Gregory was between the two. His anger barely reined in, Dennis looked at Asayaga, then finally nodded his head in disgust. ‘You god-cursed Tsurani. You and your damnable honour.’
Even as he spoke he stepped back.
Asayaga nodded to Fukizama. As he did so his own men stepped back, forming half a circle.
The two had their blades out, the Kingdom soldier a heavy bastard-sword, Fukizama a lighter one-handed weapon. Fukizama assumed the ritual stance, blade drawn back behind his left shoulder, both hands on the hilt.
The Kingdom soldier held his sword with two hands, then charged in, bringing the blade down in a flashing arc. It was over in seconds. Fukizama jumped deftly to one side, holding his footing on the icy ground. Before the Kingdom soldier could recover Fukizama was in on him and with a single blow brought his sword down in a slashing blow, nearly severing the man’s head from his shoulders.
The soldier collapsed, dark blood spraying out. A cheer went up from the Tsurani.
Asayaga looked over at the other Kingdom soldiers. Blades were still out, angry mutters echoing. It had been closer to murder than a real fight. Asayaga looked back at his own men and it was all so clear. Fukizama had picked his opponent well, gauged him, looking for someone young, tired and obviously inexperienced and had then provoked him.
Fukizama turned to face the Kingdom troops, a taunt forming. The Kingdom troops were ready to charge.
‘Fukizama!’
The triumphant soldier turned.
‘Drop your weapon!’ Asayaga shouted.
Tsurani-bred discipline caused instant obedience before the man realized something dire was about to happen to him. ‘Force Commander?’
‘Tasemu.’
The Strike Leader came forward, tore the pouch from the waist of the motionless man and opened it. He reached inside and pulled out a leather purse and held it up.
‘That’s Wilhelm’s,’ one of the Kingdom troops whispered.
Asayaga nodded, took the purse and opened it. There were half a dozen coppers inside – trivial wealth on Midkemia, but a year’s earnings on metal-starved Kelewan. He looked at Fukizama and said, ‘You dishonour your family and clan. You know the penalty for thieves.’
The man’s eyes widened as Tasemu motioned to two other Tsurani who seized the man. Another pulled a rope from a backpack, walked to a tree next to the trail, and threw the rope over a high branch, knocking loose the accumulated snow.
In an instant it was done. The shaking, wide-eyed soldier was lifted and carried by four men, and the noose was placed around his neck. Another half-dozen Tsurani hauled away and Fukizama seemed to spring into the air, as if fetched heavenward by a giant’s hand. His neck snapped audibly when the Tsurani let the rope drop a couple of feet then pulled it taut again and even battle-hardened Kingdom soldiers flinched at the sound. He hung twitching for a minute while the rope was tied off.
Asayaga threw the paltry coins on the ground.
‘Anyone else?’ Asayaga barked, glaring at his men.
No one spoke.
‘I will tolerate neither a thief nor a disobedient man. Fukizama was both. Now form ranks.’
He looked back at Dennis. The men behind him stood silent, not sure how to react, startled by the swiftness of Asayaga’s kill. He could see the wary looks in their eyes and the shock his actions had created.
‘My man was wrong. He has paid with his life and I apologize. But Hartraft, tell your men not to come near mine again,’ he snarled.
Dennis said nothing, looking down at the body sprawled on the slush-covered ground, then up at the twisting Tsurani. ‘Your man stilled two of our swords,’ Dennis finally hissed at last.
Asayaga said, ‘At least your hothead died a warrior’s death, by the blade. Fukizama died a dishonourable death and this is the last time any man of the Kodeko will say that name. His ancestors turn their eyes away from him.’
Dennis continued to look at the corpse in amazement, then at last he said, ‘We waste time.’
Gregory stepped between the two leaders and overturned a large jar of stew on the road. ‘You’re both wasting time.’ Tinuva was already dragging away the Kingdom soldier and would cut down the Tsurani. He would leave no signs for the Dark Brothers to know what had occurred here.
Dennis walked away, heading to the front of the men.
The twin columns started to move, Asayaga sprinting to the front of his own line.
They marched for a mile, then came to a small clearing, then halted.
Less than ten minutes later, Gregory came up the trail. He moved past the waiting men and pointed to a barely noticeable side trail leading off to the north-west. ‘We must go that way,’ he said. He then took a small jar out of his backpack and started splashing a steaming fluid around the clearing.
Dennis threw him a questioning look, and the Natalese Ranger said, ‘The men are carrying enough hot food to start a small festival. The moredhel will be able to smell it a mile away. This will make it tough for them to determine which path we’ve taken.’ He motioned for the four Tsurani who had come up the trail with him, behind the main body of men, and indicated they should rejoin their comrades. ‘I’ll wait here for Tinuva,’ he said. ‘He should be along shortly and we’ll do what we can to mask your tracks.’
Asayaga and Dennis exchanged glances, then without comment both motioned for their men to move up the indicated trail.
The wind was at their backs, the frozen ground beneath their feet crunching. He looked up. The trees lining the tops of the ridges to either flank were swaying, cracking under their icy loads. The snow had ceased, the clouds were blowing away, and the stars were coming out. Moonlight illuminated the mountains and the trail ahead.
They headed north, fleeing into unknown lands.
FOG CLOAKED THE PASS.
Bovai dismounted, handing the reins of his horse to a human. Like most of his race he had little affection for horses and let the human renegades who brought them north care for them.
The moredhel scouts who had just rushed the stockade parted at his approach. Their uneasy manner and slight shifting of weight from one foot to the other – signs impossible for the human renegades who rode with Bovai to notice – signalled to the moredhel leader that something was dreadfully wrong even before he reached the gates of the fortification. He stopped inside the open gates.
His dark gaze swept the compound, taking in every detail: the bodies of his warriors lying where they had fallen, the stains of blood in the slush, the wisp of smoke still coiling from the chimney of the barracks hall and the fact that the place was empty. The enemy had fled.
The Lesser Chieftain of Clan Raven raised his head and sniffed the air. Nothing: just the scent of the raw wind, smoke, dead bodies, but nothing living, other than his own followers.
He walked to the open gate through which he had just ridden and knelt to examine the neck wounds of two headless corpses sprawled on the ground.
Clean blows, single strikes, the spray of frozen blood indicating that the killer had decapitated one, swirled around, blood flecking off his blade and then taken the second with