Hand of the King's Evil - Outremer 04 (77 page)

It was that discipline, that grim resistance that had held the line, and would do so as long as the men could hold themselves, as long as their training held. Jemel guessed that would hold as long as the knight survived who led them. He was the other cause, the pivot their fate would turn around; his men were strong as a body, but they would be lost without him at their head.

No fine swordwork, no fencing down there, no neat defence and sudden thrust. It was more like axework, hew and guard, block and chop. The knight seemed to be everywhere: leading his men in a swarm against a single 'ifrit and delivering the final killer blow himself, letting them fall back while he watched their welfare, while he protected one who was injured all the way to the rampart, while he bled himself and ignored it; rallying the remainder with a cry and urging them forward again.

Jemel was so caught up in the eddying fortunes of the battle, he barely noticed when the djinni's grip loosened from his body. He was aware of stone beneath his feet, but only peripherally until he took a pace forward to see better and found his foot reaching into emptiness, clear air.

Startled, he looked down and discovered himself to be standing on a surviving remnant of the high wall, just where it broke and fell away. He glanced around, and could see no sign of the djinni.

What, was he meant to go down and find a blade, join his rampaging strength to the Ransomers' stubborn discipline? Well, perhaps - but he saw little point in it. One more man could make small difference. Especially one not born to their manner of fighting, not trained to it, not comfortable. It seemed a waste of
jereth
and of himself, not worth all the djinni s working to bring him here with this fire in his veins and his body so alive, only to have him fight as one soldier in a squad where he would inevitably be a stranger and so not trusted.

Worse, it seemed a betrayal of Marron and of all the oaths he'd sworn, to be snatched away from his pursuit for so little cause.

Still, any fight would be better than none. He sighted the ground below
him
in readiness to jump - and stilled abruptly as black-clad figures cam
e slipping along the wall directl
y beneath him, just where he'd been about to land.

The Ransomers wore black, they wore hoods, and so did these. These were no Ransomers, though, come to support their brethren. Even looking down from the strangest of angles, Jemel knew what they were, the moment he saw them. He knew them by their dress, much like his own but for the colour, and his was dyed darker than blue by all the blood he'd lost to it; he knew them by the way they moved, desert steps even in this lush grassland, and Marron had mocked him for the same thing before now; he knew them by the curve of their scimitars that no Patric would carry, that no Patric bar Marron could fight with; he didn't need to see their hands and count their fingers.

Neither did he need to understand why they were here. They were Sand Dancers; that was enough. He felt a touch at his throat, and realised it was his own fingers' touching. There was a thick corded scar there, where Morakh had tried to kill him and only Lisan's magic had saved his life. Morakh was dead now, but it was his act also in killing Rudel that had brought all this about, letting the armies into Surayon. Dancers and 'ifrit belonged together in Jemel's mind, for all that the Dancers were his own people and had sworn their lives to goals that he had long sought himself. They should be sworn to Marron, but Morakh had tried to kill him too. More than enough
..
.

He slipped over the wall's side, to climb down secredy; they were alert to the wind's breath on the grasses, they would hear if he jumped. As he went down, he let his hands and toes find out their own grips on the stone; his eyes were following the Dancers.

Following as they closed in on the men closest, where the wall of horses met the fallen wall of stones, in an angle of rubble and blood. This was where they'd reinforced the rampart; now they were lifting the bodies of their fallen brothers up, either to raise it higher with more dead flesh or else to bear them over, in hopes of burying them with honour later. Either way, when figures in black robes and hoods came to join them, seemingly to help, of course they were greeted with gratitude, as fellow Ransomers. How else?

Those men learned their mistake, but did not live to profit by the lesson. The Dancers left them lying where they had fallen, and moved on purposefully.

What their purpose was - beyond the simple killing of Patrics, always a priority for Dancers and doubly so now, when they seemed to have allied themselves with the 'ifrit -took Jemel a moment longer to determine, a moment longer than it should have done. He was distracted by a sudden doubt, a question, recognition: one of those men was not a Dancer. He was not even wearing black, only a robe as blood-dark as Jemel's own. Easy to see how it had got so stained, he joined the slaughter with a will; but his sword-work lacked a little grace in comparison, he seemed less dedicated, less given over to death. And besides, even from the back, Jemel knew him.

And was sworn to kill him, but that was almost a side-issue here. It seemed suddenly to matter not at all how the man died, so long as he did die. Jemel would not be jealous if it were another's blade that took him.

Why, how the sheikh of the Saren had joined himself with the Sand Dancers - outcasts, by tradition and his own word - were questions to be addressed later, or not at all. He was here, he was among them, he was slaying Patrics; and the path the Dancers were cutting for t
hemselves was taking them directl
y towards the Ransomer knight, the man who was so clearly leading this resistance.

That man had drawn his sortie back to the rampart, to give those men rest; he had taken over one of the long spears himself and was balanced lightly on the heaped corpses, holding the resurgent 'ifrit at bay.

Never once did he look behind him, for aid or for retreat. He never thought to look behind to see if there were further trouble coming.

And so there was both, trouble and aid if Jemel could aid him, and it must be this that the djinni had brought him here to do; so there must be a chance, at least. Unless it was simply that the djinni had a sense of humour after all. It wasn't only the one man for whom Jemel felt that shudder of recognition, and there was more than one here whom he had sworn to kill.

But th
at again was a matter to be settl
ed later. He didn't look behind him either, though he did wonder again where Marron was, especially now, if he was not here.

For the moment Jemel left the sheikh's knife where it lay, tucked firmly into his belt. Lacking any weapon else, he pulled one of the arrows from the quiver that was slung across his back.

The Patrics made their arrows long, to suit their massive bows. He'd have liked to snap it shorter, but even in all the noise of the fighting, even in all the Dancers' concentration as they crept and killed their way closer to the knight, he was afraid of giving himself away with the sound of its breaking.

He gripped the arrow hallway
along its shaft and stole silentl
y along behind the last of the Dancers in their cautious file. His bare feet were noiseless on the trampled grass, he didn't breathe at all; he was even aware of the breeze and glad to have it blowing in his face, not to carry his scent ahead.

Even so the Dancer sensed him somehow, and began to turn. Wary, prepared, potentially deadly, just a moment too late: Jemel pounced at the man's first movement. It was a true pounce, an attack like a cat's, all his body fluid and grace in motion. It was a gift of the
jereth,
no talent of his own, but he rejoiced in the sense of perfect balance, the stillness at the heart even as he flung himself through the air.

An arm round the throat, tight, to choke back any cry;

legs round the waist to pull his victim off-balance and backwards, so that they fell together and the Dancer's arms flew wide and useless, no chance for him to use his bloodied scimitar.

And as they fell, already Jemel's other hand was using the arrow, thrusting it deep and deeper into the Dancer's eye, all the strength in arm and shoulder to drive it in through the socket to find out the brain, and twisting as it went.

The ma
n made no cry, he died as silentl
y as he had killed; and far enough behind his brothers now that they didn't hear the sound of his fall, they didn't feel his falling. Or else they did not care; men die in war, and Dancers are still men. Ignorant or unheeding, they moved on to engulf another small group of the defenders; Jemel saw none of them glance back.

Perhaps they should have done. He stooped to pick up the fallen Dancer's scimitar, and hurried after the next in line.

Properly armed and urgent, knowing now how he could use this temporary mastery from the
jereth,
he took less care to be quiet. Perhaps he wanted this one to hear and face him, to fight for life; in this at least he was no Dancer, that he found no pleasure in simple killing. It was battle, it had always been battle that made his heart sing. If the song were bitter these days, he took that as a sign that he had left his boyhood somewhere in the Sands, or at the Roq, or given it to Marron, who had lost it.

The Dancer did hear, and did twist around to meet his attack with a defence that was barely less than a blistering attack itself, that Jemel had to defend against in his turn or else be overwhelmed. He called on all his extra resources, swift and sure, and managed to stay the fury of the others swordwork, but little more than that.

This time the Dancer next ahead did stop at the sounds of steel grating and sliding against steel, did turn to see what danger, how many threatened. There was no secrecy left for Jemel; he was determined that there should be none for the Dancers either.

Evenly matched and battling for his life — like fire and ice, he thought, hot youth and cold experience - he drew a breath and screamed. High and shrill, louder than the knight's hoarse voice yelling directions above and beyond him, around the curving of the horse-wall: loud enough to have every man's head turning that could hear.

The Patrics on the rampart heard, and turned; which had been all of his intent, to have them warned and ready. He had, he thought, just saved the life of Sieur Anton d'Escrivey, or at least given the knight the chance to save his own.

For now, he had done what he could for the common good; now he could concentrate, he could focus on keeping his own skin whole and making the Dancer bleed. If he was capable. Even with his whol
e body exultantly alive, preter
naturally alert and swift, he was beginning to doubt it. This was like fencing with Marron, an impossible struggle against an opponent who knew his every move before he made it, and knew a wicked counter when it came.

At least he could hold his own, though, that was something. The Dancers attacks were more circumspect now, his attitude was more wary, more respectful. In other circumstances, Jemel thought they could have fought till sundown, and all night too.

But he had no time for swordplay, simply for the vicious beauty of the thing. There were 'ifrit massing behind this horseflesh barricade, and more elsewhere; Marron was at large somewhere in the valley, he knew not where or doing what, only that it would be something foolish and dangerous and he wanted desperately to share it; this was a Sand Dancer he was fencing with, and he wanted to see him dead in the grass, a long long way from any sand to dance on.

So he let the curved blade twist in his hand, to turn and catch around the other man's. With the two locked together, he stepped forward and rammed his knee hard into the Dancer's crotch. These men trained all their lives, but they trained with steel; he'd grown up in the Saren caves, fighting with everything bar steel, because a blood-feud would mean deaths that the tribe could not afford.

The Dancer gasped, choked, wrenched his blade free but had no strength to use it; Jemel slashed with his doubled strength, saw the black robe part and the flesh beneath it, saw the blood gush out.

Saw the blood gush and stop, too soon. Saw the man still standing, when he should have been sprawled on the ground, dying or dead already; saw the wide open wound close itself again.

Saw the man smile thinly and step forward, raising his blade like an invitation,
let us fight.

Something in Jemel nearly broke, at that moment. He was close, as close as ever he'd come to running from a challenge. Anything mortal he would fight, and gladly; anything spirit, he would try. But something that dressed itself in mortal flesh, something that bled and yet could stop the bleeding, heal the wound in moments, something that a blade could never kill
...

He might have used the
jereth
's
gifts to his eternal shame and disgrace, by fleeing faster than a mortal body could; except that his mind was so tumbled over by the shock of it — and all the thoughts that came tumbling after: Marron and the Daughter, Elisande, a black hand whose touch could heal, images that made no picture he could understand - he only stood and gaped.

And might have died so, gaping yet, except that there was a bright flash from above, a flare of reflected light that snagged his eye; and the Dancer slumped abruptly, and fell in a huddle where he stood.

On the horse-wall behind him, a Ransomer jerked his long spear free from between the body's shoulders, and directed the point of it suspiciously towards Jemel.