, but he kept his focus.
A bowman strode out of the cave and glanced in his direction. Basilard halted. He was between two torches, so mostly in the shadows, but not as fully as he wished.
The man paused, frowning. He lifted an arm toward his quiver. Basilard threw the dagger in his hand. The blade sped through the air, invisible in the darkness, and slammed into the bowman’s chest as he was pulling out an arrow. The man went down without a sound.
Basilard wanted to sneak over and retrieve his dagger, but a shout came from the mouth of the cave. Someone must have seen the man go down. Pulling out two more knives, Basilard sprinted toward the entrance. When he was scant feet away, two soldiers with firearms leaped around the corner.
Basilard turned his momentum into an attack, bowling into them and slashing before they could bring their weapons to bear. Shouts of surprise, rage, and then pain filled his ears. One man dropped before he could mount a defense, but the second reacted more quickly. He swung the butt of his rifle at Basilard’s head. Basilard ducked, but almost failed to realize the attack had been a feint, a distraction while the soldier yanked free a dagger of his own. At the last instant, Basilard blocked a blade stabbing for his gut. He dodged to the side while slashing at the man’s face with one blade. The soldier jerked his head back. Basilard darted in, slicing at the man’s torso. The weapon cut through the buckskin shirt and bit into flesh, but not as deeply as he had hoped. He had rushed the attack, knowing that he was vulnerable here, fighting at the mouth of the cave.
The rifle swiped toward his head again. This time as Basilard ducked, he lunged in fully, throwing his weight into the other man and taking him to the ground. They rolled, half wresting and half slashing, with Basilard trying to kill or disable his foe at the same time as he drove him away from the revealing light of the cave. Finally, chance favored him, and his opponent’s head struck a rock as they rolled. It stunned him for an instant, long enough for Basilard to take advantage. He rammed his elbow into the man’s face, further stunning him, then jammed his dagger into his chest.
Worried everyone in the canyon knew he was there now, Basilard rolled to the side, his instincts—or maybe simple fear—driving him to get away from the battle scene. Those instincts served him well, for a weapon fired right as he scrambled away. A musket ball slammed into the downed soldier, the dying man gasping as this new assault tore into him.
Basilard sprang to his feet, targeting his new foe before he even saw who it was. In the light coming from the cave, he glimpsed a woman’s figure and a long earring with four beads on it. Major Diratha. She threw the musket at him as she yanked free her other weapons, a whip and a short sword.
Basilard jumped to the side, lifting an arm to knock the musket away. He saw it for the distraction it was and had two daggers out by the time Diratha launched her real attack, a snap from the whip. Basilard danced away before the leather thong could wrap around his ankle.
Right away, he cursed himself for backing away. He needed to get in closer, not let her keep him too far back for knife work. He couldn’t hurt her from ten feet away. More, he would be an easy target for her men. The next time she cracked the whip, this time aiming for his face—or maybe to wrap it around his neck—he turned his duck into a roll, flinging himself across the earth toward her. He sprang up before she could take the opportunity to attack.
The crack of a musket came from nearby, and his heart hammered in his chest—he suspected he had just avoided being hit again. How long could his luck hold out? He had to deal with her and then escape back into the shadows. Indeed, even as he jumped up, stabbing with his dagger, he glimpsed several men in his peripheral vision, all advancing toward him, all with bows or muskets.
Diratha leaped back, avoiding his slashes. She was faster than he would have guessed and found the time and space to crack the whip again, even though he had attempted to deny her of both. The thong came in faster than his eye could track, wrapping around his dagger. With a quick yank, she tried to surprise the weapon out of his hand. He tightened his grip, anticipating the move, and slashed through the whip with his other blade. The sharp dagger glided through the leather, and the tension around his hand fell away. But before he could leap in, trying to close the distance again, feathers blurred past him and an arrow grazed the back of his neck. Fiery pain blasted down his spine. He jumped closer to Diratha, not letting the pain slow him down—indeed, he had more incentive than ever to finish the battle. Two muskets fired, following right after the bow attack. His quick dart forward had saved him from further punishment, but the major was waiting for him, and she stabbed at his chest with her sword. He recognized the feint, the lack of commitment behind her forward movement, and readied himself for her real attack, a slash toward his inner thigh.
Basilard turned his body to avoid the cut and chopped down at her forearm with his dagger, hoping she would drop her own weapon. Again, she proved fast, and she almost withdrew her hand quickly enough to evade him altogether. But he clipped her fingers, drawing blood. She didn’t cry out—her face only grew grimmer and more intent—and she didn’t drop her sword. Instead, she slashed backward at him, reversing her balance and momentum with impressive speed.
He jumped in closer, so her arm struck him instead of her sword, and he gripped her shoulder while slashing at her face. He received an elbow in his stomach, but did not release his grasp on her shoulder. As she had been, he was also feinting and whipped his dagger down to jam it into the unprotected flesh under her rib cage.
She couldn’t stop her cry of pain this time, even though her first response was rage. She leaped at him, trying to grab him, thrusting wildly and angrily with her sword. Basilard wanted to leap back, to let her wear herself out, knowing she was losing blood and would succumb to the wound soon, but he forced himself to stay close, hoping her men wouldn’t shoot if they risked hitting her. He blocked the wild slashes, finding it easier now. In her pain and desperation, her swings became frenz
ied, not calculated. He found another opportunity to slip past her defenses. Not wanting to prolong her misery—or the fight—he cut her throat. Time to end this; time to hope whoever her second-in-command was would take this as a sign to leave forever.
The blow was a killing one. Before she dropped, Basilard spun toward the bowmen, knowing he would be an easy target for them now. But they had disappeared. He stared around, unable to believe they had abandoned their commander, but then he spotted them. Six men lay on the ground in a circle around him, their weapons in their hands but useless now. Four more soldiers were sprawled on the dusty earth farther back. They looked like they had been running to help when they had been shot or cut down.
Basilard couldn’t believe his archers had done this, not only because he had left them farther down the canyon and on the other side of the river, but because virgin warriors shouldn’t be so deadly, so accurate when slaying human beings. He was not surprised when a familiar black-clad figure came into view.
Sicarius. His short, blond hair was plastered to his head, and water dripped from his clothing. He was also breathing heavily, something rare for him.
“We have to run,” he said before Basilard could ask what had happened. His tone was as emotionless as ever. He pulled throwing knives out of some of the fallen men as he added, “They had discovered the dam and were dismantling it. Amaranthe distracted them, leading them away, while I swam in and set the explosive. I attempted to extend the length of the fuse, but—”
A distant boom rolled down from upriver. Distance and the meandering nature of the canyon muffled the sound, but there was no doubt as to what it signified.
“Go,” Sicarius pointed back the way Basilard had come, though he retrieved the rest of his throwing knives.
My people, Basilard signed—he wasn’t sure if Sicarius saw. I have two archers down here. They might not realize what the explosion means. Can you yell to them?
A distant roar came to his ears, the promise of water washing down the canyon like a flash flood.