The Gods Return (34 page)

Duzi. This gelding's one of the handful that the smell drives into a killing rage instead of a panic
.

"Jump, your highness!" Attaper shouted. "Sister take this Sister-raping horse! Jump!"

Some of that must be directed against his own mount, though he probably wasn't any more pleased with Garric's . . . .

The bubbling laughter of the ghost of King Carus was infectious. Garric too chortled as he hurtled toward the ratmen. Carus had picked a horse that wanted to fight. Why would that surprise anybody who knew him?

The tall gelding galloped through clots of javelin men and dismounted cavalry. Some fighting was still going on, but the horse apparently didn't think it was worth his attention. Instead he rode straight at about twenty—

"
Twenty-two
," Carus corrected.

—twenty-two rats, several smaller groups which had merged and were advancing uphill in a shallow Vee.

Garric was too busy to be afraid. Oh, this was a disaster, no question, but there wouldn't be time to worry until it was over—and probably no opportunity then either, of course.

He couldn't jump from the galloping horse, not with a bare sword in his hand. Attaper would've known that if he'd been thinking instead of reacting. Nor could Garric sheath the sword: under these conditions, not even Carus' skill could guarantee the point would find the scabbard mouth instead of the flesh of his thigh.

Of course Garric could've hurled the sword away before jumping and taken his chances of being able to escape uphill unarmed while the ratmen pursued. He didn't figure that was an option he'd choose in this lifetime—nor would Carus choose it in another thousand years.

He might as well laugh.

The gelding charged the center of the line of ratmen. There was nothing wrong with the rats' courage: the one which the horse had marked for his own stood his ground. His sword was raised and his little round shield advanced, though nobody could imagine that the impact of a horse weighing a hundred stone plus rider was going to be survivable.

They crashed together. The gelding pivoted. Garric gripped the saddle horn with his left hand and cut down to his right at a ratman. His sword sheared the rat's helmet and into the narrow skull, but the beast stabbed deep into the horse's flank before thrashing away.

A rat slashed from the left, slicing the back of Garric's thigh. Time later to worry about how bad that was. The screaming horse reared, kicking with both forefeet.

Garric swung his left leg over the saddle and slid to the ground over the gelding's bleeding right haunch. Four ratmen were coming at him. He thrust the first through the throat, notching the little shield the beastman tried to interpose.

Thank the Lady for this sword! Or better, thank the Yellow King
.

The other three would've had him but the gelding, continuing to turn, crushed them down, bathing them in gouts of blood from a deep cut his neck. Garric drew his dagger in his left hand and turned to his left to meet the ratmen coming from that direction.

Carus was in full charge of his mind now. There was neither time nor need of anything but reflex, and the ancient warrior had honed his reflexes in a hundred battles like this one.

Five or six ratmen were squirming toward him, getting in each other's way. Their shields were wicker with thin bronze facings. Garric thrust through the center of the nearest, deep into the forearm of the rat holding it, and flicked his sword sideways to drag the squealing creature into the path of its fellows.

Garric jerked back on the sword to clear it. The preternaturally sharp blade screeched free, but one of the ratmen vaulted the struggling knot and cut at his head. He got the dagger up in time to catch the stroke, but the rat cannoned into him.

Garric stepped back with his left foot, tripped on a furry corpse, and fell over beneath his attacker. It struck at him with its shield, numbing his left arm. He twisted the sword around and pounded the pommel into the beast's ribs. He heard bone crack, but the rat tried to hit him again.

Garric shoved the rat away. It didn't weigh more than eighty pounds, but Duzi! it was strong. Three more of the creatures pushed close.

Garric was still on his back. He kicked a rat in the crotch. They weren't built like men and anyway this one was female, but his boot slammed the creature out of the way for the moment. The other two—

Half a dozen javelins zipped overhead. A rat turned one with his shield but another took him in the belly beneath the lower edge of his breastplate. Missiles spiked the standing rat through the eye and shoulder, while the female Garric had kicked was skewered from knee to hip bone.

That last javelin nicked the toe of Garric's raised boot and could as easily have taken off a toe. A toe would've been a cheap price to pay for the rest of the volley.

"Yee-
ha
!" shrilled a skirmisher leaping past with his hatchet raised.

The female with the spear through her leg cut at him. The skirmisher blocked the sword with his remaining javelin—they went into action with three apiece—and sank his hatchet into the side of the rat's skull. She'd lost her helmet, but thin bronze wouldn't have helped her anyway. As she spasmed into death, other skirmishers stabbed or hacked the bodies of ratmen who were still quivering.

"Thanks for baiting 'em for us, buddy," said the first skirmisher on the scene. He stuck the buttspike of his javelin into the turf and helped Garric up with his left hand. "The furry bastards 're too quick to spear when they're paying attention."

"Yeah," said another cheerful skirmisher. "I always knew cavalry pukes must be good for something."

Garric's borrowed mount lay in a pile of furry bodies. The gelding had died with his teeth clamped on a ratman's shoulder. In his death throes he'd almost bitten the creature's arm off.

"
Ought to put up a monument to that horse
," Carus said. "
For valorous conduct in battle
."

I don't think Attaper would agree
, Garric thought.

The skirmisher who'd finished the female rat wiped his hatchet clean and turned to Garric. "You ought to have that leg looked at, buddy," he said.

"Hey, if it'd got the artery, he wouldn't be standing, right?" said his fellow. He knelt and lifted the skirt of Garric's tunic. "Still, let me have a look at it."

"You bloody fools!" bellowed Attaper. "That's your prince!"

"Bugger me if it ain't!" said the man thrusting the hatchet away under his belt.

"Yes, milord," said Garric, turning with a smile. He'd have to wipe his sword before sheathing it, but from the way the gelding had sprayed blood it didn't seem any of this group of rats had enough clean fur for the long blade. "And they saved my life, not to put too fine a point on it."

He grinned at the skirmishers. "Even if they did think I was just another cavalry puke."

"Sorry if, ah . . . ," said the standing man. "Some of those javelins came a bit close."

"Not as close as the rats were going to come if you hadn't been around," Garric said.

The other skirmisher stood. "I think your leg's going to be fine, b-b-prince," he said. "But the surgeon'll want to stitch it up when you get back to camp."

"Yes, he bloody well will," snarled Attaper. He was panting and red-faced from running a good half mile, obviously expecting a worse result than he'd found when he reached his prince. "And we're going to get you back there as soon as somebody drags a horse down here for you, your highness."

Garric looked up the valley. The prisoners had disappeared with their guards, and the only ratmen visible were the hundreds of furry corpses.

"All right, we'll head back," Garric said. Much as he hated it, he had to agree with King Carus' cold logic: he couldn't go after the prisoners with the troops he had available. Cavalry was obviously useless, and the skirmishers had taken casualties also. If there were a thousand ratmen concealed around the dogleg, they'd massacre their pursuers.

He looked at the carnage, the bloody, stinking carnage, around him.

"
Well
," said Carus. "
I wouldn't call it a victory, but I'm glad to have learned this before we tried a cavalry charge in a major battle. Because odds are, we'd have been leading it ourself. Right, lad?
"

Right
.

While Sharina was in meetings, she had only the others present to deal with. In between, however, she had to run a gauntlet of clerks, courtiers, and petitioners as she moved through the halls and passages.

It was no different this time. The fact Sharina was leaving her final appointment of the day—on road improvements which were absolutely necessary but either a huge financial drain or a political disaster if forced labor was used—and hoping to have a light meal in her suite before getting some sleep, just meant that she was more tired and hungry than she'd have been at midmorning. Though she'd been hungry and very tired at midmorning, too.

"
Your highness, about the canal project/the new barracks/the position for my nephew?
"

She strode past them in a cocoon of Blood Eagles. Her escort made sure nobody actually touched Princess Sharina, but they couldn't shut off the voices unless they simply clubbed everybody out of her way. History said tyrants like Hawley the Seneschal and King Morail One-Eye had done just that.

Sharina sighed. The reality of being princess gave her a different and altogether most positive appreciation of men whom she as a scholar had regarded as brutes.

There was usually a dense clot outside the door she would next enter. That was true this time also, but all but one of those waiting were fit, very sturdy-looking men in identical neat tunics and identical grim expressions. The exception was Master Dysart.

The agents parted when the Blood Eagles arrived; they weren't here to fight, just to hold a prime location and to keep everybody else at a discrete distance from their superior while he talked to the princess.

"Your highness, if you could sign these tonight . . .?" the spymaster said, waving a sheaf of documents on vellum. Sharina doubted whether there was anybody in the palace who didn't know that Dysart was Lady Liane's deputy, but the colorless little man kept up the pretense that he was a senior clerk in the Chancellery.

"Yes, of course," said Sharina, narrowly avoiding another sigh. Secret intelligence was part of her present duties, but experience had already taught her that the details of road construction were likely to be more interesting. "We can take care of that inside, Master Dysart."

Sharina opened the door herself. Burne sat upright on a table in the reception area as Diora fed him a round of hard bread. The rat was perfectly capable of feeding himself, but Sharina had noticed that the maid was more comfortable thinking of Burne as a smart pet than she might've been if she'd appreciated what he really was.

Sharina grinned. Whatever that was, of course, but Burne was certainly more than a smart pet.

"A late night, your highness," Diora said as she turned to greet Sharina. "What—oh!"

Dysart closed the door firmly behind him, then shot the bolts. Diora hadn't realized her mistress wasn't alone when she greeted her with what many would consider scandalous informality from a maid. She was obviously embarrassed.

"I have some papers to go over with Master Dysart," Sharina said nonchalantly. "Set out my nightgown, Diora. And shut the door behind you, if you please."

The bedroom was already prepared—of course—but it was a quiet excuse to prevent awkwardness with the spymaster. Dysart probably
was
scandalized by Sharina's friendly relationship with her maid, but the chance of him talking to another living soul was less than that the huntsmen and stags painted on the sidewall would.

On the other hand, Dysart would refuse to speak in front of Diora however much Sharina said she trusted the maid. Perhaps he was right.

Burne jumped down from the table and padded over to them. "I'm coming up," he warned, then hopped to Sharina's sash for a foothold and finally to her shoulder.

"There haven't been any scorpions in the suite all day," he said in a conversational voice. "I'm not sure whether they're giving up or just planning something more subtle . . . but for now at least, I think we have privacy."

Dysart waited, watching Diora till the bedroom door thumped shut. He grimaced—whether at the maid or the rat, Sharina couldn't tell—and said, "We're going to raid a gathering of Scorpion worshippers at midnight, your highness. We'll be using men from my own department and a company of soldiers in civilian dress. You'd said you wanted to be kept informed of progress, so—"

He shrugged.

"—I came to tell you."

A servant watching the waterclock in the square outside the palace rang the hour with a mallet and a set of chimes. It lacked a half hour of midnight, which was time enough.

"Right," Sharina said. "Master Dysart, send a messenger to Captain Ascor and tell him to report to me immediately. He's to be without equipment and wearing a blue cloak to cover his sword."

"Your highness," Dysart said in concern, "Lord Tadai has already provided for soldiers. I don't believe adding Blood Eagles is advisable."

"I'm not adding Blood Eagles," Sharina said, tugging at her laces. "I'm—"