In between came Smada. In a cage. They had him naked, each wrist leather-thonged tight to either side of the cage, him sagging limply in between, his great belly crisscrossed with ugly red whip marks and uneven lines of dried blood.
I was hiding in the upper loft of the stable when they came through into town, and when I saw him I . . . Well, two things. First, I was angry. Furious. Enraged. The sight of what they had done to him and what they were and what they’d probably done to others ... I was boiling and dangerous and more than a little crazy.
The second thing was the sight of Smada’s face. Even like he was, beaten, strapped up and swaying, clearly exhausted, he . . . shone. He shone, radiated some something that normal men just don’t have and no one can explain, and I realized that, dammit, I really had missed the old fart and, double dammit, I really was glad to see him again.
But I shoved those thoughts away, and seconds later, we got into it. And when I got into it this time—even though I didn’t even see it then—I was in it, all of it, to stay.
It was almost dawn when we hit them, and the Dead were closed up and not a factor. We found out later their theory was that we’d be less likely to attack them inside a village so they had planned to spend the several hours without the Dead in relative safety.
Wrong.
But even without the Dead we were outnumbered. Two riders in front, the two men on the Dead wagon, the two drivers of the flatbed wagon hauling Smada’s cage, plus their two riding guards, plus the six riding alongside the Lady Gor’s carriage added up to fourteen.
We had seven Ormans, me, and a prairiecat. It wasn’t close.
It had to look like an attack on the Lady Gor to give me time to spring Smada. But it wasn’t quite dark yet, and the Dead had to be kept inside their box to keep from cluttering things up. Orman had done a little thinking along those lines. He had this weird bulky locking mechanism designed to clamp the wooden bolt on the black box shut and keep it that way. He took his youngest grandson along to help him. At the other end of the train, Gruffle led the other boys in a mounted assault on the Lady’s carriage. A beat later, the cat and I were to go for Smada.
It was a good plan and worked well enough, I guess.
Would have worked better if the enemy had cooperated, but isn’t that always the way?
Gruffle led them in screaming and hollering, and shouts of alarm went up almost at once. I could just see Orman up ahead move up with his grandson to the lock on the box of the Dead. I turned to my Guide and Shelter to see if he was ready and I could swear he looked at me and nodded but by that time we were already moving. I was sprinting full-speed by the time I reached my particular targets, the driver and, closest to me, the pike-bearing guard sitting beside him. My first step took me up onto the seat beside him just as he was turning toward me. I slammed my hilt into his forehead as hard as I could and he slammed sideways into the driver, who cried out and tried to keep from falling off. From the corner of my eye I saw the cat leap into the air and damn near through the two guards sitting atop the cage. Hell, it was only about six hundred pounds traveling at forty miles an hour and when I saw them both flying off in pieces and myself in good position for the already cowering driver, I thought: This is going to be easy.
About then is when the oxen pulling us smelled prairiecat and decided to leave.
I banged my head against the bars of the cage when they vaulted forward. It took me a couple of beats to clear my head, and by that time we were really moving. If they’re scared enough, even oxen can rock and roll.
They careened right through the center of the village square, scattering the couple of dozen locals who had come out to gawk and missing the town well by at least three inches, then rolled to the side and headed down a side street large enough for all six of them but not for the wagon, and there was a helluva crash.
And then I was flying through the air into the midst of stomping, rearing, groaning, panicked oxen whose tether had miraculously withstood the impact and half a second later the limp body of the guard crashed in on top of me and knocked me off one of those broad backs and the hooves were cracking sparks on the street tiles around my head and by the time I managed to right myself there was the driver holding the guard’s pike and jabbing it at me. He missed, missed again. I flung out my sword and didn’t and he sank like a sack of fireplace ashes. The bellowing of oxen freak-out reverberating between the narrow stone walls and tiled street was lifting the top of my head right off. I clambered back atop what was left of the driver’s seat, planted my feet, and brought my sword down on the tether to the rigging. It snapped free, and the oxen bolted forward out of sight into the shadows.
When I turned back to the cage, Smada was looking at me. And for perhaps five seconds I looked back and neither of us moved a muscle and I thought: Who is this man?
Then the cat was there with us and I turned my gaze deliberately away from Smada and set to work on the cage’s lock. It was primitive as hell, of course, but also quite strong. There was no sign of a key in the seating compartment, and, hearing increased sounds of fighting from the others’ struggles, I was in no humor to go looking for it.
I reached over and grabbed the prairiecat’s paw.
He resisted a moment, tensed, and for just a second I was a dead man. Clearly I was taking great liberties, but for some reason or other the great beast let it slide. He relaxed and let me guide a paw the size of my thigh into a position of leverage behind the cage’s door.
“Hold still a second,” I ordered breathlessly as I leaped off the wagon seat to the ground, and he tensed again but let me live through that little impertinence, too. I fetched up the pike, hopped back aboard, and propped it against the door alongside that great paw and said: “Pull.”
I never even got a chance to get my weight into it. If not for that shrieking rasp of crumpling metal, you would never have known the damn cage was locked.
Whew! Nice kitty.
I stepped inside and, still not looking at Smada, used my dagger on his thongs. Then I handed him the robe I had strapped to my back alongside the extra broadsword. I stood there holding the sword for him while he tied the robe on tight. Then he took the sword, pulled the blade halfway out to check it, and froze.
Me, too. We were both looking down at his bared blade. But, as one, we raised our eyes and peered at one another and a rush of emotion went through us both and I could not tell you to this day if we would have kissed or killed each other if someone hadn’t called out at just that moment.
“Lord Smada!” shouted a hoarse Orman.
As I tore my gaze away toward the sound, however, I did notice the prairiecat’s fur standing straight up on his back.
Killed each other, I think.
“Lord Smada!” called Orman again, sounding a little frantic, and that tone coming from that man had us out of the cage, swords drawn, and beside him in a heartbeat.
His face was smeared with blood not his own. He turned and gestured with his head back toward the village square. “The others!” he gasped. “It’s a trap!”
We coiild already hear the galloping horses approaching through the dusk, but Smada ignored it and instead put an arm on the old man’s shoulder.
“Thank you, old friend,” said Smada with infinite tenderness. Then with equal affection, he walked the old man over to a stoop in front of some doorway and sat him down. Orman obeyed like a little child.
Neither of us mentioned the body he carried in his arras, a body obviously devoid of life to anyone but a grieving grandfather.