The wayfarer was half her age, little more than a boy and eager for the glory that might earn a knight’s crest. Townsfolk scattered from his path. He goaded his horse to the gallop, sword held high in anticipation of the killing blow to come. He’d not yet learned that the first blow seldom mattered as much as the last.
Katya’s parry sent a shiver down her arm. The wayfarer’s blade scraped clear, the momentum of his charge already carrying him past. Then he was behind, hauling on the reins. The sword came about, the killing stroke aimed at Katya’s neck.
Her thrust took the younger man in the chest. Desperate strength drove the blade between his ribs. The hawk of the Tressian Council turned dark as the first blood stained the rider’s woollen tabard. Then he slipped from his saddle, sword clanging against cobbles. With one last, defiant glare at the buccinator, Katya turned her steed about, and galloped through the narrow streets after her children.
She caught them at the bridge, where the waters of the Grelyt River fell away into the boiling millrace. They were not alone.
One wayfarer held the narrow bridge, blocking Josiri’s path. A second closed from behind him, sword drawn. A third lay dead on the cobbles, horse already vanished into the rain.
Josiri turned his steed in a circle. He had one arm tight about his sister. The other hand held a bloody sword. The point trembled as it swept back and forth between his foes, daring them to approach.
Katya thrust back her heels. Her steed sprang forward.
Her sword bit into the nearest wayfarer’s spine. Heels jerked as he fell back. His steed sprang away into the streets. The corpse, one booted foot tangled in its stirrups, dragged along behind.
Katya rode on past Josiri. Steel clashed, once, twice, and then the last wayfarer was gone. His body tipped over the low stone parapet and into the rushing waters below.
Josiri trotted close, his face studiously calm. Katya knew better. He’d not taken a life before today.
“You’re hurt.”
Pain stemmed Katya’s denial. A glance revealed rainwater running red across her left hand. She also felt a wound high on her shoulder. The last wayfarer’s parting gift, lost in the desperation of the moment.
The clarion came yet again. A dozen wayfarers spurred down the street. A plate-clad knight rode at their head, his destrier caparisoned in silver-flecked black. Not the heraldry of a knightly chapterhouse, but a family of the first rank. His sword – a heavy, fennlander’s claymore – rested in its scabbard. A circular shield sat slung across his back.
The greys of the rain-sodden town lost their focus. Katya tightened her grip on the reins. She flexed the fingers of her left hand. They felt distant, as if belonging to someone else. Her shoulder ached, fit company for the dull roar in her side – a memento of the sword-thrust she’d taken on the ridge at Zanya. Weariness crowded in, the faces of the dead close behind.
The world lurched. Katya grasped at the bridle with her good hand. Focus returned at the cost of her sword, which fell onto the narrow roadway.
So that was how the matter lay?
So be it.
“Go,” she breathed. “See to your sister’s safety. I’ll hold them.”
Josiri spurred closer, the false calm giving way to horror. “Mother, no!”
Calenne looked on with impassive eyes.
“I can’t ride.” Katya dropped awkwardly from her saddle and stooped to reclaim her sword. The feel of the grips beneath her fingers awoke new determination. “Leave me.”
“No. We’re getting out of here. All of us.” He reached out. “You can ride with me.”
The tremor beneath his tone revealed the truth. His horse was already weary. What stamina remained would not long serve two riders, let alone three.
Katya glanced down the street. There’d soon be nothing left to argue over. She understood Josiri’s reluctance, for it mirrored her own. To face a parting now, with so much unsaid . . . ? But a lifetime would not be enough to express her pride, nor to warn against repeating her mistakes. He’d have to find his own way now.
“Do you love me so little that you’d make me beg?” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Accept this last gift and remember me well. Go.”
Josiri gave a sharp nod, his lips a pale sliver. His throat bobbed. Then he turned his horse.
Katya dared not watch as her children galloped away, fearful that Josiri would read the gesture as a change of heart.
“Lumestra’s light shine for you, my son,” she whispered.
A slap to her horse’s haunch sent it whinnying into the oncoming wayfarers. They scattered, fighting for control over startled steeds.
Katya took up position at the bridge’s narrow crest, her sword point-down at her feet in challenge. She’d no illusions about holding the wayfarers. It would cost them little effort to ride straight over her, had they the stomach for it. But the tightness of the approach offered a slim chance.
The knight raised a mailed fist. The pursuers halted a dozen yards from the bridge’s mouth. Two more padded out from the surrounding alleys. Not horsemen, but the Council’s simarka – bronze constructs forged in the likeness of lions and given life by a spark of magic. Prowling statues that hunted the Council’s enemies. Katya swore under her breath. Her sword was useless against such creatures. A blacksmith’s hammer would have served her better. She’d lost too many friends to those claws to believe otherwise.
“Lady Trelan.” The knight’s greeting boomed like thunder. “The Council demands your surrender.”
“Viktor Akadra.” Katya made no attempt to hide her bitterness. “Did your father not tell you? I do not recognise the Council’s authority.”
The knight dismounted, the hem of his jet-black surcoat trailing in the rain. He removed his helm. Swarthy, chiselled features stared out from beneath a thatch of black hair. A young face, though one already confident far beyond its years.
He’d every reason to be so. Even without the armour, without the entourage of weary wayfarers – without her wounds – Akadra would have been more than her match. He stood a full head taller than she – half a head taller than any man she’d known.
“There has been enough suffering today.” His tone matched his expression perfectly. Calm. Confident. Unyielding. He gestured, and the simarka sat, one to either side. Motionless. Watchful. “Let’s not add to the tally.”
“Then turn around, Lord Akadra. Leave me be.”
Lips parted in something not entirely a smile. “You will stand before the Council and submit to judgement.”
Katya knew what that meant. The humiliation of a show trial, arraigned as warning to any who’d follow in her footsteps and dare seek freedom for the Southshires. Then they’d parade her through the streets, her last dignity stripped away long before the gallows took her final breath. She’d lost a husband to that form of justice. She’d not suffer it herself.
“I’ll die first.”
“Incorrect.”
Again, that damnable confidence. But her duty was clear.
Katya let the anger rise, as she had on the road. Its fire drove back the weariness, the pain, the fear for her children. Those problems belonged to the future, not the moment at hand. She was a daughter of the Southshires, the dowager duchess Trelan. She would not yield. The wound in Katya’s side blazed as she surged forward. The alchemy of rage transmuted agony to strength and lent killing weight to the two-handed blow.