Cursors's Fury

Isana lifted her chin and strode out past the armsman, looking left and right. The camp was in chaos-or at least, the followers in the Legion’s camp were. The legionares themselves were moving with haste, with anxiety, but also with precision and discipline, and Isana could see the ranks forming along the palisade around the camp. “Do I need to go find him myself, Rari?’

His tone remained even and polite, but Isana could sense the fond annoyance behind his reply. “As you wish, my lady.” He turned to the two grooms holding the reins of nervous horses nearby, flicked a hand, and said, “You two, with me.” He started striding toward the eastern side of the camp. “Ladies, if you will come this way. We must make haste. I do not know when the horde will arrive, and every moment may be precious. “

And it was then that Isana saw war for the first time.

Arrows flew from the darkness. One of the grooms screamed, though he was drowned out by the cries of the horse whose reins he held. Isana turned, her heartbeat suddenly thunder in her ears, everything moving slowly. She saw the groomstagger and fall, a white-feathered Marat arrow protruding from his belly. The horse screamed and thrashed its head, trying to dislodge the arrow sunk into a long line of muscle in its neck.

Cries came from the darkness. Marat warriors, pale-haired, pale-skinned, erupted from the beds of supply wagons brought into the camp earlier in the afternoon, brandishing weapons of what looked like blackened glass and stone.

Araris turned and moved like lightning. Isana could only stare in shock as three more arrows flickered toward her. Araris’s sword shattered them to splinters, and a casual flick of one of his steel-encased hands prevented even those from striking her face. He met the group of howling Marat and walked through them like a man in a crowded market, shoulders and hips twisting, bobbing up onto his toes to slide between passersby, turning a neat pirouette to avoid stumbling over something on the ground.

When he stopped, every one of the Marat lay on the ground, food for the crows.

He flicked his sword to one side, cleaning it of blood, sheathed it, and extended his hand as though nothing of note had happened. “This way, my lady. “

“This way, my lady,” murmured a low, richly masculine voice, “we needn’t worry about being too long parted. I’m sure you can see the advantages.”