Still moving backward, he felt branch, tips graze his neck. It was time to hazard his one gambit.
He lowered his sword and turned slightly, as if he meant to run for it. As Alec had hoped, his opponent struck at him, and hit the springy branches of the hemlock instead. Overbalanced by the force of his own swing, he stumbled.
Alec whirled and struck him a savage blow to the shoulder. The blade glanced off bone, flaying the muscle from shoulder to elbow in a great bloody flap.
Alec had expected the blow to stop the man in his tracks, but it didn't. With a howl of pain, the bandit dropped his club and grappled Alec, locking his good arm around the boy's neck and dragging him to the ground as he choked him.
Raw, severed flesh slapped against Alec's face, and the hot blood pulsing from the wound spurted into his mouth and eyes. His sword was useless at such close quarters. Dropping it, he tore at the arm around his throat, but the man held on, pinning him down as he locked his hand around Alec's windpipe.
Blood loss alone should be weakening him,
Alec thought grimly as his vision began to darken.
Through a red haze he saw mindless determination still burning in the haggard, white face above his, felt it in the hard hand crushing his throat; the man might just live long enough to kill him first.
Letting go of the man's arm, Alec felt for the slender, black-handled dagger in his right boot. His fingers found the rounded pommel and closed over it, pulling it free. Gripping it, he drove it with the last of his strength into the bandit's neck. More blood spurted out, steaming hotly against his face as the world went dim around him.
The sound of fading hoofbeats brought him around again a moment later. From the sound of them, the woman had decided the horse was booty enough and taken off with it as soon as her man went down. Alec pushed the dead man off and sat up, but it was too late. She was already out of sight.
Wet, bruised, and muddier, than ever, Alec got to his feet only to find that his legs were not ready to support him just yet. Staggering away from the body, he braced himself against the tree trunk and waited for the world to stop spinning around him. He tasted blood in his mouth and spat repeatedly, trying to get rid of the revolting metallic taste.
He supposed he should be grateful for the woman's cowardice. She'd taken the horse, but had left his purse, his weapons, and his life, for that matter. She'd had ample opportunity to knife him.
Hoping he'd already covered at least half the distance to Warnik's valley, he set off on foot again.
The trail was no better on this side of the pass but the downhill grade made for easier walking. Coming to a stream, he waded in to wash off some of the filth.
His clothes were ruined, but it was a relief to cleanse away more of the blood. He could still taste it at the back of his mouth and retched suddenly, remembering the feel of it spurting down on him.
A more immediate worry, however, was whether or not the bandit's woman would decide to circle back for another try, drawn by a delayed desire for revenge or his purse. Wading out of the stream,
Alec scanned the surrounding forest with renewed wariness. Thick underbrush pressed close on both sides of the trail, the potential for ambush unlimited. The storm blew on, hastening the afternoon darkness already thickening into mist beneath the tangled forest roof.
Seregil was obliged to delay his escape. Soon after they picked him up, the Watch patrol entered the East Ring to begin a sweep of the shanties there. Even if he got away now, there was nowhere to run.
Other bluecoats were already at work there, pulling down the shacks and piling the scrap wood onto carts, clearing the Ring to serve its wartime purpose as a killing zone between the inner and outer walls of the city.
The marketplaces and circles all around the city would be cleared as well for similar reasons.
Despite its size and grandeur, Rhiminee had been designed first and foremost to be a defensible citadel.
Most of the shantytown denizens had cleared out already, warned by the vagrant's sixth sense that trouble was brewing. Those that had remained were rounded up and sorted out. Cripples and mothers with young children were allowed to stay in the city, as well as any able-bodied person willing to work for their keep or fight.
Unpatriotic ne'er-do-wells would have to fend for themselves in the countryside.
The cart was full by midday and the patrol headed back through the east ward. Seregil stood at the rear of the cart, maintaining his air of sullen bewilderment until a familiar street corner came into view.
Taking the three bluecoats riding behind the cart by surprise, Seregil vaulted over the side, dodged between their horses, and tore off down the street. Behind him, his fellow prisoners cheered him on with delighted jeers and catcalls.
Two of the guards wheeled in pursuit, but Seregil had chosen his moment carefully. Running back to the familiar street, he bolted around the corner.
It was more of an alley than a street. There were no side ways leading off it and the far end was blocked by a high wooden barrier. Without slowing, Seregil launched himself at it, found purchase with hands and feet, and clambered over the top just as the furious guards thundered up.
On the far side, another alley angled off toward a larger street. The bluecoats knew this section of the city nearly as well as he did himself; he could hear the approaching clatter of hooves ahead of him as he ran. Dodging down a side lane before they caught sight of him, he slipped into the narrow space between two sagging tenements and came out in a tiny, weed-choked courtyard.
Here he bounded up a rickety exterior stairway to a disused attic. The cache of spare clothing and knives he'd hidden there months ago was still under the warped floorboards, no worse for wear except for a few beetles and some mouse turds.
Whistling softly through his teeth as he shook them out, he changed clothes and settled down at the garret window to outwait his pursuers' patience. It was only a filthy beggar they'd lost. They wouldn't waste much time hunting for him.
Hungry, wet, and footsore, Alec finally reached the edge of the woods by late afternoon. Through the trees ahead he could see a rolling valley stretching out before him.
A small log house stood near the trail, with a low byre and a goat pen beside it. Too tired to care what he must look like, he headed for it, hoping to beg a little food and some directions.
As he approached the place, a huge mongrel charged out of the byre, baying as it charged toward him.
"Soora thasali," Alec said quickly, making the left-handed charm sign Seregil had taught him. It worked to a degree; the dog halted a few feet away, but remained on guard, growling every time he moved.
"Who's that?" a man called out, emerging from the byre with an ax gripped in both hands.
"Sir Alec of Ivywell," Alec replied, holding his hands out, palm up. "I had some bad luck up the trail. Bandits stole my horse. Could you—"
"That so?" The man stepped nearer, squinting for a better look at him.
Alec had managed to wash off most of the blood, but his bedraggled clothing and sword appeared to inspire little confidence.
"Lots of bandits about just now," the man went on, still wary. "Stole two of my milch goats just the other day. Could be you're one of 'em come back to rob me again. Tugger!"
The dog crouched, baring its fangs.
"No, please! Soora thasali." Alec fell back a pace, making the sign again.
"Listen, I'm only trying to get down to—"
"Here now, what're you up to with my dog?" the man demanded. "Tugger, on him!"
"No-soora thasali—if you'd just listen—"
"Damn you, Tugger, at him!"
"Shit!" Alec took to his heels with Tugger snapping at the ends of his cloak close behind.
The dog chased him until they were well out of sight of the cottage, then stood its ground in the center of the trail, snarling every time Alec chanced a backward look.