Dragon Weather (28 page)

But on the north side, where Arlian was, bandits had appeared along the ridgetops, arrows nocked, bows raised and ready—at least a score of them, all in those flowing red-and-white robes.

“Get down!” Quickhand barked, ducking back into the wagon. Arlian barely heard him over the lowing of frightened oxen and the shouting of angry men.

One of the bandits was making his way carefully down the slope toward the caravan; he appeared to be shouting something, but Arlian couldn't distinguish his voice over the din.

On the other side of the net Black was standing in the open-shuttered and now halted guard wagon, holding the wounded captive upright by the front of his shirt.

“You
lied
to us, you little bastard!” Black bellowed, in a voice that somehow carried clearly to Arlian over the chaos.

The prisoner said something in reply, but Arlian couldn't hear it.

The other guards were hacking at the huge net, but making little progress; the ropes were as thick as a man's forearm and tarred with something that stuck to sword blades. That, and the springiness, made it almost impossible to cut through.

Arlian jumped to the ground, sword ready. He refused to hide in his wagon.

Someone farther back in the line was shouting for quiet, and the voices, both human and ox, were dying away as the caravan came to a full stop, the situation became clear, and the confusion began to fade.

“Surrender!” the bandit on the slope called. “We'll take half your goods as toll, and then you're free to go!”

“Half?” Arlian wasn't the only one to shout that back angrily.

“You have until I count ten, and then my archers will loose!” the bandit spokesman cried down.

Arlian ignored him, and turned to the net.

Trapping seven of the guards on the other side was clever—but not
that
clever. “Climb over!” Arlian shouted. “Two of you hold it steady for the others, then two steady it from this side for the last two!”

“Do as he says!” Black called.

“Five!” the bandit shouted.

“Quickly!”
Arlian screamed. “And dive for cover when you're over! Under the wagons!”

“Eight!”

Arlian suddenly realized that he should take his own advice—but if he ducked inside his wagon he would be trapped there, pinned down.

He would take his chances, he resolved. Perhaps whatever Fate had propelled him this far from Obsidian and Deep Delving would protect him—Fate, and the armor he wore.

“Ten! Loose!” the bandit cried—diving to the ground himself as he did. Bowstrings snapped, and a hail of arrows soared down into the canyon—but none fell near Arlian.

That made sense, he realized as he watched the shafts rattle off wood and stone; there were perhaps thirty archers, at most, shooting at forty-five wagons—forty-four, if the lead wagon wasn't included.

The guards were still struggling with the net—climbing it was apparently far more difficult than Arlian had realized, since men on the ground could not steady the top few feet. “Up the slope!” Arlian called, waving frantically. “It's not as high up there!”

The bandits, having fired, were advancing down the slope as they drew fresh arrows from the quivers on their backs; each took two or three steps before nocking the next shaft, and then two or three more before drawing. At that rate they would reach the caravan after another half dozen volleys—which was undoubtedly the idea.

“If we have to come down there and fight,” the bandit spokesman called, “we'll show no mercy!”

A bowstring snapped, and an arrow sailed past the spokesman, missing by several feet.
Someone
intended to resist, at any rate.

Arlian thought his own bow was still somewhere in his wagon; he had no idea how to use it and knew it, so he had no intention of going back for it. Instead he intended to use his sword—if he could get close enough to the bandits.

They were moving down the slopes on either side, but they were also converging toward the center of the caravan, several wagons back from Arlian's own position; he began to run and dodge up the sloping road, changing his direction sharply whenever he heard a bowstring.

An ox bellowed as an arrow struck meat.

The bandit strategy was becoming clearer; they were using the arrows to keep the merchants cowering in their wagons while they were collecting into a group that would attack the central wagons one by one. The guards, isolated at either end of the line, might be unable to reach them in time.

Arlian wasn't about to allow them to attack unhindered, though; he might be just one man, but he could do
something.

And he saw now that he wasn't alone—at least two of the guards from the masters' wagon were on the ground and moving down the road to meet the bandits, and one of the horsemen was charging, sword drawn, up the canyon side toward the approaching marauders.

The bandits shouted to one another, and the next ragged volley of arrows was concentrated on the horseman; his mount suddenly stumbled and went down, a shaft projecting from its neck.

One of the faster-moving bandits had reached the side of the caravan; he dropped his bow and pulled a heavy mallet from beneath his robe and ran up to the nearest wagon's rear wheel, mallet swinging.

Arlian understood that tactic well enough; the bandits wanted to cripple some of the wagons so badly that the caravan would abandon them, trade goods still aboard. With a wordless yell, Arlian ran at the hammer-wielding southerner with his sword raised in an overhand attack.

At the last instant the man dropped his mallet and turned; at the last instant the horror of what he was doing suddenly registered in Arlian's mind; but it was too late. His sword plunged forward and down, into the unprotected hollow at the base of the bandit's throat. His forward motion pushed the blade deep and thrust Arlian up against the bandit, so close he could smell the man's stinking breath.

The bandit's eyes flew wide, his mouth sprang open as if to vomit, but nothing came forth but a sort of choking gasp.

Then Arlian heard a sound behind him; he whipped his blade free and turned, and the bandit tumbled forward, blood spurting, to land at his killer's feet. One hand slapped limply against Arlian's shin.

But another bandit was upon him, this one with a wooden spear in hand, and Arlian was too busy to think about the man at his feet.

It was only later that he realized that for the first time, he had killed a man.

He could kill if he had to. When the time came, he could strike Lord Dragon down.

Somehow, that knowledge failed to cheer him.

23

Aftermath

The fight was long and bloody; the caravan guards were outnumbered, but better armed and better trained. The merchants for the most part proved to be useless as fighters; most were unable even to defend themselves.

Arlian was the exception; he fought side by side with the guards, doing his part to even the odds. In the chaos of wielding sword and swordbreaker against spears and clubs, so completely different from the one-on-one sword fights of his practice bouts, he was unsure whether he killed anyone after that first assault. He knew that he drew blood many times, but beyond that he could not be certain just what effect his blows had.

He shouted for the merchants and their families and hirelings to come out and fight, did everything he could to urge them to join in their own defense, but to no avail. Most remained huddled in their wagons and were completely useless even there.

This was demonstrated several times by one of the bandits' favorite tactics, which was for half a dozen men to charge into a wagon with clubs and spears and slaughter everyone aboard, then to use the wagon as a miniature fortress against the guards. The guards, outnumbered as they were, could not defend the entire long line of wagons at once and were unable to prevent these captures.

It was Black who came up with the counter—station a man at each end of the captured wagon with orders to kill anyone who set foot outside. Two men could bottle up half a dozen bandits this way, and in fact roughly one-third of the entire raiding party was trapped in this fashion.

Another third was killed or incapacitated.

And the final third, realizing that their attack was a failure, fled up the slopes into the gathering night, dragging those of their wounded who were unable to walk.

Some of the wounded bandits who were not dragged were barely able to limp away, and could easily have been caught and killed, but Black called out to let them go. “Let them be a burden to the others!”

Three guards had been slain outright, as well, and two more seriously wounded. Black took a gash on the side, but insisted it wasn't serious and refused to relinquish his command of the caravan's defenders. One horse was killed by a spear, and several oxen received minor injuries.

Five merchants and their families had been butchered in their wagons.

When the fight was over the guards turned their attention to the three wagons still occupied by bandits. Black stood, holding one hand to his injured side while his sword dangled from the other, staring at the first of the wagons.

Lord Drens came up, a lantern in his hand, looking worried. He had already set merchants and drivers to repairing broken wagons and smashed wheels, Arlian noted with approval, and was now coming to attend to the remaining bandits. “I think we had best…” he began.

“Shut up,” Black barked at him. “This is
my
business still, not yours.”

Drens stopped in his tracks, shocked; he looked at the blood seeping through Black's fingers, at the guards standing around him spattered with blood and dirt, their swords still in their hands, and decided against making any protest. “As you say,” he agreed.

“What are you going to do with us?” a bandit called from the wagon.

“You might as well let us go,” another added. “We won't bother you again.”

“And if you don't, we'll wreck everything in here!” a third called.

“What do
I
care if you spoil someone else's property?” Black bellowed in reply. “You already killed the owner, you murdering bastards!”

“You can't kill us in cold blood!” the first voice said.

Several of the guards muttered in reply to that, and Arlian knew all of them were thinking the same thing he was: Why not?

But his gorge rose at the thought. He didn't want any more deaths.

“Who said anything about killing you?” Black called back. “We aren't going to kill you if you come out peacefully, with empty hands raised above your heads.”

“You'll let us go?”

“I didn't say that, either—but I'll release you, most of you, under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“No, no,” Black said. “You don't hear the conditions until
after
you surrender.”

Utter silence fell for a moment as the bandits considered that; then one called, “Go feed the dragons!”

“Maybe someday I will,” Black retorted, “but I assure you we won't feed
you.
”

“But there's plenty of food stored in there,” Arlian whispered to Stabber, who stood nearby.

“
They
may not know that,” Stabber whispered back.

They could all hear what happened next—the bandits argued quietly among themselves, and then came the sound of a blow, and a body falling.

“I surrender!” called a voice, and the first bandit came out, hands up.

A moment later the entire wagon was empty of bandits; at Black's direction each was securely bound.

A similar scene was then played out at each of the other two disputed wagons, until ten bandits huddled on the ground, hands and feet tied, surrounded by the caravan's guards.

“Now,” Black said, “we will let you go, one by one—but first we'll make sure none of you can draw a bow against peaceful merchants ever again.” He pulled the first bandit up, and with four other guards holding the man securely in place and using a wagon's end platform as a chopping block, he used an ax to amputate the man's left hand.

The other bandits—and Arlian—stared in horror as the crippled marauder screamed and the guards struggled to bandage the bleeding stump.

“I hope you weren't left-handed,” Black said. He raised his voice and called to the others, “Are any of you left-handed?”

One man, weeping with terror, barely able to get the words out past his tears, said that he was. Black took him next, so as not to risk forgetting, and removed his right hand.

Then the others, one by one, were dragged to the improvised chopping block.

Black chased away any member of the caravan who came to either watch or protest, insisting that they should attend to their own affairs—including getting the caravan ready to move. He also sent four guards up the canyon walls to cut the ropes holding the net.

When each bandit had been dealt with and each fresh stump had been bandaged, that man was given a push and sent scrambling as best he could up the side of the canyon; most collapsed, moaning or screaming, a few yards away.

When the last had been shoved away Black turned to the ashen-faced Lord Drens and announced, “The threat has been dealt with, my lord, and we'll have that inconvenience”—he gestured at the net—“out of your way shortly. Might I suggest that despite the darkness, we press on for another mile or so?”

Arlian stared at the two men in the lamplight and realized that
both
of them were unnaturally pale. Drens was uninjured, so his color was surely just from his reaction to the attack and its aftermath, but Arlian feared Black's pallor was due to loss of blood.

“As you say,” Lord Drens agreed.

It took another twenty minutes to straighten out the mess and finish minimal repairs. The bodies of the dead members of the caravan were hastily wrapped in sheets and loaded aboard wagons; the bodies of dead bandits were flung out on the roadside. Guards took charge of the five wagons that no longer had living drivers.