TRISTAN HELD HIS BREATH AS HE WATCHED HIS DIRKbury itself into the shoulder of Yasmin’s attacker. His eyes wide with surprise, the Zorian highlander started to pull the knife free, but Yasmin was quicker.
Reaching up, she grasped the dirk’s handle, then pulled the knife free and plunged it into her attacker’s throat. When she felt the blade tip strike her attacker’s neck bones, she pushed it again, then gave it a savage twist. The highlander fell atop her. With a sneer, Yasmin shoved the body off her and onto the ground.
Tossing his dreggan back into his right hand, Tristan ran to her. As he lifted Yasmin to her feet, he saw deep appreciation in her eyes. But this was no time for talk. Standing protectively before her, he quickly cast his eyes around the camp.
The scene was even more desperate than before. Many of the wagons were on fire, and the screams of the dying and wounded filled the night. Dark smoke drifted through the clearing, making things difficult to see. Fighters from both sides struggled everywhere, darting in and out of the smoke like spectral ghosts.
Although they fought valiantly, Rafe’s ambushed clansmen were losing the battle. To his dismay, Tristan saw no sign of the Minions. Bending down, he quickly pulled the bloody dirk from the dead highlander’s throat, then shoved it into Yasmin’s hands. He had no doubt that she knew how to use it.
“Take this!” he shouted. “And stay near me!”
Yasmin shook her head. “I fight my own battles!” she shouted back.
Before he could stop her, Yasmin ran to attack a Zorian highlander who was about to bring his sword down on an old woman. He died quickly, his sliced throat spilling blood into the thirsty dirt.
Tristan was about to shout at Yasmin again, but he wasn’t given the chance. Raising his dreggan, he narrowly parried a highlander sword flashing toward him in the moonlight. The two blades struck each other with such force that sparks went flying. Backing up, Tristan tried to gain some maneuvering room. But his attacker was very good, constantly keeping Tristan on the defensive. Time after time their swords clashed, with neither fighter able to find an opening. Finally Tristan feinted with an overhead strike, then quickly changed his sword’s direction, swinging its tip across the highlander’s legs.
His thigh muscles severed, the highlander screamed and fell to his knees. As his sword slipped from his hands, he dazedly looked up into the face of the man he knew would kill him. Without hesitation Tristan swung his dreggan again, taking the highlander’s head off at the shoulders. The dead man’s eyes still open, his head toppled to the dirt.
But there would be no time for the prince to consider his victory, or to try to find Yasmin again. As soon as he looked up, another screaming highlander was on him.
HIS DREGGAN IN ONE HAND AND HISJIN’SAI’S MESSAGE STILLringing in his ears, Hector took to the sky. Eager to join the fray, the nineteen other warriors followed.
Nothing would ever assuage their shame at having been captured. And Balthazar’s strange warning that they attack only those fighters dressed in all-black garb was surprising. But if he and his warriors could kill enough of the enemy, perhaps they might partly redeem themselves in theirJin’Sai ’s eyes.
Seeing the fighting in the highlander camp’s center, Hector led his warriors down.
HIS EYES FLASHING, TRISTAN’S SECOND OPPONENT RUSHEDtoward him. The prince soon found that this man was an even greater threat than the one he had just killed. Nearly the size of Balthazar, he was far stronger than Tristan. His technique was simple but brutally effective: He rained nonstop blows down on the prince, knowing that Tristan would soon tire, and be forced into a mistake. Then, like a big cat that had finished toying with its prey, the huge highlander would rush in for the kill.
Backing up desperately, it was all Tristan could do to parry the bigger man’s blows, say nothing of going on the offensive. Using his quickness, Tristan tried to side-slip the highlander and seize on an opening. But despite his huge size the man moved nimbly, matching the prince’s every step. Finally the highlander sensed the growing tiredness in Tristan’s arms. Screaming wildly, he raised his sword high, then brought it down with everything he had.
The strategy worked. The sharp blow resonated through Tristan’s sword blade and into its hilt so sharply that it stunned his hands, painfully forcing the dreggan from his grip. Tristan frantically dived to the dirt, scrambling to pick the sword up again. But that was just what the highlander wanted. Taking his sword into both hands the Zorian raised it vertically, readying its blade to plunge straight down into Tristan’s back.
With the dreggan in his hands again, Tristan quickly rolled over. But when he looked up he knew that he was too late. As the highlander blade came streaking down, a final thought flashed through his mind. So this is how it ends, he thought.
Just then Tristan saw something flash through the air, and the highlander’s eyes went wide. What was left of his face had become bloody, deformed. A Minion returning wheel had embedded itself into the highlander’s face. Starting at the top of the man’s forehead, its teeth lay deeply buried diagonally between his eyes and down the length of his face, ending in his chin.
Like time suddenly had no meaning, the highlander dropped his sword to stand there stupidly as blood cascaded down his destroyed face. For a moment his mouth tried to work. But the deadly wheel held his jaws fast, causing his lips to tear even more as he tried to speak. Then he fell over onto his back, dead where he lay.
Tristan scrambled to his feet and looked around. He soon saw Hector, hovering in the air about ten meters away. Tristan gave him a nod. Hector nodded back, then eagerly went about killing more Zorian highlanders in the service of his lord.
The Minion presence finally turned the tide. Hector’s warriors were doing just what Tristan would have ordered, had he been given the chance. Hovering above the fray, they used their tactical advantage to hack down every fighter dressed all in black that they could find. As the Minion’s bloody dreggans and returning wheels sliced through the air, one by one the enemy highlanders fell. Before it was over, two more died by Tristan’s hand.
Finally the battle ended. Physically exhausted and his hands smeared with blood, Tristan wearily drove his dreggan into the ground and leaned down on its hilt. Looking around, he saw that the carnage and destruction were even worse than he had imagined.
Every wagon in sight was afire. Running about the camp, Rafe’s men shouted out urgent orders. The healers among them were working furiously, trying to save as many of their stricken clansmen as they could. Other Kilbourne clansmen were systematically searching the campsite, driving their swords into Zorian bodies to ensure that they were finished. Sometimes terrible screams rang through the night from those who had been faking death.
Corpses and body parts from both sides seemed to lie everywhere. Turning, Tristan saw a black-garbed Zorian wandering about blindly. Dazed and in shock, he was cradling his own severed arm like he was looking for someone who could magically reattach it. Turning his gaze toward the stars, he collapsed, his massive blood loss finally securing his eternal peace. As the great bonfire in the clearing’s center continued to crackle and burn, horses ran wildly, children cried, and the clan’s elderly bemoaned their losses in their strange, secret language.
Just then the Minions landed warily in the clearing. Tristan watched curiously as they immediately formed strict ranks, with Hector front and center. Taking a quick count, the prince realized that all twenty had survived.
Hector suddenly went to his knees and bowed his head. The other warriors followed suit. Hector drew his sword and held the bloody weapon vertically across his palms, humbly offering it up to hisJin’Sai. The other nineteen did the same.
Tristan understood the Minion gesture. Having been captured, the warriors believed that they had failed him. By giving up their swords they freely admitted their mistakes, and would gladly accept whatever punishment Tristan chose to mete out-including their deaths. Pulling his dreggan from the dirt, he sheathed it and walked over.
“Arise, all of you,” he ordered. At once the twenty warriors came to their feet.
“I refuse to accept your swords,” Tristan said. “The fault for your capture was mine, for not sending patrols aloft.” Turning, he looked across the bloody clearing, then back at them.
“Your fighting was exemplary,” he added. “It made the difference between victory and defeat. You should feel proud, rather than dishonored. Go now, and do what you can to help the highlanders tend to the wounded.”
Like they were of one mind, the warriors sheathed their swords with simultaneous precision. After giving Tristan a look of gratitude, Hector barked out some orders and sent the warriors about their new duties.
“Those flying creatures of yours fight well,” a voice said from behind him. “And so do you.”
Tristan turned to see Yasmin standing there. She was bloodied and dirty, but seemed unharmed. Reaching out, she handed him the dirk he had given her. He had no doubt that she had made good use of it. After wiping its blood onto his trousers, he slid it back into its quiver. Walking closer, he smiled.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “Yes,” she said, “but you aren’t.”
She took him by his left hand. Tristan looked down to see that he had been wounded. A jagged, bleeding cut ran diagonally across his inner forearm.
“This is deep,” Yasmin said. “It must be tended to before infection sets in. Come with me.” Taking him by the hand, she started leading him across the ravaged clearing.
They walked for a while until Yasmin came to one of the few wagons that hadn’t been destroyed. Lowering its rear door, she bade Tristan to sit on it. Glad to be off his feet, he did as she asked. The beautiful highlander woman quickly went to work.
Reaching into the wagon, she removed an aged wooden box. She opened it to show various healer’s tools, some of which Tristan was familiar with. After cleaning the wound she produced a small amber bottle. Uncorking it, she spread the open wound wide, then poured some of the bottle’s contents directly onto it.
Shouting with pain, Tristan yanked his arm away. Not to be outdone, Yasmin scowled, then grasped his wrist again and commandingly pulled it back. She gave him a little smile.
“What in the name of the Afterlife is that awful stuff?” he shouted.
“Aged goat urine,” she answered, “tinged with certain herbs. There’s nothing better for a wound. Now stop being such a child! I know what I’m doing-I’ve sewn up plenty of men. Be still and let me do my work!”
Wondering what Abbey and Faegan would say about Yasmin’s potion, he finally gave in and let her do her worst. It hurt like blazes as she sewed the wound shut, but he knew it had to be done. Flexing his fingers, he left the wagon door to stand on the ground. He looked at his wound to see that Yasmin’s stitches were clean and precise.
“They will leave a scar,” Yasmin said. “But from what I’ve seen of you so far, it already has plenty of company.”
Tristan laughed, then pointed to the wooden box of healer’s tools. “How did you know those things would be here?” he asked.
“This wagon is mine,” Yasmin answered.
Without further ado, she closed the box and put it away. Coming closer, she looked into his eyes and placed her hands onto his chest. As she stared at him, her normally predatory gaze softened into something more curious than commanding.
“Tell me, Jin’Sai, ” she said. “Do you keep a woman of your own at the palace?”
Startled by her frankness, Tristan took a quick breath. He started to answer her, then he stopped. Instead, he reached up to wipe a dirt smudge from one of her cheeks.
“Where did you hear the phrase,‘Jin’Sai’?” he asked.
“From your flying warriors,” she answered. “But you’re avoiding the question.”
Remembering Celeste, Tristan looked at the ground. “It’s a rather long story, you see, and I-”
“There you are, dango!” they suddenly heard Rafe’s voice call out. “Leave it to you to be tended to by the camp’s most beautiful woman!”
Tristan and Yasmin watched Rafe and Balthazar walk up. They were each holding atachinga jug. Balthazar looked rather drunk. Rafe offered his jug to Tristan.
Smiling, the prince took it, then swallowed a long gulp, followed by another. After wiping his mouth, he gave Rafe a compassionate look.
“I am sorry about Casimir,” he said. “I’m sure he was a good man.”
Rafe’s face darkened. “He was,” he answered. “I am also sorry to see him gone. But in the end, his death served a noble purpose. We have taken a Zorian body count. By the looks of it, they came at us with every fighter they had. All but a few are dead. The Zorian threat is no more.”
“There are Zorian survivors?” Tristan asked.
Just then a terrible scream rang out across the clearing. It slowly faded away, to be replaced by outright begging. Tristan immediately understood that the Zorian survivors were being tortured to death. He was about to protest when Yasmin’s eyes caught his. She gave him a nearly imperceptible shake of her head. Understanding, he took a deep breath and resolved not to speak of it. Highlander business, he realized. He looked back at Rafe.
“What are your losses?” he asked.
Rafe shook his head. “They are very bad,” he answered. “Perhaps the worst ever suffered by our clan in one fight. More than half of our wagons are gone. And with them went many supplies, provisions, horses, and other livestock. More than one quarter of my men are dead, and several dozen more are wounded. The Zorian cowards struck down many of our women, elderly, and children. Two of the twelve council members are also dead. But we will somehow go on. We always do.”
Taking Rafe by one arm, Tristan pulled him nearer. “Then it is even more important that you and your council consider my offer,” he said. “After what happened tonight, we need each other more than ever. At the very least, come with me to Tammerland and let me resupply you with some of the things that you lost. I know nothing can make up for the death of your people. But you owe it to your survivors to take me up on at least that much.”
Rafe put one hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “I know,” he said softly. “To a great extent, we owe you and your warriors our lives. That’s why I have called for an emergency elders’ meeting to discuss your proposal.”
“When?” Tristan asked.
“Now,” Rafe answered.
“So soon after tonight’s calamity?” Tristan asked.
Rafe took back his jug and swallowed more of the potenttachinga. “Can you think of a better time?” he asked back.
Smiling, Tristan shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I suppose not.”
Balthazar walked up to face the prince. After taking another enormous gulp, he belched loudly. Tristan smiled. The massive highlander would make a good drinking partner for Ox, he realized. Balthazar gave Tristan a crooked smile, showing the absence of several teeth. Leaning in, he poked an index finger into Tristan’s chest.
“You fight well for adango!” he said. Closing his eyes, he belched again, this time nearly dropping his jug. “Maybe we won’t ransom your scrawny arse after all!”
“Come, all of you,” Rafe said. “The meeting will start soon. Then we will see what we will see.” He gave Tristan a wary glance. “But I warn you-the elders can be a very uncompromising lot,” he added.
Wondering what the rest of the night would bring, Tristan started accompanying Rafe, Balthazar, and Yasmin across the moonlit clearing.