Two of Arrows
Senza saw the archers and realised he’d lost. It was a shame, a great shame, but there’d be another day. He backed into the tent and turned, and then the pain hit him. Nothing he’d ever experienced had hurt that much. He reached round and felt the small of his back for an arrow, but there was nothing there, so it had to be from when Forza hit him. Broken rib, he guessed. He gasped, and looked round. Needless to say, the tent didn’t have a back door. They’d be in after him any second. He blundered across the floor, bumped into a small table, knocked it over, maps and papers everywhere. He heard a faint whimpering noise, like a dog; but it was a dark-skinned woman curled up in a ball next to the bed – tried to crawl under it, he guessed, but it was too low. That must be the famous Raico. She lifted her head and stared at him. He heard the tent flap rustle behind him.
His mind filled up with geometry: lines, angles, the shortest distances between points. The trouble was, she was in the way. The geometrical diagrams became a chessboard; he decided he was a knight. “’Scuse me,” he said politely, then jumped over the woman’s legs, hit the tent canvas, stabbed his sword into it and ripped upwards. The hole was almost big enough; his head and body got through, but his foot caught and he tripped and toppled forward into daylight. As he fell, an arrow swished past; if he hadn’t tripped, it’d have hit him. He twitched his feet free, scrambled up and ran like a hare.
The pain stopped him about fifteen yards later, but by then it was all right; a dozen of his guards were running toward him, and they got between him and the archers. A sergeant helped him up. The pain in his chest and back made him feel like a log with wedges driven in it, just before the last blow of the hammer. He grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder to steady himself. “Where’s Dets?” he said.
The sergeant shook his head. Damn, Senza thought. “Jortis? Major Asta?”
“Major’s over there, sir.” The sergeant pointed. There was a battle going on, his guards against too many men with axes, and he hadn’t even noticed. “Hell,” Senza said. “Where did they come from?”
The sergeant plainly didn’t know, and why should he? Once again, Forza had conjured armed men up out of thin air; he really shouldn’t be surprised any more. He didn’t need to look twice to know his men were losing. He detached himself from the sergeant. “Get as many of them as you can out of there,” he said. “Then back the way we came.”
One of the men of his personal screen was down; why hadn’t he brought archers, instead of heavy infantry? “Leave it,” he called out and the guardsmen backed away, not before another one dropped, twitching. “Move!” he yelled; the guardsmen turned and ran. He hesitated; what the hell, he thought. Then he darted forward and knelt down beside the man who’d just fallen. He’d been shot in the stomach but was still alive. Senza managed to get his arm under the man’s armpit and hoist him up; as he did so, the pain from his rib flared up like a barrel of oil catching fire. Bloody fool, he thought. He took a long stride, wrenching the guardsman with him, like pulling a tooth; the weight across his shoulders was going to split him in half any moment. The man’s cheek, next to his, was wet with sweat and tears. “Oh come
on
,” he said, and moved them another five yards or so. That was it; he was all done.
Idiot
, he thought; and then two guardsmen appeared out of nowhere, grabbed them both and hustled them away. He stumbled, the guardsman helping him barged into his side, and he screamed. More hands grabbed him, lifted him off the ground; he felt his feet dangling and swinging as they carried him along, and for some reason he thought of when he was a little boy. He tried to call up the maps and diagrams, but they wouldn’t come into focus; there was a mist between them and him, and he couldn’t
Senza saw the archers and realised he’d lost. It was a shame, a great shame, but there’d be another day. He backed into the tent and turned, and then the pain hit him. Nothing he’d ever experienced had hurt that much. He reached round and felt the small of his back for an arrow, but there was nothing there, so it had to be from when Forza hit him. Broken rib, he guessed. He gasped, and looked round. Needless to say, the tent didn’t have a back door. They’d be in after him any second. He blundered across the floor, bumped into a small table, knocked it over, maps and papers everywhere. He heard a faint whimpering noise, like a dog; but it was a dark-skinned woman curled up in a ball next to the bed – tried to crawl under it, he guessed, but it was too low. That must be the famous Raico. She lifted her head and stared at him. He heard the tent flap rustle behind him.
His mind filled up with geometry: lines, angles, the shortest distances between points. The trouble was, she was in the way. The geometrical diagrams became a chessboard; he decided he was a knight. “’Scuse me,” he said politely, then jumped over the woman’s legs, hit the tent canvas, stabbed his sword into it and ripped upwards. The hole was almost big enough; his head and body got through, but his foot caught and he tripped and toppled forward into daylight. As he fell, an arrow swished past; if he hadn’t tripped, it’d have hit him. He twitched his feet free, scrambled up and ran like a hare.
The pain stopped him about fifteen yards later, but by then it was all right; a dozen of his guards were running toward him, and they got between him and the archers. A sergeant helped him up. The pain in his chest and back made him feel like a log with wedges driven in it, just before the last blow of the hammer. He grabbed the sergeant’s shoulder to steady himself. “Where’s Dets?” he said.
The sergeant shook his head. Damn, Senza thought. “Jortis? Major Asta?”
“Major’s over there, sir.” The sergeant pointed. There was a battle going on, his guards against too many men with axes, and he hadn’t even noticed. “Hell,” Senza said. “Where did they come from?”
The sergeant plainly didn’t know, and why should he? Once again, Forza had conjured armed men up out of thin air; he really shouldn’t be surprised any more. He didn’t need to look twice to know his men were losing. He detached himself from the sergeant. “Get as many of them as you can out of there,” he said. “Then back the way we came.”
One of the men of his personal screen was down; why hadn’t he brought archers, instead of heavy infantry? “Leave it,” he called out and the guardsmen backed away, not before another one dropped, twitching. “Move!” he yelled; the guardsmen turned and ran. He hesitated; what the hell, he thought. Then he darted forward and knelt down beside the man who’d just fallen. He’d been shot in the stomach but was still alive. Senza managed to get his arm under the man’s armpit and hoist him up; as he did so, the pain from his rib flared up like a barrel of oil catching fire. Bloody fool, he thought. He took a long stride, wrenching the guardsman with him, like pulling a tooth; the weight across his shoulders was going to split him in half any moment. The man’s cheek, next to his, was wet with sweat and tears. “Oh come
on
,” he said, and moved them another five yards or so. That was it; he was all done.
Idiot
, he thought; and then two guardsmen appeared out of nowhere, grabbed them both and hustled them away. He stumbled, the guardsman helping him barged into his side, and he screamed. More hands grabbed him, lifted him off the ground; he felt his feet dangling and swinging as they carried him along, and for some reason he thought of when he was a little boy. He tried to call up the maps and diagrams, but they wouldn’t come into focus; there was a mist between them and him, and he couldn’t
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