CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

HOW MANY WERE THERE? Hopefully not as many as the horses Dominic had seen in the stable. They would have little chance of success if they were wildly outnumbered.

It all hinged on Turga’s beliefs about them, Dominic decided. He didn’t think, even yet, that anyone had suspected their true identity. As long as Turga still believed he was after tradesmen—bold dishonest tradesmen to be sure, but not trained warriors—he was unlikely to bother mustering a large force. The speed with which they had been pursued argued that a quick response, rather than strength, had been uppermost in Turga’s mind.

Worry for his children—Mother of all, Madeleine looked so ill!—washed through Dominic like a sudden chill. He should have made Matthieu go with Gabrielle, someplace where there was no chance the boy would try to join in the fight.

Dominic clamped down on his mind before the image of Matthieu sprouting a sword through his side could become fully formed. He could hear the hoofbeats himself now, coming fast. There was no room in battle for any other thoughts. How strange, he thought, that to protect his children he must forget about them now.

He checked his bow one last time. He and Féolan were crouched across the road from the caravan. They had one shot only, with any luck disabling two men, before they must leap out and grapple directly with the remaining horsemen. The Tarzines must not be allowed time to retreat back down the road or to take cover. Derkh, untrained in archery, would attack with his sword from the other side, closing in behind the Tarzines as soon as the arrows had been loosed. If the two bowmen did not join him in an instant, he would not last long against mounted opponents.

And then they were upon them. The pounding hoofbeats slowed for the sharp turn, and he could see their dark shapes: three, four, six men. More than he would like, but not impossible odds. Their horses danced in place while the men pulled up to take in the scene. In the dawn half-light Dominic could just make out the flash of teeth as they exchanged cocky smirks. Good, he thought. That’s just how I want you to feel. Imagine how you will thunder upon us as we limp helpless down the road just ahead.

As the men kicked their horses forward and drew even with the caravan, Dominic eased up from behind the boulder that hid him and trained his sights on the broad back of the nearest horseman, obligingly turned his way as the man studied the broken wagon wheel. He couldn’t ask for a better target.

HIS PAPA SHOT first and hit his mark square. Matthieu had to bite his lips to hold back a yell of triumph. But his excitement was short-lived, drowned by the cry of the shot man. This was not like the confused battle Matthieu had seen before, the air full of shouts and battle screams and vague dark figures. This scream pierced the silence, filling his ears, and he saw the grimacing face as it fell, lips drawn back like a dog’s.

A heartbeat later, Féolan’s bow sang out. His shot was not so clear, and his target’s horse, rearing in alarm at just that moment, saved its rider from a lethal hit. The arrow sank into his thigh, painful but not disabling.

The bowstring twanged again. His father? No, Dominic was already running in with his sword drawn. Féolan then, impossibly fast. But his opponent was fast too and quick-witted despite his wound. Anticipating the second shot, perhaps, or reacting with catlike speed to the sound, he threw himself down and sideways in the saddle. The arrow meant for his heart drove into his shoulder.

It was enough. Féolan darted in, pulled the wounded man to the ground and vaulted into the saddle.

Where was Derkh? And his father? Matthieu’s eyes scanned frantically—and his legs went weak with alarm.

They were in trouble. Derkh had rushed forward as planned, only to find himself facing not swords but spears, a seeming thicket of them. Dominic was at his side, having somehow made his way across the road. With the height of the mounted Tarzines and the long reach of their weapons, there was no effective way to attack. Instead, Derkh and Dominic were pinned behind the cover of the caravan, unable to break free without being skewered by a spear hurled at close range.

Féolan yanked the lance free from its clip on the saddle. Three men hedging in Derkh and Dominic and only one left against him—but that one had already kicked his horse to a canter with his arm cocked back for the throw. Féolan dropped the reins, drew his sword left-handed. It seemed to Matthieu he became a statue, frozen in all that turbulent clamor. His opponent grinned, avid, sure of his prey. But just as he loosed the spear, Féolan’s horse sidestepped left and his sword swung in an arc, deflecting the spearhead past his right shoulder. The Tarzine came on, caught in his own momentum, and Féolan’s spear flashed. A final brutal sword stroke and it was done.

It was three on three now. The Tarzines, Matthieu saw, were no longer grinning. He guessed they hadn’t expected any real danger, only a bunch of scared runaways. But they still had the advantage in horses and weapons.

If Féolan had his bow...But it was on the other side of the road from Matthieu—no way to get to it unnoticed. Was there nothing he could do but watch helplessly?

In a chiggers game, this is where you would need your hidden token, he thought. Too bad we don’t have one. But the idea stayed with him. In a way, this was like a chiggers game, wasn’t it? Looking at it that way helped to quiet the scared feelings that scrabbled around in his mind, making it so hard to think.

Matthieu’s eyes narrowed. He looked again at the scene below him. It was a chiggers board...a very large, very unusual chiggers board.

THREE MEN DOWN! Cavran’s hope of reward for his daring action had fallen into the shit pit. Even assuming the boy was still healthy, he would hardly compensate for their losses. He would do better to snatch the boy and take off, sell him and keep the profit for himself. Of course his colleagues might have something to say to that.

First they had to finish off this lot. They had them now, he was sure, but he had underestimated them badly before and was not about to make the same mistake twice. The two trapped behind the wagon were hardly cowering in fear. And the other, the skinny musician—he was fast as a snake and just as deadly.

Cavran edged his horse toward the back end of the caravan and motioned to his fellow to go around the front. They would squeeze the two on foot between them, finish them off first while the musician was kept at bay.

A sudden noise in the wooded hill above them caught his attention.

“It’s the boy!” shouted his mate. “Will I go for him?”

“Hold your ground,” Cavran roared. “He’s got nowhere to run to—we’ll pick him up after this work is done.” Sure, run off with the prize and leave me outnumbered, he thought. Not likely.

“DOMINIC, THEY’RE COMING around to make their move.” Derkh shifted position, keeping his face square to the horseman, but he didn’t harbor much hope of dodging the spear when it finally flew. The Tarzines would have to ride into the brush at the side of the road and search around a bit for a clear flight path, but it wouldn’t take them long. “I don’t relish a headlong flight into the bush with horses on my tail.”

“Got your knife, Derkh?” Dominic had already switched his sword to his left hand and eased the Elvish blade, now at his waist, from its sheath. It might be his last hope now.

“Yeah, right here. I guess it’s the only thing left to do, but, dark gods, it’s a bugger of a throw.” To hit a man at such a height, while trying to avoid a flying spear? Even when he was in peak training form that would have been beyond Derkh’s skill.

“I was thinking the horses,” Dominic muttered. “I know we need them, but we can lose a couple.”

Derkh nodded agreement. Of course. Horses made an easier target, and if they could manage to make the horses stumble or rear that might just gain them an opening.