Deadhouse Landing

He found Luel in the south-west corner, behind a semicircle of defending crossbowers, double-ranked. Some sort of word, or battle instinct, must have warned him of what was coming and he was retreating behind his surviving men and women. They were pacing backwards, kneeling, firing into the dark, switching ranks and reloading – all in sequence.

Crouched in the grasses, Dassem admired their precision and discipline.

Shear joined him and together they followed, hunched, parting the grass with their blades to study the formation for an opening.

‘Perhaps we shall have to let them go,’ Shear offered.

‘We have to end this or they will return.’ He peered back towards the camp, thinking. ‘A moment,’ he said, and jogged off.

In the camp he found what he sought: a family of Seti tribal descent, refugees of some feud or blood-crime. He approached the aged grandfather guarding their felt-covered cart and nodded a greeting. The man held a wicked recurve bow low before him, an arrow nocked. A tall spear, adorned with wolf-tails, leaned up against the cart next to him.

Dassem motioned to the weapon. ‘May I borrow your fine spear?’

The fellow reached over and held it out. ‘An honour, Sword of Death.’

Dassem shook his head. ‘No longer.’

‘I saw what I saw. And I heard the stories from Heng.’

Dassem merely held the weapon out, horizontal, and inclined his head in thanks. Then he jogged back westward to Shear’s position in the dark.

He approached, hunched low, spear level with the ground. The stamp of horses’ hooves reached him, together with mild nickering and the jangle of tack. Shear was behind low brush and she gestured ahead. She whispered, ‘They are collecting the horses.’

Dassem took a quick glance; the outlaws were gathering the beasts together, yet a solid picket of crossbowers still kept watch. Again Dassem regretted that such a competent commander should have left the Kanian fold.

He waited, crouched upon his haunches, weapon readied at his shoulder, for the moment he wanted, and eventually it came.

Luel appeared, swinging up on to his mount. He pointed about with his sword, giving orders. Dassem backed up three paces, then rose to his full height and extended his arm backwards. Shear opened her mouth to say something, but closed it without speaking, obviously not wishing to distract him.

He charged, thrusting his arm forward, hopping with the release. Shear rose to her feet, her masked face tracing the night sky as she followed the weapon’s high arcing flight. Shouts arose in the camp – they’d been seen.

Atop his mount, Luel turned their way, pointing his sword.

As if by magic the spear sprouted from his lower torso and he grunted with the impact. The sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He clutched at the thick haft then slid backwards off the horse.

Alarm erupted in the camp. The crossbow ranks scattered, running to any nearby mounts, throwing themselves into the saddles, and kicking them into a gallop. In an instant all had fled the clearing. Shear and Dassem waited until the dust settled, then advanced.

They found the outlaw commander lying on his back, still alive and conscious, a bloodied hand on the haft standing straight above him. The man’s dark eyes tracked Dassem as he closed to crouch next to him. Shear kept watch.

Luel licked his bloodied lips and whispered, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Dassem Ultor.’

An explosion of laughter sprayed blood all over the man’s beard and chest. He bared his reddened teeth in a grin. ‘Should’ve guessed. I was at Heng. I heard Hood’s Sword was there.’

Dassem nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

The commander gave a weak shrug. ‘No matter. You now bring death to the south.’

‘That is not my intent.’

The man’s hand fell from the haft. ‘Yet … it follows … you…’

Dassem closed the man’s staring eyes, rose, and faced Shear. Blood spattered her trousers, shirt and mask from the battle.

‘I am thinking you are no longer welcome among the caravan,’ she said.

‘And neither are you, no doubt. I am sorry.’

She waved that aside. ‘No matter. I was planning to return to my people anyway.’

He nodded. ‘I will collect our horses and go.’

‘I will keep them all from bothering you in the meantime.’

‘My thanks.’ He reached out. ‘Shear…’

She remained erect, hands at her sides. ‘Yes?’

He let go a long breath, let the hand fall. ‘Fare you well.’

She inclined her masked head slightly. ‘You too, Sword of Hood.’ She turned and jogged off.

He allowed her time to speak to Horst, then went to find his horses.

*   *   *

It was far from winter proper, yet a chill wind from the south sent shivers up Cartheron’s back where he sat on a heap of rope inspecting the tackle of the running rigging taken from the mizzen mast. Most was far older and more worn than he would’ve liked; however, given the shortage of equipment, they had to make do.