Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (44 page)

I know.

Staying close to the cliff, Basilard headed up the canyon, moving slowly and only when nobody seemed to be looking in his direction. Someone else might grow impatient or find the pace tedious, but it was no different from when a hunter drew close to the deer that was meant for the dinner table.

Basilard spotted the large cave that he had thought would be collapsed after he had hurled the blasting sticks. The workers must have cleared it out again, because much of it remained open. He had hoped he had deprived the major of her access to the communication orb, but perhaps she had already called for reinforcements. Hoping he would find her there, perhaps without guards, he continued along the cliff, avoiding the pools of light from the lanterns.

A boom came from above almost directly overhead, and Basilard froze.

“The outpost,” someone yelled.

A boulder slammed to the ground less than ten feet from Basilard. It broke into a thousand pieces with shards flying everywhere. He turned toward the cliff, lifting his arms to protect his head.

Rocks and charred logs crashed down from above. He scooted a few feet, finding a concave hollow in the rock that sheltered him somewhat.

The Kendorians were whirling to face the cliff top, some of them raising weapons and others scurrying back from the falling debris. Nobody fired—they were too far down to do anything, and Basilard doubted any targets up there were visible. Even from his spot directly below the outpost, he could tell that flames leaped, because the entire area above had grown brighter. Maldynado must have found a way to make use of his meager explosives. Basilard was glad and hoped he had done a great deal of damage, but the timing had been poor. He dared not continue sneaking toward the cave with so many faces turned in his direction. Still, some dust was rising up, thanks to all of the falling debris. Maybe with everyone looking up, they wouldn’t notice him following the base of the cliff.

“Look out,” came a Kendorian voice from across the river. “Saw someone with a bow.”

Basilard lifted his head. His archers. Several Kendorians turned in that direction. Someone fired a musket. Basilard’s stomach twisted at the idea of one of his young hunters being shot, but he had to thank them for the distraction.

He continued toward the cave, leaving the cliff only to skirt torches that leaned against the stone. The dust made his nostrils itch and his eyes water, but he kept his focus.

A bowman strode out of the cave and glanced in his direction. Basilard halted. He was between two torches, so mostly in the shadows, but not as fully as he wished.

The man paused, frowning. He lifted an arm toward his quiver. Basilard threw the dagger in his hand. The blade sped through the air, invisible in the darkness, and slammed into the bowman’s chest as he was pulling out an arrow. The man went down without a sound.

Basilard wanted to sneak over and retrieve his dagger, but a shout came from the mouth of the cave. Someone must have seen the man go down. Pulling out two more knives, Basilard sprinted toward the entrance. When he was scant feet away, two soldiers with firearms leaped around the corner.

Basilard turned his momentum into an attack, bowling into them and slashing before they could bring their weapons to bear. Shouts of surprise, rage, and then pain filled his ears. One man dropped before he could mount a defense, but the second reacted more quickly. He swung the butt of his rifle at Basilard’s head. Basilard ducked, but almost failed to realize the attack had been a feint, a distraction while the soldier yanked free a dagger of his own. At the last instant, Basilard blocked a blade stabbing for his gut. He dodged to the side while slashing at the man’s face with one blade. The soldier jerked his head back. Basilard darted in, slicing at the man’s torso. The weapon cut through the buckskin shirt and bit into flesh, but not as deeply as he had hoped. He had rushed the attack, knowing that he was vulnerable here, fighting at the mouth of the cave.

The rifle swiped toward his head again. This time as Basilard ducked, he lunged in fully, throwing his weight into the other man and taking him to the ground. They rolled, half wresting and half slashing, with Basilard trying to kill or disable his foe at the same time as he drove him away from the revealing light of the cave. Finally, chance favored him, and his opponent’s head struck a rock as they rolled. It stunned him for an instant, long enough for Basilard to take advantage. He rammed his elbow into the man’s face, further stunning him, then jammed his dagger into his chest.

Worried everyone in the canyon knew he was there now, Basilard rolled to the side, his instincts—or maybe simple fear—driving him to get away from the battle scene. Those instincts served him well, for a weapon fired right as he scrambled away. A musket ball slammed into the downed soldier, the dying man gasping as this new assault tore into him.

Basilard sprang to his feet, targeting his new foe before he even saw who it was. In the light coming from the cave, he glimpsed a woman’s figure and a long earring with four beads on it. Major Diratha. She threw the musket at him as she yanked free her other weapons, a whip and a short sword.

Basilard jumped to the side, lifting an arm to knock the musket away. He saw it for the distraction it was and had two daggers out by the time Diratha launched her real attack, a snap from the whip. Basilard danced away before the leather thong could wrap around his ankle.

Right away, he cursed himself for backing away. He needed to get in closer, not let her keep him too far back for knife work. He couldn’t hurt her from ten feet away. More, he would be an easy target for her men. The next time she cracked the whip, this time aiming for his face—or maybe to wrap it around his neck—he turned his duck into a roll, flinging himself across the earth toward her. He sprang up before she could take the opportunity to attack.

The crack of a musket came from nearby, and his heart hammered in his chest—he suspected he had just avoided being hit again. How long could his luck hold out? He had to deal with her and then escape back into the shadows. Indeed, even as he jumped up, stabbing with his dagger, he glimpsed several men in his peripheral vision, all advancing toward him, all with bows or muskets.

Diratha leaped back, avoiding his slashes. She was faster than he would have guessed and found the time and space to crack the whip again, even though he had attempted to deny her of both. The thong came in faster than his eye could track, wrapping around his dagger. With a quick yank, she tried to surprise the weapon out of his hand. He tightened his grip, anticipating the move, and slashed through the whip with his other blade. The sharp dagger glided through the leather, and the tension around his hand fell away. But before he could leap in, trying to close the distance again, feathers blurred past him and an arrow grazed the back of his neck. Fiery pain blasted down his spine. He jumped closer to Diratha, not letting the pain slow him down—indeed, he had more incentive than ever to finish the battle. Two muskets fired, following right after the bow attack. His quick dart forward had saved him from further punishment, but the major was waiting for him, and she stabbed at his chest with her sword. He recognized the feint, the lack of commitment behind her forward movement, and readied himself for her real attack, a slash toward his inner thigh.

Basilard turned his body to avoid the cut and chopped down at her forearm with his dagger, hoping she would drop her own weapon. Again, she proved fast, and she almost withdrew her hand quickly enough to evade him altogether. But he clipped her fingers, drawing blood. She didn’t cry out—her face only grew grimmer and more intent—and she didn’t drop her sword. Instead, she slashed backward at him, reversing her balance and momentum with impressive speed.

He jumped in closer, so her arm struck him instead of her sword, and he gripped her shoulder while slashing at her face. He received an elbow in his stomach, but did not release his grasp on her shoulder. As she had been, he was also feinting and whipped his dagger down to jam it into the unprotected flesh under her rib cage.

She couldn’t stop her cry of pain this time, even though her first response was rage. She leaped at him, trying to grab him, thrusting wildly and angrily with her sword. Basilard wanted to leap back, to let her wear herself out, knowing she was losing blood and would succumb to the wound soon, but he forced himself to stay close, hoping her men wouldn’t shoot if they risked hitting her. He blocked the wild slashes, finding it easier now. In her pain and desperation, her swings became frenzied, not calculated. He found another opportunity to slip past her defenses. Not wanting to prolong her misery—or the fight—he cut her throat. Time to end this; time to hope whoever her second-in-command was would take this as a sign to leave forever.

The blow was a killing one. Before she dropped, Basilard spun toward the bowmen, knowing he would be an easy target for them now. But they had disappeared. He stared around, unable to believe they had abandoned their commander, but then he spotted them. Six men lay on the ground in a circle around him, their weapons in their hands but useless now. Four more soldiers were sprawled on the dusty earth farther back. They looked like they had been running to help when they had been shot or cut down.

Basilard couldn’t believe his archers had done this, not only because he had left them farther down the canyon and on the other side of the river, but because virgin warriors shouldn’t be so deadly, so accurate when slaying human beings. He was not surprised when a familiar black-clad figure came into view.

Sicarius. His short, blond hair was plastered to his head, and water dripped from his clothing. He was also breathing heavily, something rare for him.

“We have to run,” he said before Basilard could ask what had happened. His tone was as emotionless as ever. He pulled throwing knives out of some of the fallen men as he added, “They had discovered the dam and were dismantling it. Amaranthe distracted them, leading them away, while I swam in and set the explosive. I attempted to extend the length of the fuse, but—”

A distant boom rolled down from upriver. Distance and the meandering nature of the canyon muffled the sound, but there was no doubt as to what it signified.

“Go,” Sicarius pointed back the way Basilard had come, though he retrieved the rest of his throwing knives.

My people
, Basilard signed—he wasn’t sure if Sicarius saw.
I have two archers down here. They might not realize what the explosion means. Can you yell to them?

A distant roar came to his ears, the promise of water washing down the canyon like a flash flood.

“I’ll look for them,” Sicarius said, then raced toward the water while waving Basilard downriver.

Basilard almost took off after him, not willing to let another risk his life and be delayed while he fled, but another gunshot came from the cave. He hadn’t been paying enough attention to the remaining men in the camp. The musket ball skimmed past so close it ripped a hole in the side of his shirt. Basilard whirled toward the cave, planning to sacrifice one of his daggers to throw if he must, but there were four archers there, in addition to the rifleman.

Basilard dropped to the ground at the same time as arrows sped toward him. He rolled several times, angling for the shadows, then leaped to his feet and sprinted away. The back of his neck burned as he pumped his arms, a reminder of the last time he hadn’t dodged quickly enough. Arrows clattered off the rocks all around him, and one sliced through the side of his shirt, cutting away flesh and muscle. He gasped in pain but did not slow down. He zigzagged his path, trying to find the shadows.

The arrows stopped sooner than expected, but he couldn’t find much relief in that, because that roar had grown in intensity. It was probably what had kept the soldiers from chasing him and continuing to fire. It made cold terror fill Basilard’s heart, even more so than being shot at. He had seen flash floods, knew how animals—or people—caught in them might be swept up by the powerful current and drowned as the water filled the canyon from wall to wall, offering no escape from its clutches.

He had lost track of Sicarius, so all he could do was run toward the trail and hope the others made it out, as well.

The light behind him disappeared. At first, Basilard thought he had rounded a bend, but when he glanced back, he saw the truth. A ten-foot-high wave of water was rushing down the canyon. Already, it had reached those mines, dousing the torches, sweeping them into its flow.

Basilard could see the familiar contours up ahead, the ones that denoted the trail leading out of the canyon. But the water was coming too quickly. He wasn’t going to make it.

Chapter 18

They hadn’t killed her.

As Ashara lay broken and battered among the rocks, each breath bringing a stab of pain as she stared up at the sky, she wondered why that was. Had they known her wounds were too severe and that she would die? Had Tladik wanted her to suffer for her betrayal? Had the rocks blocked their view of her, so they couldn’t shoot? And what had happened to the cougar? Had it been too injured to finish her off? Or had the shaman released his mental grip on it, letting it escape into the forest?

Whatever had happened, she was still alive, but everything hurt so badly that she didn’t want to move. She wasn’t even sure she
could
move.

Droplets from the waterfall spattered her face. She wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that she wouldn’t die of thirst. She could lie there for a long time, bleeding and suffering, without dying. What were the odds of someone stumbling across her? Someone who would help? Had Mahliki seen her fall? She didn’t think so. Mahliki had been doing as Ashara ordered, running. Ashara hoped she had given the young woman enough of a lead to get away, but worried she had not. She hadn’t even found her chance to shoot Tladik.

A sensation trickled through her nerves, the feel of something tiny crawling across the back of her hand, the one that wasn’t in the water. An ant or some other tiny insect, she supposed. When she tried to look, a sharp pain stabbed at her skull, and she felt dampness under the back of her head. Her own blood pooling on the rock underneath her. Moving was definitely not a good idea. Besides, it was too dark to see anything except the stunted shrub growing out of the rocks next to her. A mountain rhododendron, perhaps, though its blooms had long since fallen away, so she could not identify it by scent. Not without using her talent. Her hand rested in the damp soil beneath it, so she supposed she could. But it would only make her head hurt more. And what was the point?