Chapter 5

 

 

A tepid night wind blew Innowen's long dark hair back over his bare shoulders. It played over his body, teased his berry-brown nipples. It caressed him with a lover's warmth, and he lifted his head higher as it kissed his throat, swirled down his chest and belly.

Pulling back on his reins, he brought his mount to a halt. Beside him, Razkili did the same. "What's wrong?" his companion asked, deep-voiced.

Innowen stared ahead into the rich darkness. The horizon formed a gently rolling shadow upon the yawning starlit sky. His gaze trailed upward through the moonless heavens until he found the Crown of the Gods, the brilliant milky band that stretched from one end of the nighted earth to the other. He closed his eyes and listened, expecting stillness. The wind made a delicate rush in his ears.

"Nothing," he answered Razkili. He drew a deep breath. The air smelled fresh, as it must have on the first night of the world. "I've missed Ispor."

"It's always good to come home," Razkili said with a nod. He glanced back at their pack horse, dismounted, and ran a quick check on the animal. Satisfied, he climbed upon the bare back of his own horse.

They rode on. Innowen eyed the darkness, leading the way with a sureness that would have amazed a day-dweller. That towering silhouette on his far left, that was Razor Mountain, so named for its sharp peaks and sheer walls. Passing it, they arrived at the bank of the River Semene, Ispor's longest river, which flowed from a spring in the more distant Akrotir Mountains. He smiled to himself as he steered his horse down a grassy slope and waded its shallow black waters.

Razkili spoke little as they rode, trusting Innowen unquestioningly to know the way. His gaze swept from side to side as he kept pace beside Innowen, but sometimes it turned upward to study the blaze of stars.

Just beyond the river at the edge of the Plain of Kenay, Innowen stopped again. He sniffed, rode forward a few more paces, stopped, and sniffed once more. Razkili came quietly up on his left, tightly gripping his reins and the packhorse's lead line. The look on his face was question enough.

"Blood," Innowen answered softly, warily.

"How can you smell blood?" his comrade asked, even as his right hand settled on the pommel of the sword he wore on his left hip.

"How can you not?" Innowen countered in a whisper as he searched the darkness ahead. "There's a lot of it."

They pushed on slowly. The night no longer seemed so friendly and welcoming. Despite the warmth of the wind, a chill crept up Innowen's spine. The smell of death hung in the air. Razkili, too, began to notice it, and he wrinkled his nose.

"Stop," Innowen said abruptly. Razkili obeyed without comment. Innowen's gaze swept the ground. He swung a leg over his horse's head and slid to the ground, but he clung to its reins, hesitant. He touched Razkili's right knee and passed them to him. Alone, he walked on.

He nearly tripped over the first body. Kneeling, he ran his hands over cold naked flesh, finding a sword still clenched in a lifeless fist. A few paces on, he found another body, then another, all naked. But the next one wore a breastplate of finely crafted leather, and upon its head was a helm of bronze.

Innowen straightened as Razkili rode up beside him, leading the horses. They exchanged looks, but no more. His friend dismounted, and side by side they wandered over the plain. Corpses and weapons littered the ground; In some places, the dead lay piled upon each other. Most were naked footmen, but here and there, they found an armored officer or nobleman.

Innowen picked up the shaft of a lance whose bronze point had broken away. Leaning upon it, he looked slowly around and let go a long sigh. Suddenly, he dropped the broken weapon and stared at his hands. A cold, black, viscous substance covered his palms. Blood, he knew, from some dead warrior. He wiped his hands on the front of his short kilt until they were white again. Yet the stickiness remained.

"Terrible," Innowen whispered.

"You've seen battle before," Razkili reminded curtly, his gaze sweeping the darkness.

It was true. There was little he hadn't seen in his travels, he sometimes thought. Small skirmishes, major conflicts, or tavern brawls and alley murders. Death came in many guises and for many reasons. He had learned that much. Still, this time it was different. This was his homeland. He rubbed his fingers together, wishing for water to wash them clean.

"Not in Ispor," he answered quietly. "These are my people." He bit his lip as he reclaimed the reins of his mount. Standing beside him, Razkili touched his shoulder in sympathy. "What's happened?" Innowen asked, unable to keep the note of pain from his voice.

He shook his head before he swung a leg up over his horse's back. Leaning on the animal's withers, he shook his head again. "I've been gone too long."

Razkili also mounted. "Or maybe you've come home too soon," he said with an air of foreboding.

"None of your Osiri philosophy, Rascal," Innowen muttered. "Not now."

Razkili shrugged and nudged his horse forward.

They left the battlefield behind and rode toward a range of hills. The wind fell silent. A strange stillness hung over the land. Even the steady clip-clop of their horses' hooves was muted by the thick grass and the soft dust. The smell of death, though, did not relent. It hovered in the air, clung to their hair and clothing like a cheap and sickly incense. Innowen fixed his gaze on the low, dark peaks ahead and tried to ignore it.

Neither of them saw the men that suddenly leaped up at them from the ground. The breath rushed out of Innowen as arms encircled him and flung him from his horse. He struck the earth, flat on his back, numbed. Hands grabbed at him, pinned him down. A great weight dropped on his chest, a knee, he thought, and a fist crashed against his face once, twice. He tried to focus on the face of his attacker, but his vision blurred. A third time the fist smashed down, and Innowen let out a dull cry, barely clinging to consciousness.

A scream sounded close to his ear. The weight toppled from his chest, and he was free. He gulped for air and tried to sit up. The clang of clashing blades rattled through him like thunder. Prone on the ground beside him, a huge man groaned and stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. Innowen determined at a glance that it wasn't Razkili. One of his attackers, then. He locked his hands together and slammed them with all his might against the man's nose. Bone broke, and black blood gushed out. The man shrieked and shuddered, and went still.

Innowen jumped up, pushing the pain in his jaw to the back of his mind. He quickly spied Razkili as his friend lashed out with his short blade and drew a dark line across a foe's unprotected bicep. Another figure ran up behind Rascal and raised his own sword to strike. Innowen gave no shout of warning, but leaped and drove his sandaled foot into the attacker's ribs. The air whooshed from the man, and he sagged to one knee, looking up just in time to catch Rascal's sword across his face.

Innowen whirled, trying to determine the number of their foes. Too late, he saw the dim flash of a pommel as it rushed at his head. He flung up his arms to ward off the blow. Still, it grazed his skull, and he fell sideways, catching himself on his hands. A foot smashed into his belly. With a gasp, he flipped over and sprawled face downward on the ground, his mouth suddenly full of dust and the acrid tang of his own vomit.

From the corner of one swollen eye he saw Razkili go down under the weight of three men. One trapped his arms from behind, while two more wrenched away his sword and caught his legs. Together, they lifted him and slammed him on the ground with bone-jarring force. Then they fell on him, pinning him down as they pummeled him. The Osiri cursed and spat and kicked until the blows took their toll. Finally, Razkili went limp. Unable to move, Innowen watched horrified as two of them then pulled Rascal up and held him between them, while the third continued to beat him. He let out a weak moan, hoping to draw their attention, but the answering kick to his head came from behind, from a foe he couldn't see. His chin snapped forward against his chest, and a red fire exploded inside his eyes.

Slowly, the fire faded, but the blackness that came after it was deeper and colder than any night he had ever known.

 

* * *

 

Innowen awoke to a painful throbbing in his head. His face felt swollen twice its normal size, the skin stretched much too tightly. The sharp taste of blood yet lingered in his mouth, and a tooth wobbled dangerously when he touched it with his tongue. Gradually, another pain penetrated his fogged brain, and he discovered that his hands were tied behind his back. The ropes bit cruelly into his flesh, and there was little sensation left in his fingertips.

He opened his eyes and knew a moment of fear when nothing focused properly, but gradually his vision sharpened. Razkili's face was a mere hand's breadth from his own. He winced as he saw the damage to his friend's features. Rascal's eyelids were horribly swollen, and a red, crusty cut made a half-moon over one brow. His lower lip was puffy and blue. Streaks of blood had clotted in his handsome black beard.

Tears of anger burned in Innowen's eyes. What was happening in Ispor? What had he led Razkili into?

He rolled stiffly onto his back and surveyed his surroundings. A tent roof rose over him. A small campfire in the center of the dirt floor provided light and heat and shed smoke that rose through a hole in the roof. There was nothing else at all in the tent, no furnishings, no supplies, nothing to help him get loose.

Frowning, he lay still for a moment and listened.

There were sounds beyond the tent. Voices. Different voices, some close, some muffled and farther away. He couldn't distinguish many words, yet he grew sure he was in some kind of encampment. He remembered the battlefield he and Rascal had crossed, and he cursed himself as he wondered which side he had blundered into.

He drew his knees to his chest and worked his bound hands past his hips, down to his ankles and over his feet. He was still tied, but it was far easier to maneuver with his hands in front. He crawled to Razkili's side. "Rascal?" He kept his voice to a low whisper. Since someone had taken them prisoner, it seemed reasonable to assume a guard might be close by. "Rascal?" he said again. The Osiri didn't move. Innowen wiggled closer still, and drew the tip of his tongue over the cut on his friend's brow. The taste of Rascal's blood was no less bitter than his own, but he didn't stop until the wound was clean. A faint moan issued from Razkili's throat. Innowen whispered his name again.

One eye peeled open. Its black pupil drifted slowly around until it settled on Innowen's face. It took another moment still for the glaze to lift and recognition to come.

"Alive?" Razkili managed weakly, daring to crack a grin.

"Unless the underworld is a tent with a campfire," Innowen answered. He sat up, and though his clumsy fingers tingled and trembled with the effort, he untied the ropes that bound Razkili's wrists. His friend breathed a sigh of relief as his freed hands fell to his sides. Then the one eye closed, and Razkili went limp again. Innowen watched for long moments, full of worry. There was no more he could do for the Osiri.

At last, he moved into a corner away from the crackling fire and went to work on his own bonds with his teeth.

He was nearly free when Razkili lifted his head from the dust and looked at him. "Let me," he said thickly, and he pressed himself up on his hands and knees and crawled to Innowen's side. Although there was little left to do, Innowen held out his hands while Rascal fumbled over the last of the knots.

"What now?" he said when his wrists were free. He rubbed and massaged the raw chafings, easing his pain only a little by wetting the marks with his saliva, trying to ignore the fire of blood returning to his fingertips.

Razkili poked his head carefully through the tent flap and looked out. Quietly, he crawled back to Innowen. "We wait," he answered. "We're in the gods-damned middle of an army camp from the looks of things out there. We can run for it and probably get cut down—"

"Or we can hang around and find out what in all the hells is going on in Ispor these days," Innowen finished.

Outside, something rustled on the tent's crude fabric. Innowen made a grab at their discarded bonds as the entrance flap whipped back. He shot a look at Razkili and hid his hands behind his back. Razkili did the same. He wiggled up against the tent wall, drew his knees close, and hoped their captors weren't too observant.

Three men in dirty, ragged kilts and cloaks filed inside. Two grasped swords with short, leaf-shaped blades, which were badly nicked and in need of whetting. They positioned themselves on either side of their third companion, a tall man with features like hard stone and eyes that glittered in the firelight.

Innowen dared to meet his gaze and shuddered. The man's hatred stung him like a tangible force. He feared suddenly for Razkili and for himself.

"Get up," the man said, his voice gruff and unpleasant.

Innowen obeyed awkwardly, using just his legs with no help from his hands, trying to maintain his charade. Razkili rose more adroitly, but carefully kept his hands hidden behind his back. "I am Innowen, son of Lord Minarik," Innowen said slowly, measuring the effect of his words. He knew at once he'd made a mistake.

The man he faced glared at him. Then, a terrible smile revealed his small, broken teeth. "Well then," he answered with an unnaturally silken purr, "when I am done with you, I'll know where to send the pieces."

Rascal stiffened. For a moment, Innowen feared his friend would do something stupid. He took a small step closer to the fire, at the same time putting himself in Rascal's path. "Who are you?" Innowen asked, trying to appear reasonable. "What do you want with us? I've been gone a long time, you see. Is Ispor at war?"

Harsh, bitter laughter shook the tent. "The spy dares to interrogate his captors, does he?" The two guards imitated their leader, adding their own laughter. "Then know that it's Chohlit who holds your life like a grape on the palm of his hand." He brought his nose right next to Innowen's and glared. "Too bad I don't like grapes," he hissed. Stepping back, he turned to one of his men. "Drag them outside."

"You don't have to drag us," Innowen said, giving up his pretense. He held out the thongs that had bound his wrists and dropped them in the fire. "We're not spies."

Chohlit's face darkened with anger; his right hand curled into a fist. Innowen tensed and prepared to duck a blow, but Chohlit whirled suddenly on one of his own men and knocked him to the ground. His rage did not abate so swiftly, though. He kicked the fallen soldier twice in the ribs, hurling curses and epithets with each blow. "Fool!" he railed. "I told you to tie them tightly. Again and again you fail me. You should be dead out there on the field, and some soldier worth a spit here in your place." Chohlit glared as his minion rolled over weakly. The poor man clutched his side and gasped, unable to draw breath. Still, he tried to scramble to his feet, afraid of his leader's wrath. When he rose shakily to attention, his face was a pale mask.

Innowen shot a look of warning at Razkili and put himself even more directly in his friend's path. It would be foolish, probably fatal, to attack Chohlit in the middle of an armed camp. Stay alive, he thought. Wait for an opportunity to escape. This, though, wasn't it. He turned his attention back to Chohlit and watched him warily, wondering what demons drove such a man.

"You were wise not to make a break," Chohlit said, meeting Innowen's gaze. His eyes were clouded with deep shadow as he looked across the fire, and yet the black pupils caught and reflected the flicker of the flame. "I would have caught you and hamstrung you and hung you by your heels."

"Over hot coals to roast slowly, no doubt," Razkili said suddenly. A smirk parted his bruised lips ever so slightly as he stepped away from Innowen. "You're the type. No imagination."

Chohlit's eyes narrowed to angry slits. Plainly, he didn't like to be mocked. He looked back at Innowen. "So, your puppet can pull its own strings. Good, there will be two voices to answer my questions, and if the answers don't agree we'll see if you can scream in harmony."

Razkili spat into the fire. "It takes a brain to appreciate good harmony," he answered, drawling his words. "But maybe we'll squeak a little for you. That should be enough to satisfy your musical sensibility."

Innowen shot an appalled look at his friend, trying to warn him to silence. Razkili ignored him, instead folding his arms and grinning at their captor with wry amusement, running his gaze up and down Chohlit and shaking his head. "I've known men like you before," he continued tauntingly, "on their backs with their feet fluttering in the air like birds."

Chohlit clenched his fists; his lips drew into a thin red slash. He took a step toward Razkili.

"Rascal!" Innowen started. "Shut..."

"Five copper selats a night they cost," Razkili added. "What's your price, soldier?"

Innowen's breath caught in his throat as Chohlit faced Razkili. The Isporan towered over his Osiri friend, more than a head taller. Innowen watched in apprehension as the two locked gazes, Razkili still grinning his irritating grin. Chohlit's huge arm rose with casual confidence, and his open hand rushed down.

"No!" Innowen shouted.

Razkili leaned away ever so subtly. His left hand came up, brushing Chohlit's descending right with just enough force to spin the bigger man around. Razkili's fingers clamped on Chohlit's windpipe as he kicked the Isporan's ankles. Both men fell to the ground exactly where the Osiri intended, and his hand shot out toward the fire. An instant later, a flaming brand hovered near Chohlit's eyes. "Drop them!" he hissed at Chohlit's guards as they brandished their swords. So swiftly had their leader gone down, the two hadn't even moved. "Drop them!" he ordered again, "or I'll roast this pig!"

One of the two, the man Chohlit had beaten, looked willing to pay the price. He swung his sword up, his face a deep grimace, his teeth clenched angrily. But the second guard caught his wrist, jerked the blade from his hand, and tossed it on the ground beside his own.

Chohlit tore at the hand on his throat. He raked his nails deliberately on Razkili's unprotected flesh, drawing blood, but the Osiri only tightened his grip. Chohlit groaned and gurgled and tried to scream. Razkili leaned all his weight onto his hand, shutting off even a croak. Then he bent down and whispered in Chohlit's face. "Scratch me again, and I'll burn the gods-damned eyeballs out of your sockets! You understand?!"

Chohlit's face looked like a swollen purple fruit. The veins in his temples throbbed visibly under the skin, and his eyes bulged as he stared at the menacing brand. Gradually, he let go of Razkili's wrist and lay perfectly still. Razkili, in turn, eased off the Isporan's windpipe.

"Pick up their swords," he said to Innowen. Swiftly, Innowen scooped the weapons from the dirt and took a position behind the two guards. He pressed the bronze points bard against their spines. "Hells, what kind of a rag-tag army is this?" Razkili cursed, looking up at his friend. "We've got to sneak out of here, and damned quick!"

"How?" Innowen said simply.

Razkili frowned. "Don't look at me. I've done my part." He gestured at Chohlit with the brand. "It's your turn to think of something."

"Thanks," Innowen answered wryly. "I would rather have tried to talk our way out."

Razkili held the brand a bit higher, spilling more light onto Chohlit's features. "Does this look like the face of a reasonable man?" he asked sarcastically.

Innowen bit his lip. Then he tapped one of the two guardsmen on the bare shoulder with the flat of a sword. "All those bodies we found at the edge of the plain," he said. "It was some kind of battle? Is Ispor at war?"

The soldier looked to his leader for permission to answer, but Chohlit's face was swollen and screwed with pain as he sucked for the little air that Razkili allowed him. At last, the soldier shrugged. "Civil war," he answered bluntly.

Innowen's jaw dropped. "Rebellion against Kyrin?" he said, incredulously. "Who would dare?"

"These days?" the soldier answered with a smirk. "Who wouldn't? The man can't scratch himself without making an enemy. And everybody seems to have an army. That battle? We don't know who they were. They just came at us, no banner, nothing. It's dog eat dog, I tell you."

"Innowen," Razkili said impatiently. "Time to go."

Innowen drew a deep breath. He looked aside for an instant, then savagely smashed the pommel of his right-hand sword against the temple of the guard who had remained silent. That one fell with a groan face down in the dirt. He turned, ready to strike the second man, but the soldier held up his hand for mercy.

"I answered your questions, didn't I?" he said reasonably. "Suppose I just agree not to call out?"

"I trust you," Innowen answered, and he looked to Razkili, who nodded. The soldier grinned as he lowered his hands, and Innowen hit him with all his strength. "Like hell, I trust you," he muttered, gazing down at the sprawled form. He gestured at Chohlit with the point of a sword. "What about him?"

A wicked smile spread over Razkili's face as he looked down into Chohlit's eyes. "Time to die," he whispered, and his fingers dug into the soft flesh around the windpipe. Chohlit's already bulging eyes widened with pure terror, and he made a faint gasping wheeze. Too late, he grabbed for Razkili's wrist. In only a moment, he went limp.

"Dead?" Innowen asked.

Rascal shook his head. "Just out," he answered. "But I bet he'll be surprised to wake up in this world." He grinned unpleasantly. "He had that look in his eyes at the last minute, you know? His whole life flashed before him."

Innowen gave him one of the swords. "I think you enjoyed that."

Razkili winked. "Take your pleasure where you find it."

"More philosophy," Innowen mumbled with mock distaste. "Spare me."

"I might." Razkili answered, nudging Chohlit with a toe. "But he won't. I suggest we leave."

Carefully, they crept to the tent flap and peeked out. Razkili hissed between his teeth. A dozen fires burned in a wide circle. Bare-chested, kilted warriors moved in twos and threes, talking in low voices, chuckling over unheard jokes. Beyond the immediate clearing, smaller fires burned, and tents dotted the dark landscape as far as could be seen.

"It's still your turn," Razkili whispered. "Thought of anything yet?"

Innowen shrugged doubtfully. "Run?" he suggested.

Razkili pursed his lips tightly. "Let's try the back way," he said.

They towered the tent flap, stepped over their unconscious former captors, and knelt down. Innowen drew the edge of his sword through the thin tent fabric. "We're lucky someone didn't see our silhouettes through this stuff," he muttered. "That fire's bright enough to show everything we're doing in here." He tugged open the slit his blade had made and peered out. Tents and campfires surrounded them, but there were fewer men awake and no brightly lit clearing to cross.

"Run?" Innowen said again.

"Walk," Razkili corrected. "Just like we belong here." They glanced at each other for a long moment. Razkili's dark eyes glimmered in the firelight, the sockets made deeper and more shadowy by the red glow. Beads of sweat gleamed in the valleys of his throat and chest, and his lips parted slightly. Innowen could almost taste the tension his friend tried so hard to hide. Excitement, Rascal would call it, and thrill. And if they got out of this and lived, Innowen thought, he might even agree.

"What's wrong?" Razkili whispered. "You have a peculiar look."

"I was thinking about the horses," Innowen answered. "Especially the pack horse. I'll regret losing the contents of those bags." He forced a half-hearted smile, then crawled through the rip into the warm, open night. Razkili followed, and they stood up.

Side by side, they walked with their short blades pushed through their belts. They avoided the campfires that might have illumined their faces and kept their sandaled tread as soft as possible on the dry, flattened grass. They muttered to each other in low voices, meaningless words, mostly, spoken for the benefit of the ragged men they passed, men whose kilts were little more than scraps tied around their loins, men without sandals, men whose rib bones showed through their skin even in the dim firelight.

"These men are half starved," Innowen murmured to Razkili. "Farmers and shopkeepers. Not professional soldiers at all."

"Don't be fooled by their clothes," Razkili advised sternly. "Look at their weapons. And look at their eyes; they're full of anger. There's no love here for your King Kyrin, and no man hates as much, or fights as hard, as a hungry man."

Suddenly, the shrill note of a horn rent the camp's quiet. Shouting rose from the clearing and quickly spread among the tents. Innowen started to run, but Razkili caught his arm. "No," he said. "They'll expect us to run. Instead, move with purpose and authority, and draw your sword, as if you were hunting for escaped prisoners. Not all of these men could have, seen our faces."

The camp came alive. Three men rushed toward Innowen and Razkili, but Razkili bent around the corner of a tent, pretending to search. "Not here!" he called, waving the soldiers on with his sword. "Try that way!"

Innowen watched the three disappear around another tent, then let go a breath and touched his friend's shoulder. "Between us, I'd rather run for it," he confessed, "My knees can't knock when I run."

Keeping up their pretense, they made it past the last row of tents. They had steered a course away from most of the searchers, until the open plain stretched before them. But far to the left, voices were drawing closer. "Now we run," Razkili said, and he gave Innowen a push.

Innowen ran as fast as he could, and the wind rushing by his ears became a cry of desperation. He threw back his head and sucked air in great regular gulps. The pounding of his heart and the roar of his blood made a thunder in his ears so loud he feared his enemies could hear it. The land rose and fell to meet his tread. It rolled beneath him, lifting him gently, dropping unexpectedly. Each step was a precarious balancing exercise in the darkness.

By his side, Razkili ran easily. The sweat-sheen ignited strangely on his bare chest, his arms, on his back and his pumping legs. The moon had come up, a thin slash in the black heavens, and he glowed with its faint light. His hair made a black wake as he ran, and muscles flowed like a thick, hot liquid beneath his skin.

Innowen's breath came even more quickly as he watched Razkili. An odd burning filled his eyes. It spread down his cheeks to the corners of his lips, over his tongue and the roof of his mouth, down his throat. The burning went all through him, setting fire to all his muscles. Then a moment of vertigo seized him, and he tumbled through nothingness head over heels until the earth reached up and caught him.

Innowen felt Rascal's ragged breath hot in his ear as his friend knelt down beside him. "Get up, Innowen!" He grabbed Innowen's arm and tried to drag him to his feet. "Get up, come on!"

Innowen heard it in those words, the barely concealed note of fear that masqueraded as bravado, the tight control barely maintained in Rascal's voice. Rascal would deny it. Probably, he didn't even know it was there. But Innowen heard it, and because he heard it, he clasped his. fingers around his friend's bicep and let himself be pulled up. For an instant, they stood close enough to feel each other's heat; then they ran.

Behind them, though, he heard the pounding of horses' hooves and knew they had been spotted. Innowen poured all his will into his limbs, but the jagged edge of fatigue ripped at his chest, and breath came in desperate gasps. A red film seeped around the borders of his vision. Still, he didn't slow down, though he felt as if all his body were drawing into a smaller and smaller core, diminishing with every agonizing step. Run! The word beat through his brain like a cadence. Run!

A pair of horses raced by them, turned suddenly, and stopped, cutting them off. Their riders leveled lances with polished, leaf-shaped points of bronze. Quickly, another pair of riders flanked them. Innowen spun about, frantically seeking a clear direction, but more of Chohlit's men surrounded them. He stumbled, fell, and the sword spun from his grasp.

He got up again and ran, actually managing to dodge the lances of the two blocking his way as he darted unexpectedly between their horses. But he heard their taunts and shouts as they rode down on him. Something stung him sharply across the back. The flat of a blade, he realized through a haze of pain. He nearly fell again. Somehow, though, he propelled himself onward.

Rascal, where was Rascal?! He cast a glance around. A rider dashed by him, turned suddenly, and stopped. Innowen bounced off the animal's shoulder and struck the ground. Before he could move, a lance flashed down and embedded in the earth barely a hand's width from his groin.

Innowen scissored his legs and knocked the shaft into his hands as he rolled sideways and got his feet under him. Rising, he swung upward with the blunt end.

The blow caught a soldier under the chin. The man tumbled from his horse with a surprised grunt. Innowen didn't know if it was the man who'd thrown the lance. He didn't care. There were far too many to pick and choose. He whirled and struck again, but instead of finding a man, the bronze point bit deep into a horse's throat. The beast screamed and reared, but its rider clung on.

There was no time to finish that one off. Others were on him. From the corner of his eye he saw Chohlit astride a great steed, directing his men with angry shouts and curses. Innowen could spare him no more attention though.

The lance became a blur in his hands as he spun it end over end, deflecting a sword that whistled down at his head, and striking the kneecap of its wielder. Any scream was cut short as Innowen followed through and crushed the man's unhelmeted skull with a blow that flung him from his horse.

Then something exploded in the top of Innowen's head. White hot stars burned holes in his vision, and pain raced the entire length of his spine. His knees gave way, and the lance fell from hands suddenly unable to grip. A smaller explosion sent numbness crawling through the right side of his face and down his neck. A third between his shoulder blades blasted the air from his lungs. The ground raced up at him with startling speed, and dirt and grass filled his open, gasping mouth.

Someone rolled him over, and he saw Chohlit once again. From his horse, the man barked a series of orders, words Innowen couldn't quite understand for the ringing in his ears. Two soldiers approached from the right, dragging Razkili awkwardly between them. Innowen found breath, and managed to raise up on one elbow. Before he could do more, rough hands seized him and hauled him to his feet.

Chohlit slid down from his horse. With a satisfied smirk, he grabbed Razkili by the hair and jerked his head up so that they were eye to eye. Razkili's face twisted in pain, and his cry was a knife that stabbed Innowen's heart. Twice, then, Chohlit lashed out with the back of his hand, and a thick stream of blood poured from the Osiri's mouth. With an animal growl, Razkili tried to kick Chohlit, but the enraged soldier easily sidestepped the blow and threw a savage punch at Razkili's gut. "Hold him tighter!" he directed his two men.

Chohlit bent over Rascal. "You should have killed me," he hissed. His hands locked around Razkili's throat. "Now I'm going to finish what you started, just the way you started it."

Chohlit's finger tightened slowly. Razkili struggled, his eyes widening with fear. The guards held him with his arms outstretched, his back arched to the breaking point, as Chohlit forced him backward.

"Stop!" Innowen cried. With the strength of desperation, he pulled free of the hands that held him. "You cowards!" He had no sword, no lance, no weapon at all, and Chohlit's guards were reaching for him already.

But they were killing Razkili! "Damn you!" he screamed. "Damn you all!"

Before they could seize him, he flung his arms high and whirled, the toes of his right foot digging deep into the soft ground as he turned. "Bastards!" he muttered furiously. He swept his left leg high in a smooth arch, lunged his weight onto it, and sprang erect again, balanced on one leg, his left foot on his right knee.

Tears began to trickle from his eyes, fear for what was about to happen, fear for Rascal and for himself. But they were angry tears, too.

The wind seemed suddenly to rise about him, its voice a terrible melody in his ears. He whirled, snapped his head to the right, and rolled a shoulder up, back, down. He paused, looked about, and knew he had them now. Chohlit's soldiers seemed frozen as they watched him. Innowen touched his palms together over his head and slid one hand seductively down the other arm, leaning far to the side as he did. The wind sang a new note, and a timpani joined it, the heartbeats, he realized with a horrible certainty, of the men around him. Even Chohlit's eyes were on him now. Innowen met his rapt gaze and poured hatred for the man into his dance.

Somewhere behind him, he heard a scream. A body fell across the corner of his vision. He gave it barely a glance but saw the blood that poured from an ugly gash where once a throat had been. With an incoherent shout, another man jumped on the body and hacked it until the bronze blade of his sword bent at an angle and threatened to break. Someone dragged him off the mutilated corpse, but nearby two more men leaped at each other.

Innowen didn't care what the quarrels were. It didn't matter. Chohlit still had Rascal in his grip, that was all he knew. So he danced, danced, whirling, taunting with his body, drawing dark designs in the air with his arms, weaving intricate patterns with his hands and fingers, unleashing the power that, even yet, he didn't comprehend, power that frightened and terrified him. Yet for Razkili's sake he didn't shirk away.

Slowly, a change rippled over Chohlit's features. His hands unclenched, and Rascal sagged unconscious into a heap at his tormentor's feet. With a snarl, Chohlit kicked him in the ribs and looked for an instant as if he intended to follow it with a second blow. Instead, he balled his fists tightly, lifted them up before his eyes, and stared at them with a look of utter loathing. Without warning, he threw back his head and howled a pitiful sound of such soul-wrenching intensity that it caused Innowen to freeze in midmovement. Stunned, he watched Chohlit fall to his knees, clutch his face in his hands, and weep like a spirit in despair.

It was the final crack in the dam of sanity, and chaos surged free. The rest of Chohlit's men turned on each other, and the air vibrated with screams and curses. Then came the clash of weapons. Some, though, would not fight; they fled, wailing, across the open field, pursued by their personal demons. One man ripped away his clothing, took his sword and drew it across his wrists without a whisper or moan, and sat down to watch his life essence flow away. A hideously sublime smile spread across his mouth.

Innowen ran to Razkili's side and cradled his friend's head in his Jap. A sob broke from him as he gazed around again and realized what he'd done. But he'd had to, to save Rascal. He hadn't wanted to do it. They'd made him. They'd brought it on themselves!

"What did you do?" The words were like the sound of a serpent slithering through dry leaves. "What did you do?"

Innowen looked up and saw Chohlit. "What did you do to us?" he demanded again, through clenched teeth. He struggled shakily to his feet and drew his sword. Tears brimmed from his eyes, and his face was a mask of grief and pain. He moved toward them, though, lifting each leg and setting it down ponderously as if his feet were huge stones.

Innowen looked around frantically and found a blade in the grass close by. He hugged Razkili closer, shielding his friend with his body, and lifted the weapon high to ward off the expected blow.

A horn sounded from the direction of the camp. Then another and another. Chohlit hesitated. Beneath Innowen, the ground shook suddenly with the thunder of horse's hooves. A lot of horses, he realized. New screams and shouting drowned the horns. Innowen risked a glance over his shoulder as fire rose from the tents.

"Damn you!" Chohlit cursed. "I knew you were spies!"

"Forget us!" Innowen shouted back. "Save your damned camp if you can. Or your miserable hide, whichever you value more!"

Chohlit gave a roar and rushed at Innowen, slamming his sword down. Innowen caught the blow on his own blade. Again, Chohlit struck, without skill or style, and again, Innowen blocked it, but the sheer force of the impact shivered down his arm and shoulder. When Chohlit raised to strike a third time, Innowen moved faster and raked his edge over Chohlit's unprotected shin. The man leaped back with a sharp scream, cut to the bone, blood pouring down his leg.

"Get out of here!" Innowen shouted furiously. "Save yourself, man! Where's your precious rebellion if you let yourself get caught?!"

Chohlit shot a glance at his burning encampment. Then he looked back to Innowen. Gone were the tears; purest hatred burned in his gaze, and Innowen thought he would attack again. Instead, he turned and ran, but not toward the camp. Across the plain he sped, abandoning his troops to the mercies of whoever had attacked them.

Innowen dropped his sword and bit his lip. Not one of Chohlit's men remained to threaten him. Some were dead, or dying. A few were little more than weeping wretches, hugging and rocking themselves on the ground, moaning words that made no sense. Most had simply run away.

"Wake up, Rascal," he urged, bending close to his friend's ear and shaking him gently. "Wake up. We've got to get away, too." But though his chest rose and fell with regular, if shallow breaths, Razkili didn't stir.

The flames in the distance made a beautiful glow as they reduced Chohlit's camp to ashes. Silhouetted against the orange light, Innowen saw a band of riders coming his way. He looked around forlornly. Even if there had been some place of concealment, it was too late to hide. Perhaps it was the horses wandering near that had attracted attention. Or maybe, the weird carnage. In any case, there was no point in trying to run.

Innowen shut his eyes for a moment and gritted his teeth. He almost regretted what he had done. But Rascal was alive, and that was what mattered. Gently, he lowered his friend's head to the earth, rose, and picked up a lance from the grass. Standing over Rascal, he prepared to meet these new riders.

Wordlessly, they made a ring around him, nine in all. Innowen twirled the lance in the showiest pattern he knew, warning enough, he hoped. Then he set the butt on the ground between his feet and leaned on it. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, regarding each of them in turn.

One of the riders was dressed differently from the others. He wore the same black kilt and green cloak, but over his bare chest he wore thick plates of gold that hung from chains around his neck and waist. The helm that covered his face also appeared to be entirely gold, and a long horsehair crest flowed from its peak.

Innowen addressed him politely, but without timidity. "Neither I, nor my friend," he gestured toward Razkili without looking away, "is part of Chohlit's army. We're travelers newly returned to Ispor. They mistook us for spies." He forced a smile. "We thank you for your intervention."

"I know well enough you're no spy." The man in gold lifted off his helm with both hands. "Welcome home, Innocent."

Innowen stared in disbelief. "Taelyn!"

On the ground, Razkili raised up on one elbow, rubbed his neck as he gave Innowen a queer look, and muttered with a doubtful hint of amusement, "Innocent?"