Formidable warriors, yes, these White Faces.
He wondered how long they would last.
Kamz’tryld despised picket duty. Tripping over bhederin dung-and more than a few bones of late, as the slaughter to ready for winter had begun-while biting flies chased him about and the wind drove grit and sand into his face so that by day’s end his white deathmask was somewhere between grey and brown. Besides, he was not so old that he could not have trotted out with Talt’s war-party yesterday-not that Talt agreed, the one-fanged bastard.
Kamz was reaching an age when loot became less a luxury than a need. He had a legacy to build, something to leave his kin-he should not be wasting his last years of prowess here, so far from-
Thunder?
No. Horses.
He was on a ridge that faced a yet higher one just to the north-he probably should have walked out to that one, but he’d decided it was too far-and as he turned to squint in that direction he caught sight of the first outriders.
Akrynnai. A raid-ah, we shall have plenty of blood to spill after all! He snapped out a command and his three wardogs spun and bolted for the camp. Kamz voiced a cry and saw that his fellow sentinels, two off to his left, three to his right, had all seen and heard the enemy, and dogs were tearing down towards the camp-where he discerned a sudden flurry of activity-
Yes, these Akrynnai had made a terrible mistake.
He shifted grip on his lance, as he saw one of the riders charging directly for him. A fine horse: it would make his first trophy of this day.
And then, along the ridge behind the first scatter of riders, a mass of peaked helms-a blinding glare rising like the crest of an iron wave, and then the flash of scaled armour-
Kamz involuntarily stepped back, the rider closing on him forgotten in his shock.
He was a seasoned warrior. He could gauge numbers in an instant, and he counted as he watched the ranks roll down the slope. Spirits below! Twenty-no, thirty thousand-and still more! I need to-
The first arrow took him high between his neck and right shoulder. Staggered by the blow, he recovered and looked up only to greet the second arrow, tearing like fire into his throat.
As blood spurted down his chest, the biting flies rushed in.
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Formidable warriors, yes, these White Faces.
He wondered how long they would last.
Kamz’tryld despised picket duty. Tripping over bhederin dung-and more than a few bones of late, as the slaughter to ready for winter had begun-while biting flies chased him about and the wind drove grit and sand into his face so that by day’s end his white deathmask was somewhere between grey and brown. Besides, he was not so old that he could not have trotted out with Talt’s war-party yesterday-not that Talt agreed, the one-fanged bastard.
Kamz was reaching an age when loot became less a luxury than a need. He had a legacy to build, something to leave his kin-he should not be wasting his last years of prowess here, so far from-
Thunder?
No. Horses.
He was on a ridge that faced a yet higher one just to the north-he probably should have walked out to that one, but he’d decided it was too far-and as he turned to squint in that direction he caught sight of the first outriders.
Akrynnai. A raid-ah, we shall have plenty of blood to spill after all! He snapped out a command and his three wardogs spun and bolted for the camp. Kamz voiced a cry and saw that his fellow sentinels, two off to his left, three to his right, had all seen and heard the enemy, and dogs were tearing down towards the camp-where he discerned a sudden flurry of activity-
Yes, these Akrynnai had made a terrible mistake.
He shifted grip on his lance, as he saw one of the riders charging directly for him. A fine horse: it would make his first trophy of this day.
And then, along the ridge behind the first scatter of riders, a mass of peaked helms-a blinding glare rising like the crest of an iron wave, and then the flash of scaled armour-
Kamz involuntarily stepped back, the rider closing on him forgotten in his shock.
He was a seasoned warrior. He could gauge numbers in an instant, and he counted as he watched the ranks roll down the slope. Spirits below! Twenty-no, thirty thousand-and still more! I need to-
The first arrow took him high between his neck and right shoulder. Staggered by the blow, he recovered and looked up only to greet the second arrow, tearing like fire into his throat.
As blood spurted down his chest, the biting flies rushed in.
Warleader Talt probed with his tongue his single remaining upper canine and then glared at the distant horse-warriors. ‘They lead us ever on, and not once do they turn and fight! We are in a land of cowards!’
‘So we must scrape it clean,’ said Bedit in a growl.
Talt nodded. ‘Your words ring like swords on shields, old friend. These Akrynnai start and dance away like antelope, but their villages are not so fleet, are they? When we are killing their children and raping their young ones, when we are burning their huts and slaughtering their puny horses, then they will fight us!’
‘Or run in terror, Warleader. Torture kills them quick-we’ve seen that. They are spineless.’ He pointed with the tip of his spear. ‘We must choose our own path here, I think, for it is likely they seek to lead us away from their village.’
Talt studied the distant riders. No more than thirty-they had spied them at dawn, waiting, it seemed, on a distant rise. Talt had half-exhausted his warriors attempting to chase them down. A few scattered arrows sent their way was the extent of their belligerence. It was pathetic. The warleader glanced back at his warriors. Eight hundred men and women, their white paint streaked now with sweat, most of them sitting, hunched over in the heat. ‘We shall rest for a time,’ he said.
‘I shall remain here,’ Bedit said, lowering himself into a crouch.
‘If they move sound the call.’
‘Yes, Warleader.’
Talt hesitated, turning to squint at a mountainous mass of storm clouds to the southwest. Closer, yes.
Bedit must have followed his gaze. ‘We are in its path. It will do much to cool us down, I think.’
‘Be sure to leave this hilltop before it arrives,’ Talt advised. ‘And hold that spear to the ground.’
Nodding, Bedit grinned and tapped the side of his bone and horn helm. ‘Tell the fools below who are wearing iron peaks.’
‘I will, although it’s the Akrynnai who should be worried.’
Bedit barked a laugh.
Talt turned and trotted back down to his warriors.
Inthalas, third daughter of Sceptre Irkullas, leaned forward on her saddle.
Beside her, Sagant shook himself and said, ‘They’re done, I think.’
She nodded, but somewhat distractedly. She had lived her entire life on these plains. She had weathered the fiercest prairie storms-she recalled, once, seeing a hundred dead bhederin on a slope, each one killed by lightning-but she had never before seen clouds like these ones.