No One's Chosen (18 page)

The hold doors had swung out and given Socair her
answers. Before her a pile of rent bodies and twisted faces and
crushed skulls stood nearly fifteen feet high and covered nearly
the entire walk of the main hall of the hold. There had to be
hundreds, maybe a thousand. A gust of wind rushed from the hold and
brought with it a smell that could have turned the strongest
stomach. Socair wretched at the smell. Silín was unable to keep
herself and she lurched and vomited.

This. This was new. Socair had never seen the like.
She had never even heard rumors, not even tall tales of anything of
the sort. She regained her composure.

"Come," she coughed the words out, holding back her
sick. "We must," she gagged, "search for… for anything."

The three entered the hold. Doiléir had been quiet
since the doors had opened. Not so much as a groan. He simply
stared up at the mountain of death. Socair could not begin to
imagine what he felt or thought. There were Fásachbaile clothing in
among the lot. His family had been traders since any he knew could
recount. They could well be in there.

Socair made her way around the back of the pile,
sending Silín off to check the edges of the room. Doiléir stood
where he was. Just in the doors. Staring up.

Socair had rounded the back of the pile. A dented
helm sat at the bottom of the gruesome pile. She picked it up,
giving it a rueful look. If they had marched faster, she thought.
If they had left sooner.

Her mourning was cut short by the sound of the hold
doors slamming shut. She dropped the helm and ran for Doiléir. They
were shut, but it had not been him. He still stood, staring up at
the pile. Silín joined her.

"What has happened?" Silín was plainly panicked. This
was not normal. Not at all.

Socair ignored Silín and grabbed Doiléir by his
shoulders, her stared at her blankly. "Doiléir! What happened to
the doors? Who shut them? Was it the wind?"

He gave no reply, simply stared at her and looked
back up to the pile. She shook him, he looked back to her. She
slapped him hard. He blinked as if returning to his senses.
"Doiléir! The doors!" she pleaded. "What—"

A deep, throaty laugh came from the other side of the
door. A laugh that could only have come from the throat of a
centaur. It had been a trap. A trap they had no choice but to walk
into. Now the question became, what would they do? Burn the hold?
Her answer came more quickly than she would have liked. The sound
of cloven hooves on stone floors rang out from above. Doors lining
the upper level of the main hall slammed open and a cadre of satyrs
came out. There were not many, six in total, but it would be enough
against most forces, especially with the high ground. The satyrs
readied crossbows.

"Go! Cover!" Socair shouted and Silín darted for the
area under the balcony. Doiléir was not so quick, still in a haze.
The satyrs fired, a quarrel finding Doiléir's thigh. He fell to the
ground in front of Socair. The other bolts either panged against
the ground or thudded harmlessly into the pile of bodies. They had
pilfered the crossbows, no doubt. They had not been trained to aim
them well. She had some time.

Socair pulled Doiléir to his feet and pulled him
across to the underside of a balcony. They were rid of only three
of the shooters here and she could already hear those
repositioning. A thick oaken table sat behind them, Socair ordered
it flipped and Silín managed to turn it onto its side with some
effort. They would still be in some trouble if the satyrs descended
the far stair, but there would be time now. Socair had made her
Attendants bring bow and arrow should the need arise. She had
always loathed the things and they slowed her down, but she briskly
yanked Doiléir's over his head and grabbed an arrow.

"Get that damn bolt out of your leg, Doiléir. We're
going to need you."

She pulled a handful of arrows from his quiver and
dropped them to the ground beside her.

Silín had nocked an arrow and was waiting for orders.
"They are not apt to fire unless we give them a target." Silín was
the fastest, but it was a dangerous play. Still, the closer the
range the more apt they were to end up full of bolts.

Socair's face was grave. She put a hand on Silín's
cheek. "Go."

The spry elf leapt from the cover of the table and
made across. The satyrs hooted and clicked, screaming orders in the
ragged tongue of the hippocamps with their shrill voices. The
quarrels came, three of them. One lodged harmlessly in a pillar
behind Silín, the other two found homes in the wall, well ahead of
her. She stopped in place, aimed up and loosed. The arrow found a
satyr's skull, wrenching him around with incredible force.

Silín quickly nocked another arrow, drew, and loosed.
The female satyr's naked breasts shook violently as the sharpened
point split the flesh. The arrow pushed through the whole of her
chest, spattering blood onto the wall behind. She made to loose a
third, but she would not have time. Hoof beats were loud on the
stair behind her. Silín turned and made for the table.

"They're coming!" she cried out. Socair spun the
table, exposing their flank to the remaining satyr on the far side.
She then spun, nocked, drew, and loosed. The arrow caught his
shoulder, wrenching him to the side and causing the crossbow to
clatter down to the floor far below. He let out a shriek of pain
and anger.

Silín slid in behind the table as Doiléir yanked free
the quarrel. It was a straight bolt and had done minimal damage but
his leg would be difficult to walk on at best. The satyrs made the
main floor not long after. They could flank them now. Satyrs were
often used as ranged troops or for surprise attacks, but they were
not quite so fearsome in close combat so long as you could avoid
their legs. The stone floor would give them troubles as well,
Socair knew. She considered their options. Up close, the crossbows
would not be so troublesome to aim, they could not simply rush
forward.

"Silín, draw one more." Silín's deftness with a bow
would be their best hope in finding a chance to advance against the
satyrs. Silín nocked and drew. Socair leaned around the edge of the
table. They were splitting wide. Two down the aisle and two, the
wounded satyr having drawn his sword, flanking around the
bodies.

"Ahead of us. Not far. Be quick. Loose." And so she
did. The satyrs fired as soon as they saw her head clear the table.
Silín's arrow was not cleanly fired. The threat of the bolts had
been too high. Still, it connected with the crossbow, sending it
clattering to the floor. Socair heard two bolts thunk against the
table, a defiant screech, the clatter of crossbows hitting the
ground, and a pair of swords clearing leather.

"Doiléir, you follow as fast as you can," Socair spat
out at the injured elf who crouched beside her. She looked up to
Silín. "Now! Charge!"

Socair burst out from behind the table pulling her
bastard sword from the scabbard at her back, Silín at her side
wielding a short sword. A smaller elf might not have been so quick
with the awkward sword, but Socair's sheer power was worthy of
comparison to any centaur's. She brought the sword down one handed
against the awkward guard of the larger satyr. The block did not
hold. Her sword sliced a chunk from his pointed ear and bit into
his shoulder and tore clean down through several ribs. A sharp kick
to the chest sent the beast onto his back, blood pooling instantly
on the floor.

Silín had leapt onto her foe, plunging the short
sword down into the side of the satyr's neck. On the floor, the
hippocamp tried to slash at her but the side plates of the
brigandine had made the light swings ineffective. Silín wrenched at
the blade stuck in her foe and finally pulled it clear. He was
fading quickly when she plunged the steel into his chest.

Doiléir caught up just as they had dispatched the
pair. His limp was severe but the bleeding was mild enough that it
stood to reason that he would be fine with rest.

There were yet two more satyrs that meant to do them
harm, however. One with a crossbow in hand. They could not relax
yet and their bows had been left behind.

Doiléir grabbed one of the crossbows as he passed,
tossing it to Silín. She pulled a bolt from the dead satyr beneath
her and quickly loaded the weapon. She spun as the first satyr
rounded the pile, putting a shot into his chest.

The last satyr watched his comrade fall. He gritted
yellow teeth and looked to the elves. He let out a cry and ran for
Socair, sword in hand. She deflected his thrust, sending him off
balance. The satyr's hooves found the slick blood and he tumbled to
the floor gracelessly. As he clambered to stand, Socair's sword
plunged through his chest. His movement stopped and she withdrew
the blade.

This was no victory. "There are centaurs outside.
Sisters know how many. Soon they will realize we have bested their
satyrs. We must go." Silín lent a shoulder to help speed Doiléir's
movement and they made for a door next to the stair the satyrs had
come down. Socair opened it to reveal a kitchen. On the far side
was a door on what she knew to be the back wall of the hold. Socair
silently thanked the sisters and burst through it, sword at the
ready. There was no opposition. Simply a quiet yard leading to an
unpopulated road.

With Doiléir injured, they made straight for the
first house they could find and took cover. Silín had packed some
emergency salves, but they would not do much for the pain.

"It will serve," Doiléir said.

There was a dull roar from the direction of the hold.
No small amount of centaurs could make that sort of noise. There
had to be dozens. Doiléir insisted he was well enough to move, and
so they did.

The trip back to camp was a slow one. Hours upon
hours passed as Doiléir needed rest. He insisted that he didn't but
this was no time for foolish pride, and Socair would not indulge
him. It was nearing midnight when they reached camp. Socair forced
Doiléir to see the healers in spite of his protests. He was wounded
worse than just his leg, she knew.

As soon as Doiléir was dropped off, Socair's face
filled with rage. Silín said nothing but stayed by her side as she
made for Crosta's marquee. Socair flung the flaps of the marquee
open.

"We were nearly killed, bastard."

Crosta seemed unperturbed by her words, his face
emotionless as it ever was. He finished writing a sentence, placed
the quill gently on the table and looked up at her. "And?"

Socair bristled. "And you told us there was no
hippocamp contingent in the city. You told us there were people in
need of rescue. There was no one. Not a soul without hoof and
fur."

Crosta stood and corrected her. "I told you only what
our reports told me. I had no reason to doubt the scouting
reports." He stepped from behind his desk and over to a bottle of
wine. "I take it from your manner that there were
complications?"

"An ambush. And a mountain of dead to welcome us. And
at least a dozen centaur besides."

He calmly poured himself a glass. "You saw them?"

"I heard them. Doiléir… he…" she stopped there. She
couldn't know if he had seen them or not.

"He saw them?"

"I… I cannot say. Perhaps."

"Then what would you have had me do, Bearer? Perhaps
I should have gone myself such that you would be pleased with the
quality of the report."

He sipped the wine and strode smoothly back to his
chair. "Or perhaps you believed too strongly in the foolhardy
legend of an over-sized woman who saved Glassruth. Perhaps that
legend thought herself invincible and nearly found herself dead for
her hubris."

Crosta sat the wine on his table. "Now if there is
nothing else, I have important work which carries a heavier weight
than your disappointment with yourself."

Socair wanted to scream. She wanted to beat and
thrash and yell and hurt. But she did none of those things. She
turned and left the marquee.

Silín placed a hand on her arm as she walked. "It was
not as he says, Socair, you know…"

Socair turned to Silín, tears streaming down a face
seething with hurt and rage. "What could we have done?" her voice
begging Silín for an answer. Begging for anything, she repeated
herself. "What could we have done for them?"

Silín frowned. There was nothing.

The walk had been silent and awkward. Óraithe had at
least a dozen questions for Scaa and each seemed more intrusive
than the last. It didn't much help that their discussion of
potential targets had basically devolved into a shouting match.
Scaa had been plain in her criticism of several of Óraithe's
choices. Either a poor location or lack of potential impact on the
High District. She was right about the lot of them, but Scaa made
no attempt to be genial. And besides, she'd slept until noon. There
was endless work to be done and there she was snoring contentedly
on a floor she hadn't paid for. Neither had Óraithe, but still, it
was the principle, she told herself.

Óraithe had started the shouting, to have the truth
of it. Scaa was right and she was frustrated that she had not seen
it herself. And beyond being right, she had added so many more
questions Óraithe felt she had no right to ask. The questions
turned over in her mind. Why did she look nothing like Bonn if they
were siblings? They both had dark hair, sure enough, but Bonn's
face was soft and round with big eyes. Scaa was square jawed with
thin lips and sharp eyes. And she was tall, maybe seven feet. There
were stranger things, but it nagged at her. And how old was Scaa,
really? Óraithe knew she had to be younger, but her perception of
things was so sharp and well reasoned. She—

"You look fit to burst if you don't say whatever is
on your mind," Scaa said after a glancing over at Óraithe.