The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (29 page)

A broad grin spread over
Sandilianus's face. “Bold. The twenty of us against three
hundred? You want to make sure we all die well, eh?”

Ahmed scowled at him, annoyed
at the mockery, and stammered a bit as he answered. “The
Nihlosians will be fighting them as well.”
Ilaweh preserve
me, if I lose the sense to even speak, how can I lead?
His reasoning was sound, and he knew it. He took a deep breath and
found his normal voice again.
“The Elgies won't come at
us as a mass. They will straggle in and we will cut them down like
the dogs they are.”

Sandilianus gave him a cool
stare, considering. “The Nihlosians may attack us anyway, even
if we are aiding them. They fear us greatly.”

“As well they should,”
Ahmed answered, his words strong, his confidence rising again. “If
they turn on us, we will likely die. But I do not fear death in the
service of Ilaweh. This is the
right
thing to do.”

“And the prince? If we
die here, our mission fails.”

“Philip serves Ilaweh
just as we do. He will understand, if not in this life, then when he
sees us again.”

Sandilianus stood for several
moments, eyebrows raised, mulling Ahmed’s words and stroking
his chin.
Damn you! You needn't draw it out so!
Finally his
expression changed to a grim smile, and hammered a fist against his
chest. “Then it is a good day to die.” He clapped a hand
on Ahmed's shoulder and squeezed. “You did well. You've
learned much.”

“Is it what you would
do?”

Sandilianus chuckled and shook
his head. “If we survive, I will tell you how I would have
handled things.”

Ahmed tried to give the elder
soldier a sour look, but it was spoiled by his grin. “Old men
and riddles.”

“Incentive to keep me
alive,” Sandilianus answered. “An important
consideration in this business.”

Now that the decision had been
made, Ahmed felt the weight of leadership settle firmly on his
shoulders once again, but it seemed to fit him better this time.
Good. Perhaps I have some small chance of finishing Yazid's work
after all.
“Pass the word. To arms, and quickly. We will
crush these dogs or die in the attempt.” He paused for a
moment, knowing his next command would not be liked. “And tell
the Nihlosian to stand down.”

Sandilianus regarded him with
confusion and some anger. “Ahmed! He has proved himself well
enough to fight with us! Why would you insult him so?”

“So he has, and I mean no
insult. But things are already precarious. He said himself, his
people are not fond of him. If they see him with us, it may make it
even harder to get them to see reason. We cannot risk it.”

Sandilianus ground his teeth
and nodded. “I will tell him.”

Logrus awoke to darkness, the
scent of blood and smoke heavy in the air. He was in a tent, lying
face down in the dirt, tied hand and foot. Aiul, likewise bound and
bloody, lay motionless on the dirt floor beside him, perhaps dead.

Logrus waited where he woke,
silent and unmoving, listening and taking stock. He heard voices
outside the tent, arguing, from the tone. Flickering shadows
announced that a fire burned nearby, in front of the entrance.

He tested his bonds and found
them only marginally secure. There was a little play that he could
make use of, given time and privacy. Fortunately, this was exactly
what he had. The fools had guards outside, but none actually
observing him. He allowed himself a small, wry smile, knowing
exactly why that would be. What had he been, this time, in their
eyes? It was doubtful that they even agreed upon it, save that it
was a monster.

The tent flap hung open
slightly, just enough to allow him to peek out. It was a small
window on the outside world, but enough to show immediate threats.
Six guards sat around a fire outside, two on a bench directly in
front of the tent flap. They were playing some sort of game and
drinking, not terribly concerned about their captives. All were
armed, but one had apparently taken Aiul’s mace as a trophy.
He held it across his lap like a child, apparently quite proud of
his find.

It
will be trivial to kill you all.

He worked at the binding ropes,
stretching them as much as he could, then twisted his left arm and
pulled until he dislocated his shoulder. It was less painful that it
had been in the past, but it was enough to make him bite his tongue
to stay quiet.
Putting it back will be worse.
He wriggled his
hands beneath his backside and around his feet, clenching his jaw at
the pain of overstretched muscles, then used his teeth to untie the
knots.

Once free, all that remained
was to reset the shoulder. It was a difficult process to do alone,
and doubly so in that it needed to be silent. A tree would have been
lovely for that, but there was none within the tent, and the poles
were fragile. Logrus settled for lying on his side and pressing the
shoulder against the ground. He put as much of his body weight
against it as possible, and prayed to Elgar it was enough. For a
moment, he feared it wasn’t, but at last he was rewarded by a
satisfying pop and a jolt of nauseating agony. He bore it in
silence. It was hardly the first pain he had endured, and it would
certainly not be the last.

He clamped a hand over Aiul’s
mouth to stifle any unexpected cry, then shook him gently. Aiul gave
a slight moan, at last rousing and looking at Logrus with cloudy,
confused eyes. Logrus held his hand in place until Aiul was fully
conscious, then released him, raising a finger to his lips.

“Are you injured?”
Logrus whispered as he removed his companion’s bonds. When his
hands were free, Aiul probed his various aches and pains a few
moments, testing for damage beyond bruising, then shook his head.

“I don’t think so,”
he whispered back.

“You can fight, then?”

Aiul’s eyes grew distant,
his face pinched. He turned his head away and stared at the dirt
floor, a bad sign. He was wavering. Logrus punched him in the arm, a
hard blow, and glared at him, pushing with his eyes.

Aiul rubbed at the pain and
gave him an evil look. “No. No more fighting.”

Logrus sighed. This was
unexpected, but not unbelievable. The knights of flame were at times
moody children. “Idiot. We
must
fight. There is no choice.”

Aiul shook his head, still
refusing to meet Logrus’s gaze. “It’s gone too
far. I can put a stop to it right now.”

“Fool! We will die here!”

Aiul at last faced him, and
Logrus saw there were tears welling in his eyes. “I am a
healer, not a killer! Yet look at what I have become!”

Logrus stared at Aiul in
disgust and disappointment. What did Elgar see in this weak,
flinching buffoon? “Do you not know our captors? They are
your
people! The ones who killed your wife!”

Aiul swallowed hard, nodding in
acknowledgment. “All I need to do to prevent any more killing
is to walk outside and bend a knee.”

Logrus ground his teeth in cold
anger. This was not mere moodiness. This was a betrayal of Aiul’s
own goals. “You would bow to the woman who murdered your wife?
I should kill you for such treachery!”

Aiul looked, if anything, even
more resolute. “Did you not hear what I said? There need not
be
any more
killing!”

Logrus spat on the ground in
contempt for such notion. “You make fine excuses, but here is
another explanation, a simpler one: cowardice! You told me what it
was to love a woman. And now you betray her memory to save your own
skin!”

Something dark and malignant
flashed in Aiul’s eyes, and Logrus smiled in his own mind.
There it is.

Aiul hunched his shoulders and
leaned toward Logrus. “I would trade my own life for hers if I
could!”

Logrus sneered at this. “Words.
You’ve said before your life means nothing to you, so what is
the sacrifice in that?”

Aiul sat for long moments,
stunned, his mouth working but forming no words. When he finally did
speak, his voice was more a croak than a whisper, harsh and
dangerously loud for their circumstances. “Shut up!”

Logrus fancied he could see a
faint gleam of red in Aiul’s eyes, a glowing ember needing
only to be blown to burst back into flame. “If you will not
kill for her, then I say your love was a lie!”

Logrus could see it clearly in
Aiul’s eyes as the jagged thing surged forth with the strength
and savagery of a hurricane. He could almost hear the thunder, see
the flash of lightning as the storm overtook Aiul.

“You want me to kill for
her?” Aiul roared, not caring if his captors heard. “I’ll
start with
you
!”

Aiul surged forward, but Logrus
was both ready for the attack and significantly faster. He dodged
Aiul’s charge with ease, leaving the lanky Nihlosian to careen
headlong through the tent flap and trip over the occupied bench.
Aiul, guards, and the bench hit the ground in a flailing heap as the
remaining four men gaped in shock.

Logrus rushed to the entrance.
Aiul lay face down in the dirt, cursing in pain and rage alongside
an untended, dying fire. A boiling coffee pot, balanced precariously
on a grate above the coals, steamed and dribbled around its lid. The
fire hissed and sputtered fitfully at the unwelcome drops of
moisture. Two guards were likewise entangled with one another and
the bench, trying to regain their senses and their feet.

The other four guards leapt
from their seats, scrambling for their weapons and shouting for
help. The one with Aiul’s mace took a bead on the back of
Aiul’s head and raised his weapon high.

Logrus tore a heavy pole from
the tent as he stepped out, and hurled it like a javelin, sparing
Aiul’s life by scant seconds. The pole caught the attacker
full in the mouth, sending him to the ground in a spray of blood and
shattered teeth. Aiul’s mace fell with him, landed with a
leaden thud, and rolled within easy reach of its owner. Logrus
wondered bemusedly if such was Elgar’s work, or blind luck.

Does it really matter?

Logrus lunged at a guard on the
other side of the fire, one still reaching for his sword, and
tackled him, sending them both spilling over the bench and to the
ground. The soldier screamed in terror and began flailing with bare
fists. Logrus drove his fingers to the second knuckle into the man’s
eye sockets, noting absently that the man’s scream of agony
was slightly different than one of fear. Why had he never noticed
that before? He had no time to contemplate it overmuch.

He ducked another guard’s
wild, panicked swing and lunged back toward the fire, feeling the
weapon part his hair as it passed overhead. He snatched up the
boiling coffee pot and dashed its contents into his attacker’s
face, then spun to deal with the next as his victim fell to the
ground, screeching and clawing at his eyes in agony.

Aiul, on his feet now and still
insane with rage, snatched up his mace and swung it with both hands
at Logrus’s head. The nearest of the two remaining soldiers
blocked Aiul’s blow out of reflex. This was followed by a
pause as the other combatants gaped at him while he cursed himself
for a fool. The battle resumed a second later as Aiul, now inside
the man’s guard, swung the mace backhanded and stove in the
side of his helmet.

Logrus leapt on the back of yet
another guard and hammered the coffee pot against the man’s
head. As the two went down in a crash, he saw, peripherally, the
remaining guards turn and flee, and Aiul ran after them.

In some ways, it was good, he
reflected as he bashed the coffee pot against the guard’s
now-cracked skull. He didn’t relish being hit from behind by a
supposed ally. By the time he saw Aiul again, he would likely have
forgotten any quarrel he had with Logrus. The Knights of Flame were
like that.

Logrus pushed the bloody corpse
aside and sat alone for the moment, catching his breath.

How many will we have to
fight?

Ahmed watched the camp from a
nearby hill through Sandilianus’s spyglass. Men were fighting
in the camp now, but why? And why so few?

He passed the glass to
Sandilianus. The elder soldier grunted and shrugged. “Odd. I
don’t like it.” He passed the glass back to Ahmed.

“Nor I.”

A runner came pounding up and
skidded to a halt before them, waiting breathlessly for recognition.
Damn, what was his name? Ahmed was embarrassed that he could not
remember. A generic would have to do. “Report, soldier.”

“The Elgies are moving.
They began their advance not thirty seconds ago. They have split
their force and are approaching the camp from east and north.”

Sandilianus raised an eyebrow
at this. “Whatever is going on down there, it’s spurred
them to action.”

Ahmed nodded and raised the
spyglass again, confirming both the Elgie advance and the fact that
the fighting below now was something of an entirely different
nature. The first of the Elgie forces were even now reaching the
periphery of the camp. Fire sparked in the darkness as they struck
torches. He could see their faces, made even uglier in the
flickering torchlight.

They were going to use fire.
Not even the mercy of a quick blade. He passed the glass back to
Sandilianus. “It’s time. Get a good look.”

Sandilianus considered the
situation in the distance. “We strike from the east as well,
hit that section in the rear. They will be caught between us and the
Nihlosians We’ll break them easily, and deal with the rest
once we join forces.”

If
we join forces.
“Recall the scouts. We must move at
once.”

Sadrik sat bolt upright, highly
perturbed at having been awakened from a lovely dream. Maklin, on
the other side of the tent, heaved a single, trumpeting snore, then
rolled over. Other than that, silence. What had woke him, then? He
rose to his feet quietly, listening.

He heard the snap of a twig
outside, near the opening. Orange light bloomed as a torch flared.
Shadows danced across the inside of the tent, making it seem as if
there were dozens of people outside. But that was impossible.
Unless….

Sadrik charged the tent flap
and snatched it aside. A dirty, ragged man grinned at him in awkward
surprise, the gaps in his smile more numerous than the teeth. His
torch was inches from the tent, and any number of others like him
were running through the camp, setting other tents ablaze.

“You little shit!”
Sadrik shouted. Flame from the torch poured down the man’s arm
like water, spilling over him in a fountain of orange, yellow, and
blue as he wailed in horror and jumped up and down.

Maklin made a sound somewhere
between a chuckle and a cough, and followed it with a disgusting
hawking of phlegm. Sadrik didn’t know which was worse, the
screaming human torch or the human bagpipes.

The flaming man dropped to the
dirt and tried rolling, but Sadrik was in no mood for benevolence.
The flames rolled over every inch of his body. The air filled with
the scent of cooked meat as the man leapt to his feet and ran in
circles, his cries just one voice amongst a sea of screams. He
stumbled into another tent, setting it ablaze as well, and staggered
out of view behind it, still screaming.

Maklin hacked again and stood.
He stretched and gave a huge yawn. “Flashy but stupid.”

Sadrik glared over his shoulder
at the old man. “What’s to stop me from setting you on
fire, too?”

Maklin struck a contemplative
pose, rubbing at his chin as if deep in thought. “The fact
that our mission is important, and it would likely fail if I had to
kill you and confront Maranath and Ariano alone?” He flashed
Sadrik a wicked grin.

Sadrik smiled back. “Fair
enough. Let’s sort this out.”

Caelwen staggered as his helmet
turned most of a blow meant to bash his head in. Out of reflex, he
struck back with his sword and was rewarded with a scream of pain.
He couldn’t see the result, even if his helmet hadn’t
twisted and blocked his vision. It took several seconds for his
sight to clear of jagged, black lines. He jerked his head to the
side, righting his helmet, and thanked whatever gods were watching
that his opponents were too stupid and cowardly to even recognize
his lapse, much less capitalize on it.

Somewhere, in the corner of his
perception, he heard what distinctly sounded like a guttural call
for javelins.
Impossible.
Mei,
what would they do if they knew I was hearing voices?