Despite all this, Ellonlef still resisted, hoping these monstrous men would decide she was not worth their effort and ride away. But that was not to be.
The apparent leader of the Bashye raised his hand for silence, then began pointing out the routes he wanted his men to take in order to secure the hill of broken stone to prevent her escape. He was only a dark shadow against the lighter-hued sandy roadway, but when he looked up, Ellonlef imagined she could see his cruel, cunning eyes. He would lay claim to her first, ravish her in front of his men, then let them have a turn-
The bowstring made an insignificant popping sound when it slipped off her fingers. Invisible in the night, the arrow sped on its deadly course and struck the man in the throat-at least, Ellonlef thought it did, given the abrupt gagging noises. Six of the remaining seven men scattered. The seventh moved to his prostrate leader and tried to drag him to safety. Ellonlef’s second arrow took him in the back, high up on the left side. He shrieked and fell to the ground, scrabbled a few feet like a dying beetle, then went still.
Now there are six, came her grim thought.
For long moments all was quiet, save a sigh of wind carrying the stench of smoke from the burning Qaharadin. In the heavens, a shower of falling stars briefly flared and then were gone. A sudden hail of hissing arrows forced Ellonlef to dive to the ground and cover her head. None of the bolts harmed her, though a few bounced around and fell close by. She was about to praise her choice of a defensive potion, when she heard the soft but unmistakable sounds of leather-soled sandals scraping over stone somewhere down below her. She crawled forward, keeping her head down until she could peer back the way she had come.
Prickly sweat sprang from her skin at the sight of three men rapidly working their way up the tumble of weathered stone. Even as she thought to raise her bow, they halted and began firing arrows at the only place she could be. Dismay filled her when the three remaining men sprinted across the roadway and scaled the rocks under the cover of their comrades’ barrage of arrows. In short order, the second group rushed past their brethren. As the former group had done, the second trio halted a third of the way up and fired more arrows her way. In a practiced tactic, the trailing group again climbed past the firing group, effectively scrambling over half the height of the outcrop.
Desperate to slow them, Ellonlef raised up and fired off two arrows of her own. Neither struck their mark, but gave her assailants pause. After firing another pair of arrows, she ducked back behind cover.
She thought the situation could not get worse, but then she heard a harsh rasping noise, like steel scraping over stone. Suddenly a fire-arrow whooshed up and up, before falling back. It landed harmlessly behind her, but the dancing flames reflecting off the face of stone, the same that she had counted on to defend her back, now acted as a dull mirror, increasing the small flickering light and casting it in all directions.
She popped up with a pained wheeze and managed to launch another arrow before they pinpointed where she was, but again her shot flew wide of the mark. Someone shouted a mocking insult, even as arrows began streaking toward her. All at once, the funnel of stone she had planned to use to her advantage became a deathtrap.
Ellonlef drew back, hissing each time her weight fell on her bad knee. Eyes locked on the notch between two boulders, she kicked sand on the fire-arrow. Almost at once another cut a flaring streak across the darkness, then another, and another. Some flew wide, disappearing over the back side of the outcrop, but enough fell close by, illuminating the entire area.
The men were so close now she could hear them breathing with the effort of their climb. She swallowed dryly as her palm brushed the hilt of her dagger. With enemy arrows laying all around, she had plenty to ward off her enemies until the very end, even if doing to do so would ensure her death.
A cynical, despairing chuckle climbed her throat and rolled over her tongue. If she waited for them to take her, a fate worse than death was certain. Her only choice seemed be a quick death or a prolonged one. She chose the former, and wrenched her dagger free of the leather sheath … then abruptly slid it back. It will be easier for me to empty my veins if I am already dying, she thought.
Despite the demise of the Three, she prayed to their spirits for strength, then she prayed to Pa’amadin as well, he who had created All and then set his creation adrift, leaving it to fend for itself. Lastly, and with the least conviction, she prayed for miraculous strength and cunning, for she did not want to die here, on the edge of a wasteland so far from home.
As if in answer to her silent appeal, a reckless idea formed in her mind.
As more arrows rained down around her, she calmly collected up a double handful and placed them into the quiver on her right hip. With a last calming breath, she stepped forward, placing herself into the stony breech. Her first arrow slammed through a startled man’s eye socket, not ten feet away. He was the Falsethian warrior, marked out by his colorful robes. The other Bashye roared in fury. An arrow hissed by Ellonlef’s ear, tugging her loose hair. Another sliced through her robes, scoring her ribs. She did not flinch or falter, for though she was riding the wings of certain death-and perhaps because of that knowledge-she felt completely calm. She drew another arrow and fired. In her heart, she knew it would be her last. Her idea, that perhaps granted to her by the gods, was as simple as it was stark: force them to kill her, before she had to kill herself.
Chapter 20
“Look,” Hazad said, pointing southward.
Riding half-asleep, Kian snapped his head up, instantly alert, and focused on the night-shadowed landscape ahead. For a moment, all was black, then a flaming point of light rose high, before dropping amid what looked to be a great outcrop of loose boulders. The dancing firelight showed a wind-worn bowl of stone, in the midst of which his keen eyes made out a moving figure. After a few moments, the figure rose to douse the flames. In quick succession, more flares went up, and Kian understood that someone was shooting fire-arrows in an attempt to highlight the hiding target.
Lacking Kian’s better eyesight, Hazad missed the figure. “Who, in the middle of the night, would be lobbing fire-arrows into a pile of rocks?” he wondered aloud.
“Bashye would,” Kian said, “if they had someone cornered.”
As they rode closer, Kian was startled to see that the someone was a white-robed woman, as she popped more clearly into view. She held a bow, and began launching arrows at her assailants. Distant shouts rushed up the road toward Kian and his company, even as the Bashye returned fire. The woman, surely mad with terror, never shifted her position, save to direct her aim. After a moment, the guttering firelight atop the hill of stone went out. Several more fire-arrows streaked upward and fell back to light the entire the area where the woman had chosen to make her stand, but this time she was out of sight, and the Bashye were closing.
Delaying no longer, Kian tugged his short horse bow free of its leather case on the back of his saddle, and kicked his mount into a gallop. With practiced efficiency, he strung the bow’s thick limbs as he rode. He offered the night a hard smile when he heard the thundering of hooves behind him, and the ululating battle cries of the Asra a’Shah. It was not that he relished the idea of battle, but rather he was glad that he rushed to fight men, and not a demonic horde risen from the Thousand Hells.