bear me.”
“Well, there are steeds trained for battle and the hunt that have learned to keep their instincts in check, neh?” Gonji said in an effort at optimism. “We’ll find you a fine destrier that—”
“Forget it, monsieur. My own legs have borne me thus far.”
“But with that limp—”
“The limp is abating,” Simon assured mordantly. “And it will pass, as all my wounds do.” He bent and picked up a long straight stick, which he proceeded to use for a walking staff.
Gonji blew an exasperated breath. “Well, surely you’ve ridden a horse before.”
Simon moved ahead rapidly, answering not a word but steering them east along the brook until they came to the place where they had slain the wyvern. Gonji was struck wide-eyed, gasping to see its state. Already it had taken on the aspect of a thing long dead, overgrown with moss and slime, its entire bulk slumping, collapsing, sinking back into the earth that could not contain it when it lived its ghastly life. Leathery flesh petrified and shriveled like bark, antlers spindling the air above its crushed jackal’s head, it resembled nothing so much as a downed tree of a curious species. Days from now, passing travelers might regard it as a momentary diversion, a freakish arboreal hybrid, shrugging off its origin in casual bewilderment while giving short shrift to local tales of the flying dragon that had ravaged the countryside.
Gonji stared for a long while, scowling, leaning on his longbow, at last shaking his head in disappointment, the specter of illusion laughing at his mind’s sudden discomfort with its definition of reality.
When he turned Simon was already far along the brook, wending northward at a vigorous pace.
The hours passed in aching silence and weariness of foot.
CHAPTER THREE
“Kommen Sie—schnell! Hurry up!”
Curses and grumbling snapped out below, amid the rain rustle, as Wilf wiped his eyes and peered back down the path. The peevish snorting of horses and the splashing clump of many hooves rolled up the hill, toward the old Roman road. A mile to the west, soldiers would be posted at the main southern trail into the valley. But there were none here at the summit of the twisting bramble path a half mile outside the city’s western gate.
“Take it easy, Gundersen,” Vlad Dobroczy complained as he lashed the barebacked steeds up the treacherous slope. The last ten surviving horses from the caverns were urged upward to the road. Among them was Gonji’s prize Spanish chestnut, Tora.
“That’s right,” Nick Nagy agreed. “What’s your rush?”
“Shut up, you crusty old buzzard,” Stefan Berenyi snapped from the darkness. He broke from the deep brush, riding with the reins in his right hand. His left was heavily bound to protect the healing wound of the severed little finger.
Nagy hissed at him, turning his mount.
“Shhh, all of you.” Jiri Szabo’s urgent plea came through the rain.
A horse fell in the mud at the side of the path, whinnying fiercely. Tadeusz leapt to the ground at the rear of the party and spoke comfortingly to the startled animal.
Two horses broke up onto the road, prancing freely, their reins dangling. Wilf guided them back, cursing, one hand gripping two tethers. He wore Spine-cleaver under the sash that bound his waist. The others were similarly armed, but there were no bows among them. They could ill afford a scene if they were stopped and questioned. Their only long-range armament was the pistol Dobroczy had belted beneath his heavy cloak in defiance of Wilf’s order.
They nearly had the skittish horses in hand on the road when the clatter of a wagon and the pounding of hoof-beats sounded through the rain-dappled forest behind them. The curve of the Roman road hid the approaching band from view.
Jiri went pale in the dim light. “What do we do, Wilf?” he breathed.
“Ja, now what?” Vlad added. “This was your stupid idea, junior Japper.”
“Sei still—shut up!” Wilf commanded. “You know the plan. Move the horses nice and easy. Show no fear or worry. Answer what they ask, if it’s soldiers. That’s all. Now let’s move.”
They led the horses at a walk toward Vedun, Berenyi singing a silly drinking song at the rear but peering back furtively now and again. Every man strained to listen for the unknown party approaching their unguarded backs. The wind changed direction, grew stronger. The rain became a slapping wet hand from the south. Their eyes burned in the stinging cold, and a rash of itching spread through their number.
Behind them the wagon rattle and hoof-beats closed fast. Now voices could be heard. Gruff voices, calling out to them.
Wilf halted them with a heavy exhalation, gazing down onto the muddy track.
“Turn easily. Show no surprise.”
Under his cloak, Dobroczy cocked the loaded and spannered wheel-lock piece.
“Whoa, there!” a voice ordered. Three of Klann’s mercenaries cantered up to them, leaving the wagon and its driver stopped behind. Two brigands unbuttoned their jacks, revealing belted pistols. But the rain rendered the weapons little more than a soggy threat, Wilf thought. “What are you up to? Get down off your horses.”
Wilf waved for the uncertain rebels to remain mounted and walked his black gelding toward the three, smiling wearily. The leader, a hollow-eyed man with pocked cheeks and sallow skin, reined in and faced him. The other two rode past to confront the rest of the party. Wilf’s mount snorted, its muzzle a hand’s width from the other steed’s. The bandit placed a fist on his hip, sweeping back the flap of his jack. The silver filigreed pistol grip glowered at Wilf.
Too wet, Wilf prayed quietly, too wet to fire? Please, God....
“Horses,” Wilf said, pointing a lazy thumb over his shoulder. “Lost during that crazy fighting two nights ago in the city. We’ve been chasing them all day. Now we’re—”
“Hey, Karel—” one of the others called from behind Wilf, guiding in among the shuffling horses and pointing at Tora. “I know this stallion. It’s that crazy Mongol’s.”
Alarmed, the brigand nearest Vlad Dobroczy drew his wet pistol. The rebel farmer’s reaction was instantaneous. Vlad’s cloak tore open in an eruption of flame and smoke, as his hidden hand triggered his weather-protected wheel-lock.
The soldier’s face imploded in a slick black fracture.
The confrontation became a jostling chaos, as if flames had belched from the soaking ground beneath their feet. Horses shrieked and reared, broke in all directions. Wilf caught a fleeting glimpse of the silver filigreed wheel-lock in the leader’s hand and kicked his gelding hard in the flanks, drawing Spine-cleaver in the same motion. His horse whinnied and leapt at its opposite number, which shrank before the flailing hooves and then itself tossed and bucked so that the mercenary leader squeezed off a poor shot—the pistol had fired, after all—
The brigand swayed sideways and lost his hat and the smoking pistol. Righted himself and clawed at his sword hilt.
Too late. Wilf, electrified by his close call with death, swept past, slashing the mercenary backward off the neighing steed.
The third soldier, who bore no firearm, bared his teeth and growled in desperation, swung his mount from side to side, naked blade cutting at wet air. He spied an opening and charged for it. His flight would carry him past Jiri.
Jiri slipped his sword out of its back harness and raised it high over his head. His eyes shone like beacons in a tempest to see the mercenary charge him astride the snorting warhorse. His own mount stamped backward uncertainly under Jiri’s flagging guidance. The enemy bore down to engage him.
They slashed as one, a shower of golden sparks igniting the darkness as their swords clashed. Jiri’s eyes clamped shut at the impact, and he withdrew from contact even as they met. But the