Then she ran belowdeck to her tiny cabin to cry in private.
25
She spent the remainder of the trip in silence. The sailors had avoided her in general before, and since her run-in with the eavesdropping sailor in the night, nobody seemed interested in being even remotely polite to her. For better or for worse, the sailor had kept his word and hadn't told anyone why she cut him—but this meant they thought she'd done it for no reason. She took her meals alone and didn't push the point.
Greyson also wasn't speaking to her. Which was just as well, she thought, as she had nothing to say to him and had nothing she wanted to hear him say, either. The whole thing was best left alone; once they reported to the king, he would surely relieve her of Greyson's charge, and she would never see the smithy again.
They docked on the mainland, rode back to the city in silence, and reported to the palace. Along the way, she'd tried a few times to apologize for slapping him: she'd opened her mouth, started to speak—and then panicked. Apologize? She couldn't do it. And what did she have to apologize for, anyway? He was the one who should apologize. He had no respect for proper forms of address, and he was oblivious to the damage it could do to her reputation as a warrior. Curse him and his soft kisses; she didn't need them.
Thus it was that she held her head high as they waited for the king to listen to their report. He made them wait a couple of hours, as always, before entering with fanfare and a yawn. He took his seat, yawned again, and gazed at Ayalah with undisguised hatred.
"Well?"
"Warrior Tarall, Your Majesty, reporting the status of my latest assignment," she intoned.
"Yes, yes, I know already, out with it."
She approached him and handed over the small package she'd brought back from Olekoth. "The queen's jewels, Sire."
He tossed the package to one of his squires without opening it. "That's it? What took you so long?"
"There was a celebration, Majesty. A male heir to the throne was born. We weren't allowed to leave until the celebration had concluded."
"An Olekian male heir, you say? Well, well. Yes, very good." He appeared to notice Greyson for the first time. "Oh, I see the smithy is still here."
"Yes, Sire," Ayalah said, unsure if she was still being addressed. "He was very useful on this trip."
"Was he?" The king smirked. "Do you have anything to say, smithy?"
Greyson lifted his eyes. "Only that I hope I have fulfilled my duty to the Crown, Your Majesty, and may return to my home and my business."
King Mathais raised his eyebrows. "Indeed." He turned to his scribes. "Make note that this man is hereby pardoned and released from my service." He turned back to Greyson and then waited a few moments. "That means you are dismissed, smithy."
Ayalah waited until the door had closed behind Greyson and the king turned back to her.
"As for you, Warrior Tarall, I have a special assignment."
She resisted the temptation to respond sarcastically about her most recent "special" assignment. "Yes, Sire?"
"You are to meet with an ambassador of Naraloth at the Ancient Meeting Place in three weeks' time."
She stared. "A Naralian ambassador?"
"That's what I said, yes. He's going to be sending me some... information."
"Information?"
"Yes, Warrior Tarall—are you losing your hearing? Information that is too confidential to trust to a common courier."
"My apologies, Majesty. I would be honored to assist."
"Excellent." He smiled, but there was no warmth behind the expression. "See that you don't return without that information."
26
Legend had it that when the early rulers of Miltinoth, Bolladoth, and Naraloth had first become aware of one another's existence, they had agreed to meet in a neutral location to discuss how best to keep the peace among their lands. A barrier was erected to mark the spot, and all land within the barrier was thenceforth considered to be neutral land. The land to the west of the meeting spot, bordered to the north by mountains and to the south by trees, belonged to Naraloth; the land east of the meeting spot, bordered by trees to the north and mountains to the south, belonged to Miltinoth; and the land north of the meeting spot, bordered by mountains to the west and trees to the east, belonged to Bolladoth. The rest of the land was divvied up somewhat arbitrarily, and the spot at which the rulers agreed to meet from then on was known simply as the Meeting Place, and, after a few generations, the Ancient Meeting Place.
Ayalah had never been to the Ancient Meeting Place before, and she was surprised to find that it took her over two weeks of hard riding before she came to it. She had never been this far west before, and she noted with interest that the trees gave way to grassy mountains in the distance, though the forest immediately on her left, in front of the mountains, seemed to stretch all the way from coast to coast. She passed landmarks she'd heard of only in old stories, like Turtle Rock and Cutthroat Creek, and she waited out a particularly bad thunderstorm in an abandoned cabin that she and her horse shared with a skittish fox. It was with a degree of relief that she spotted the Ancient Meeting Place toward evening on an overcast day.
By now the spot was nothing more than three stone pillars standing in a triangle in the center of a field. The pillars were weatherworn and craggy, but they stood tall nonetheless, like something truly out of a legend. She stood before them for a long while, awed by their size, as her horse grazed nearby. Surely no mortal hand could have placed such massive stones here strategically, she thought, especially as the nearest mountains were a few weeks' riding from here. Each stone was at least two times her height and wider than her arm span—it would have taken dozens, perhaps hundreds, of hardworking men to move these stones, solid and heavy as they must be. She thought briefly of the mysterious wizard Swynn—if wizard he truly was, and not some common illusionist—but then shrugged and prepared to make camp.
She spent the next three days huddled in her tent as an angry black cloud settled over the plain, pouring massive droplets of water down onto the grass below. The rain pelted her tent so hard, she'd quickly fetched her horse and tied it down inside, ignoring the beast's nervous stamping and eye rolling. For lack of anything better to do, she sat or paced the tent, attempting to figure out what the tight feeling in her chest meant. She felt tense, somehow, but she couldn't figure out why. Articulating her feelings had never been something Ayalah excelled at, and now was no exception. She felt lousy, heavy, disinterested, but she didn't know why.
The fourth day dawned foggy and humid, but soon the sun came out, and she let her horse roam as she idly practiced sword thrusts and feints, tucking, rolling, and sparring against an imaginary enemy. By the fifth day, she was starting to grow impatient. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the Ancient Meeting Place as well as all the surrounding area, but no one could be seen in any direction. She bit at her thumbnail. The king had said three weeks, hadn't he? Well, she'd been here right on schedule. It wasn't like ambassadors to be late, either. The king had told her not to return without the information, so she'd have to wait at least another few days before moving on. Was it possible the Naralian ambassador had run into trouble on the way to her? Should she go looking for him, in case he needed help?
She forced herself to stop biting her nail. No: she should stay put, wait a few extra days, and then reevaluate. She sighed and reluctantly sat in the grass to watch the sun set. What kind of information would an ambassador need to give to a messenger, anyway? Weren't ambassadors supposed to visit the court when on official business? The more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
Ayalah sat, deep in thought, as rays of pink began to tint the sky. The area around her was all soft, fluffy grass; the trees were a good way away, and it was easy to move without making noise in the field. A nervous whinny from her horse, therefore, was the only warning she had that she was no longer alone.
She was on her feet instantly, sprinting for her tent. She was almost there, it was j
ust feet away—but a bearded man jumped in front of her, swinging a broadsword at her neck with such force, it would have sliced her head clean off had she not ducked just in time. She rolled forward, sprang up, and ducked again as the man aimed a second blow at her. This time, she kicked out, as hard as she could, and felt the man's shin snap as her foot came in contact with it. The man howled and dropped straight to the ground.
She used the moment to free her sword from its scabbard, and just in time—another bearded man was flying at her, spiked mace in hand, and she blocked his first blow with her sword. The whoosh of a knife registered in her mind a split second before it would have lodged itself in her ribs; she side-stepped, aimed a thrust of her sword at the man with the mace, and reached down to grab her dagger from her belt.
She wasn't quick enough. The man with the mace slammed it into her side, and she doubled over, struggling to breathe, as he aimed another blow. She backed away, just barely dodging him, and in one movement pulled her dagger, spun out of the mace's reach, threw the dagger into a third man's forehead—the one who had thrown the knife, she hoped—spun again, and, grabbing her sword with two hands, sliced into the mace-wielder's right shoulder. He was immobilized only for a few moments; she used his distraction to bolt past him, still headed for her tent.
She hesitated just before entering it. Another man was already inside, rifling through her saddlebags; any moment now, he'd find her extra weapons and use them to his advantage against her. She couldn't take that chance. She barreled into the tent despite her misgivings about the close quarters, slammed into the man, and elbowed him in the face, cleanly breaking his nose while he was still off guard. She caught the blade of a fifth man with her arm—with the wonderful armband Greyson had made for her, in fact—and pushed him off, scrambling to her feet and swinging her sword at him.
Her feet were pulled out from under her, though, by the man she'd elbowed, and she fell hard, cushioning her fall instinctively with her left hand while she held onto her sword with her right. A sharp pain radiated through her left arm, but she tried to ignore it, rolling out from under the fifth man's sword and into the foot of the fourth man, who kicked her square in the stomach. She gasped for breath, and the fifth man's sword sliced into her left arm. She screamed as a wave of pain shot through her.
She would not go like this, ambushed by five men and immobilized, lying down, in her own tent.
This was not how she was willing to die.
She tried to force her way to her feet, half blind with pain, slashing out erratically with her sword. The emergency knife she kept in her boot came in handy, and as she crouched on the floor, she jammed it into the fourth man's foot, through flesh, tendon, and bone. He fell on top of her with a shout, and she used his body as a shield: the fifth man had already swung his sword, and his momentum carried it into the back of his companion, who shouted anew. She sprang out from under the man, unsure at this point whose blood was all over her, and bolted from the tent.
Of the five men who had ambushed her, one was dead, her dagger embedded in his forehead. Two were down, but only injured, not fatally wounded. And two pursued her now into the field with unholy rage, gaining on her as they ran.
She was losing blood quickly. Pain radiated up from her left arm; her breath came in ragged gasps.
There was no one to help her.
27
When she thought about it later—much later, weeks later, when she had time for reflection—Ayalah wasn't sure where she'd found the strength or the adrenaline to fight the last two men who chased her. She'd happened on a stroke of luck: the knife that had been aimed at her ribs—that she'd dodged—was embedded in the ground, and she spotted its handle, gleaming in the waning sunset, as she ran by. She picked it up with her left hand and held onto it, despite the pain, as she headed for the stone pillars.
What surprised her in retrospect wasn't that she'd held onto the knife, but that she'd found the strength to throw it. She wasn't aware of it at the time, but her wrist was broken, and the fifth man's sword had sliced clean through her muscle. Nevertheless, she took the time to pause, turn, aim, and throw—and, injured arm notwithstanding, the knife lodged in the fifth man's abdomen. She'd aimed for his heart and missed, but the wound would still be fatal.
Now the fight was one on one. The man with the mace was nearly upon her, swinging widely with the spike-tipped weapon, and she put on an extra, desperate burst of speed to outrun his deadly blows. This man was in a frenzy, shouting as he chased after her, his face bright red, flecks of spittle dotting his lips. She wanted nothing more than to bury her sword in his heart, but now was not the moment: he had the advantage of strength, as well as a longer weapon, and her strength was flagging.
She reached the first pillar and paused just long enough to encourage the man to strike; then she ducked down low, nearly to the ground, and listened as the man's mace slammed into the stone with a resounding crack. She pivoted around him as he shook off the reverberations from the stone. His distraction was all she'd hoped for. She faked right, went left, and sliced into his other shoulder: now both his arms were weakened.
It wasn't enough. He swung again at her, and though she stepped to the side, she hadn't been expecting such a low blow. The pain she experienced when the mace came into contact with her leg was astonishing, unlike anything she'd felt before. He must have shattered her shinbone. She was down on her knees, involuntary tears springing to her eyes as the pillar swam before her.
"Now you die, warrior girl." The man's voice was raspy in her right ear, his rage mastered only by his confidence that he'd won.
"I don't think so," she said.
Without turning toward him, she lifted her right arm over her shoulder and slammed it into his face. Greyson's armband met the man's nose with a crunch, and he reeled back. She twisted, using both hands to wield her sword, and let her momentum carry her blade into the man's neck and out the other side.
If she hadn't been so overwhelmed with pain, the sight of his head falling from his body would have made her smile.
As it was, she allowed herself a moment's rest to enjoy the kill before attempting to rise. She must remain vigilant: two men yet lived.
Her left leg was useless, worse than useless. It was a hindrance, and she had to drag it behind her as she half-crawled back toward her tent. The grass blurred before her as she went. Every movement of her left leg sent a new wave of pain coursing through her, and her left wrist could only support the most minimal weight before giving out.
She headed for the first man who had attacked her. He was closest, and also the least injured of the three of them still breathing, herself included. She inched past the man with the knife stuck in his abdomen. His eyes stared blankly at the twilit sky. She yanked the knife out of his chest and left her sword next to his body—it was easier to crawl holding a knife than a sword. She moved another few feet, then paused as her vision went black for a moment. She thought she might throw up, but then the moment passed.
When she looked back up, she found that the first man was limping toward her, sword in hand. He didn't appear to have spotted her yet, dark as it had grown and low as she was to the ground. She took aim and threw. If she missed, she would be both weaponless and injured, as good as dead.
She held her breath as the blade soared through the air.
The man gurgled as the knife lodged in his throat; she breathed a sigh of relief.
How she made it back to her tent she could not recall later. But somehow she was there, and she looked into the eyes of the one attacker still alive, her vision coming in and out of focus. The sword in his back must have gone pretty deep, for his eyes were glazed over and he made no attempt to defend himself—although, then again, she held no weapon.
"Who sent you?" she demanded. There was no way this was a chance encounter; this ambush had clearly been planned.
He blinked and focused on her but said nothing.
"Who sent you?" she repeated, jaw clenched.
<
br /> Still he said nothing.
She inched closer until she was within arm's reach of the foot she'd speared with her boot knife. She gripped the knife's handle. "I will twist this blade until you beg for death."
He watched her but did not speak.
So she kept her word. She twisted the blade slowly, excruciatingly, watching with grim satisfaction as he howled and begged her to stop.
"The king!" he finally gasped. "It was the king, I will swear an oath, it was the king who sent us!"
She stopped and stared at him. "The king? Which king?"
"Mathais," he groaned. "Paid us. Kill you." Tears were streaming down his face and into his beard now.
She barely processed his words. "And the ambassador?"
He looked at her strangely. "What ambassador?"
Her head reeled. Now his words made sense: this whole thing was a setup. There was no ambassador, there never had been. The king, her king, had sent her here to die. To be murdered.
She'd always known he hated her, but to murder her? This came as a shock.
She didn't bother killing the man. He would bleed to death anyway, and she didn't have the strength to end his suffering. Instead she grabbed her weapons saddlebag, dragged it with her out of the tent, and whistled for her horse.
She pulled herself up onto her right leg and managed to awkwardly mount the horse, sitting sidesaddle for lack of any strength to swing her crippled left leg over. She could not return to Miltinoth now—she could never return home.
She managed to steer her horse west. Her mother, after all, had been Naralian, so perhaps she could seek refuge from sympathetic locals.
Her thoughts were sluggish and disjointed. The king—her king—had tried to murder her! She didn't know what to think. She couldn't think. She held on to her horse and tried to ignore the pain coursing through her left side. But her adrenaline had run out; her body was overwhelmed. She felt her grip on the horse slipping, and then everything went black.