Master and Fool (80 page)

"Follow
me," hissed Tawl to the swordsman at his
heels.
His eye had spotted
the yellow-and-black of Tyren's tent, and from this distance it looked like
fair game. Scrambling over the freezing earth, he ignored the pain in his arm
and the spreading numbness in his fingers and toes. Tyren was close now, close
enough to make Tawl's blood run cold. The demons were gathering for the kill.

Ahead the ditch
showed itself as a black line-judging from the smell it was where the camp
dumped its waste. Just as Tawl crawled up to the staggered bank, he heard a
soft whirring sound. Then another. The two watches went down. Gervhay had aimed
his arrows well.

"Keffm,
Baird. You two go ahead. I need to know how many guards we're going to run into
before we get to Tyren's tent." Tawl was about to tell the two Highwell
troopers not to take any risks, then thought better of it; risks were all they
had. He settled for a warning to watch their backs, and then waved them on
ahead. He wished he was going with them. Waiting, even for a few minutes, was
unbearable to Tawl.

The remaining two
Highwall swordsmen came and crouched beside him. Fair haired and stony faced,
they drew out their swords and waited.

Gervhay sprung out
of the darkness, surprising everyone. He grinned triumphantly. "Two down.
Two hundred and ninety-eight to go."

"If all goes
well, we won't have to kill that many," said Tawl. He tried to sound
stern, but Gervhay's natural enthusiasm was something he didn't want to stifle.
"You did well. Get ready to pick off a few more."

"Point and shoot.
That's me." Somehow, the young knight had managed to get several twigs
caught in his hair, giving him the look of a mad woodsman. "Now, if you
gentlemen are well-rested, I say we go and find some trouble." Tawl had to
put a restraining arm on Gervhay: an archer had no business going first.
"Take the rear, my friend," he said. "And keep to the shadows
when you can." With that, Tawl leapt across the ditch, and running as fast
as he could with his back bent low, he made for the nearest tent.

Open ground was
the greatest danger at this point. A keen eye could easily pick out a
fast-moving form in the quarter-light. The distance between the ditch and the
tent seemed impossibly long, and Tawl dreaded the alarm being sounded with
every stride. The two Highwall men ran without making a sound. They were faster
than Tawl and overtook him as he stepped upon the cleared ground of the camp.
By the time he reached the tent, they were already talking to Keffm and Baird.

Straightaway, Tawl
noticed blood on Baird's longknife. "What happened?"

"Just
silenced a couple of guards, that's all." Despite the calmness of his
voice, Baird was shaking. "They were outside the command tent, and they
caught sight of Keffm. When they came close to investigate, I slit both their
throats."

One after another
without making a noise? Tawl was impressed. He would have liked to ask the
Highwall swordsman how he managed such a feat, but there was no time. Any
minute now the camp would start to wake. He nodded toward the interior.
"How's it looking?"

Baird shrugged.
"Two guards on Tyren's tent-same as all the others. The problem is that
the entrance to Tyren's tent looks directly onto three of the main tents-that's
eight guards to take out from the start."

"Plus the two
sets we'll have to pass along the way," added Keffin.

"I think
we'll be going in the back door, then," said Tawl. From where he was he
could see the back of Tyren's tent. It was overlooked by the command tent and
the supply tent. Baird had already killed the guards on the command tent, so
that meant less men to deal with. He looked at Baird. "How quickly can you
slice me a way in?"

Baird smiled.
"Quicker than I slit a throat."

"Good."
Tawl glanced toward the eastern horizon. Ten minutes to first light. Five
minutes before Mafrey and Corvis were due to make the signal. The timing had to
be right: as soon as someone called the alarm they were dead unless the
Highwall troops moved in. "Gervhay," called Tawl softly.
"Aye," came a voice from the shadows.

"I want you
to stay back and cover us going in. Keep to the east side, pick off anyone who
comes close to Tyren's tent, and whatever you do, lie low. I don't want anyone
spotting you while you're out here on your own."

"It's as good
as done."

Tawl watched
Gervhay's bow hand make a salute, then he disappeared into the shadows. Tawl
turned to the swordsmen. "Now. Baird, you know what you're doing. Keffin,
you're with me. Murris, Sevri, I want you two to flank out around the tent.
Keep an eye on the west side and the entrance, silence any wary guards, and
watch out for the signal. If there's too many men to deal with, then you come
in the tent with us. Right?"

"Right."

Tawl nodded at
both men. "Let's go."

He chose an
indirect path to Tyren's back door, hugging shadows and tent sides whenever he
could. His mind was ticking seconds: he had to have Tyren in his keeping before
Andris and the Highwall troops came in. Once the exchange started, the knights
would rally around their leader. Tawl knew his only hope was to have a dagger
at the leader's throat.

As he made his way
to the center of the camp, a strange lightness invaded Tawl's chest. He felt
excited, free, almost happy-he was here now, and there was no going back. By
the time dawn passed into day he would have met his fate full on. Something
moving to the south caught his eye. It was a guard on the camp's far border
dropping to the ground. Tawl grinned. Follis and the two Highwall marksmen were
doing a little preraid thinning.

The
yellow-and-black of Tyren's tent was only paces away now. Tawl beckoned Baird
ahead. Just as the burly swordsman came forward with his long-knife, a cry
sounded to their near left. It was cut off in midcall.

"Go,"
hissed Tawl to Baird. Tawl followed him to the back of Tyren's tent. Keffin was
at his heels.

Another shout came
from the left. There was movement in one of the main tents. An arrow shot past
from the west Baird's hands were firm as he sliced through the tent The fabric
was oiled and half a finger thick, but his blade cut it as if it were silk. The
downward stroke was accompanied by a soft tearing noise, and even as Tawl
brought his sword forward, he heard a cry from inside the tent:

"Guards!"

Tawl pushed past
Baird and forced his way through the slit. His sword touched tips with another,
and before he could even see who he was fighting, he began defensive strokes.
Immediately, he stepped to the side of the slit He needed to give Baird and
Keffin a chance to enter: he didn't want to attend the banquet alone.

As Baud pushed
into the tent, a streak of dawn light fell upon the face of the man Tawl was
fighting: dark eyes, dark hair, olive skin.

Tyren smiled.
"It's been a long time, Tawl."

Tawl took a quick
breath. Tyren looked exactly the same as when he'd seen him last. The urge to
bow, to supplicate himself before his leader, was strong but fleeting. It took
Tawl by surprise. Tyren had betrayed him: he had to remember that. Pressing his
lips firmly together, Tawl resisted the urge to speak. He parried Tyren with a
series of close body thrusts while he tried to orientate himself in the tent.
Several chests, a slim table, a bench, and a pallet were positioned against the
walls. The middle space was free and Tyren was using it to his full advantage,
forcing Tawl to fight from the side.

Outside the sound
of men running and shouting could be heard. Underneath the noise of the camp
awaking was a low, distant rumble: Andris and the troops were on their way.

Tawl's eyes fell
on the entrance flap-no men had come through yet. Murris or Sevri must have cut
the two guards down. Tawl pushed Tyren back with a reckless, curving lunge.
Pain shot up his arm, but he forced himself to keep his sword point up. Baird
and Keffin took advantage of the newly freed space to move toward the flap.

Tyren tested
Tawl's sword arm by hacking downward with his blade. Tawl had no choice but to
bring his weapon up and block the full force of the blow. Steel rang out.
Tawl's arm gave; a sharp spasm ripped through his shoulder, driving him to his
knees. Tyren freed his sword for a thrust. Baird came up behind Tyren and
slammed the flat of his blade into the leader's back. Tyren went stumbling
forward. His face registered pain, confusion, then anger. Quickly righting
himself, he shouted at Tawl: "Call yourself a knight? Fight me one on one,
or not at all."

Tawl got to his
feet, his eyes not leaving Tyren for an instant. "I'm not falling for your
talk of honor this time, Tyren. I'm a lot wiser now, and I see you for what
little you are." With his left hand he made a minute gesture to Baird. The
two Highwall swordsmen pressed their blade-tips against Tyren's flank. "I
only fight one on one with people I respect."

Tawl turned his
back on the leader of the knighthood. "Tie his hands, lads. We're going
for a walk."

Slowly, cell by
cell, particle by particle, layer by layer, time turned.

Caught between
metal and flesh, the magic worked its subtle purpose less than a step ahead of
the grave. As the blood darkened and thickened, it was set running; as the last
meal curdled, it was reclaimed. Moisture rose to line the drying membranes of
the nose and throat, and the muscles of the intestines began to push.

The magic had none
of the force of a drawing. It wasn't aimed like a weapon or brandished like a
shield. It had escaped upon a dying breath: unspoken, unfocused, halfformed.

Diffused intent
was all that was left. Shaped from a reflex action of survival, cut off before
fully ripe, it seeped from the body and nestled close to the body, and sent
curves bending through time.

The chain mail
kept it pressed against the skin. Warming as it worked, edging back into
moments past: it reconstructed and resuscitated in one. Time was thick around
the body. Time was thin around the brink. The magic stayed the future with one
hand and stretched the present with the other. First a hundred, then a
thousand, then a million tiny changes. And then the heart was ready to beat.

The rhythm rang
through the body even now. Strong and deep, it provided the framework for
momentum to build. Power gathered around the heart, bracing tissue, opening
valves, clearing debris from the arteries-smoothing the way for the first
mighty thrust.

Steeped in a
solution of slow-reversing time, the heart began to vibrate. Old magic met new
magic. The power of Larn met power born of man. The heart was where they
converged and the first beat marked the moment they joined.

Terrible
soul-wrenching suction, then one single lusty punch. The body jolted into life.
Convulsing in its center, muscles contracted, blood rushed, senses reeled,
nerve cells sparked, and sweat came oozing to the surface.

Red and black.
Black and white. Light flared only to recede to a pinpoint. A single moment
cleaved in two as time was ripped asunder, and then Jack opened his eyes.

Everything stopped
as Tyren emerged from the tent. Men running came to a halt, weapons wielded
came to rest, cries of pain and anger dried upon the lips. All eyes looked upon
Tyren and all gazes dropped to his throat. The dagger caught dawn's first light
and sent it glinting into the faces of all who were there.

Tawl pressed the
blade-tip into Tyren's flesh. A tear's worth of blood ran red upon the skin.
"Stay back!" he called to Tyren's knights. "Stay back, or Borc
so help me I will kill him."

Tawl had one hand
on the ties that bound Tyren's wrists, and he pushed against them now, driving
Tyren forward, clearing the flap of the tent. With one quick glance he took in
the scene. On either side of the entrance, bodies lay in piles. Those who
didn't have arrows jutting from their chest or backs had great bloody gashes on
their arms and their legs. Gervhay and the two swordsmen had fought well.
Murris was lying motionless in a pool of his own blood, and Sevri was standing
directly ahead of Tawl, his broadsword caked with flesh and hair, his body striped
with cuts. Gervhay was nowhere to be seen.

Knights were
everywhere. Caught unawares, some were wearing armor over their bedclothes,
others wearing no armor at all. They all had swords, though. Some had shields.

Beyond the tents,
at the boundaries of the camp, the raid was still in progress. The Highwall
troops were matching metal with those knights who had managed to mount their
horses. Tawl scanned the lines: Mafrey and Corvis had made it look as if the
entire camp was surrounded.

"Let Tyren go
or I will shoot you in the back."

Tawl didn't bother
to turn around to see who was shouting. "Do it, then," he cried to
the half circle of knights in front of him. "But I warn you, I'm wearing
mail, and unless you aim your bow with the grace of Valdis himself, my injury
will allow me time enough to slit Tyren's throat."

A moment of
silence followed. The archer at the back did not risk a shot.

"What do you
want?" demanded one of the knights stepping forward Tawl didn't recognize
him, but the paleness of the three circles on his sword arm marked him as an
elder.

"He wants
power for himself," said Tyren. "He wants to take my place."

It was close
enough to the truth to make Tawl flinch. He felt blood rushing in his ears and
heard the dry flapping of his demon's wings. How much of this was for his
family?

And how much was
to fulfill his lifelong craving for glory? Hearing Tyren's smooth and
convincing voice, he suddenly wasn't sure.

Dimly, Tawl was
aware of Baird and Keffin shifting their positions to guard his back.