The Warslayer(84)

They were seriously screwed.

But she meant to take a couple of them with her if she could.

"Get behind me!" she shouted to Ivradan. "And watch out for Tadmar!"

She advanced on (the former) Swordsman, thinking of nothing but the best way to take him apart. She smiled, and something about her expression made him turn and run. She watched him for a second or two, obscurely satisfied, and turned back just in time to see Ivradan cut Tadmar's throat.

"Hey," she said weakly, just as if she hadn't been hoping to do the same thing to Tadmar's mate a moment before. She watched as Ivradan set the swordblade beside the spear, cutting the gash wider until he could work the spearhead free.

I reckon you lot won't need that much help in getting back to your old habits after all, she thought uneasily.

"C'mon," she said urgently. No need to whisper now. She could hear hoofbeats along the road, heading their way. Big horses, too, not the little Allimir ponies.

Ivradan came trotting back, spear in one hand, sword in the other. There was blood on his face.

"What now?" he asked, offering her the sword.

"How far to the trail?" she asked, as she took it. Automatically she slipped the stake back into its sheath. She might need it again later.

"Too far."

"Let's try."

Ivradan dropped the spear—too heavy to carry—and they ran full-out. Get far enough away from the bodies, and they still might be able to trick the rest of the army for long enough to get away. At least now she had a sword.

They got back past the first gawkers without difficulty—either they were too drunk to notice the two of them, or were following the old soldier's dictum of not asking questions. But then there were more—a milling, disoriented mob of creatures and the more-or-less human—all drunk, belligerent, and demanding to know what was going on, waving sputtering pitch-soaked torches about with a fine disregard for the faces and hair of their companions. There were even some of the bear-wolf things in with the mob, towering over the rest by a good foot and more. None of them looked particularly worried about being attacked. The Warmother must have told them this place was easy pickings.

Glory grabbed one of the wobbling torches from its owner and held it high with her free hand, trying to work her way through the crowd. For a few moments, she thought the two of them were going to get away with it; slip through the mob and get away.

"Hey! Who're you?"

It was one of the lizardly things she'd seen up in Charane's palace. It stepped right in front of her and grabbed her by the wrist that was holding the torch.

Glory stared back blankly. What could she say? She didn't feel a lot like Glory McArdle at the moment, but if she told them she was Vixen the Slayer, they might recognize the name.

"Koroshiya," she said after a moment.

"I don't know you," the lizard-man said, tightening his grip on her wrist until she was glad of the bracer's protection.

Glory brought the point of her sword up between his legs and pressed. He might not keep the family jewels there, but she reckoned he wouldn't fancy being sawed in half just the same.

"Just how well do you want to know me?" she said, her voice hard and flat.

But she'd attracted too much attention. Everybody was looking at them, and Ivradan didn't look like anything but an Allimir. Things were about to get ugly. Glory could feel it. The mob pressed closer, and she felt something sharp dig into her back, cutting into the leather. The lizard-man smiled, showing pale yellow gums and a pair of long bluish fangs, and reluctantly, Glory lowered her sword.

Then there was a different kind of disruption, and people were looking away from the two of them, behind her. The mob that had been pressing up against her from all sides drew back, and even Lizard-Man let go of her wrist and stepped back, raising his hands in a gesture of submission.

With a sinking heart, Glory turned and looked.

It was the Amazon queen.

She was riding a white horse, and there were six more Amazons behind her, also riding white horses. All seven of them looked stone cold sober, and none of them looked particularly pleased to be here.

The queen dismounted. She tossed her reins to Glory as though she'd expected her to be there just to hold them, and as she strode past her on her way to Lizard-Man, she whispered one quick phrase from the corner of her mouth:

"Take my horse."

Glory turned to Ivradan, trying to pretend she was Romy on a Bad Hair Day: pissed with everyone in sight and looking for someone to run errands. She threw her torch at the feet of the nearest mercenary—the man danced back, out of range of the shower of sparks—and passed Ivradan the reins. "Get up," she whispered. He was the better horseman. He could get them out of here if anyone could.