The Garden of Stones - By Mark T. Barnes Page 0,52

no!” Mari yelled as Indris drew in close. He elbowed her brother under the chin, then struck him in the temple with Changeling’s Dragon-head pommel. Belam reeled. Indris did not turn, but he must have heard Mari’s cry. Rather than the lethal stroke that she knew should have come, Indris hammered his fist into Belam’s helmed face. Her brother teetered on the edge of the stairs, then fell backward.

The battlewagon rocked as Vashne, Ariskander, Daniush, and Hamejin escaped. Another flight of arrows from the concealing darkness. Indris muttered a word. The wooden shafts of the arrows flashed red, then turned to a fine cloud of ash, which drifted to the earth. The serill arrowheads spun unguided through the air to ring against paved ground and the armored wagon.

Indris placed himself between the tree line and Ariskander and Vashne and his sons. They had drawn their blades to stand side by side. Ekko and the Seethe woman joined them. Ariskander dashed forward, blade little more than a blur in his veteran’s hands. Vashne moved forward to stand by Ariskander, Daniush, and Hamejin, closing ranks. Though their inexperience showed, along with their tension, the two young men gave a good accounting of themselves until they were pushed back and back and back toward the battlewagon.

Mari padded forward, filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. The attackers had encircled Vashne and the others. With deliberate steps they moved forward, a new warrior coming to the fore as the defenders cut the previous one down. Soon enough, Vashne and the others found their backs to the battlewagon, their Feyassin protectors dead, though Indris remained between them and the bloodied warriors, who now paused, uncertain.

“Move yourself, warrior-mage,” Belam snarled as he mounted the steps. He had sheathed his sword, though his hand was cupped around the hilt. His voice was sepulchral where it echoed from within the tinted glass helm.

“You may as well go back to your masters and tell them you’ve failed,” Indris warned. “I can’t allow you to murder anybody else.”

“Allow?” Belam glided forward. “Dragon-Eyed Indris. I’m underwhelmed. My brother predicted you would kill me in a fight—I’ll be glad to prove him wrong.”

Indris cocked his head to one side. Mari saw him smile, a sad expression on his handsome face. The breeze tugged at the curls that fell across his brow. “I’d expect a great many people fear you, neh?”

Belam shrugged. “Their fear is short-lived.” Mari observed him widen his stance, right foot forward. His left heel turned inward to spiral more energy into his draw. Many opponents had died without ever seeing his blade coming. A blur of motion. A flash. A cut so precise there was little by way of pain, with only a stunned moment to contemplate the surety of their death.

“Is there any way we’re going to take our separate ways without this ending in bloodshed?” Indris asked.

“At least you’ve the chance to fight for your life.”

The other attackers had gathered on the edge of the lantern light as they watched and listened. There were ten of them, most wounded in one way or another. Another figure came from the tree line, carrying a red-sheathed amenesqa, which he handed to Belam. Her brother surrendered his Seethe weapon, affixing Tragedy to his belt.

Indris jerked his chin at the man’s companions. “Do we abide by sende? Will you give me your word your followers won’t involve themselves, or harm my companions if I win?”

“Stop!” Mari yelled to her brother. She did not care who heard her. Mari had little doubt Indris would kill her brother unless this was stopped now. “You don’t—”

“I’m an honorable man, and sende is an honorable tradition.” Belam’s head turned in her direction, though she could not see his expression under his helmet. “Though I think your friends are doomed.”

“There’s an old saying by a Seethe battle-dramatist of the Petal Empire,” Indris offered. “She said, ‘It is almost a certainty that, when a person is most sure, they are often most mistaken. Such arrogance as fueled by self-interest, without wisdom, consideration, or restraint, ensures nothing except misery.’ Please reconsider.”

Mari noted the change in her brother’s balance. She waited. Knew what was to come.

“May you know the peace of your Ancestors’ love,” Belam said.

Indris shot forward. Mari had never seen anybody move so quickly in her life.

Belam’s sword had not quite cleared its sheath when Indris gestured. Tragedy flew clear of the sheath and spun away into the darkness. Indris dropped his shin across Belam’s extended leg.