"They are seskeesh, rare creatures of the high mountains,” muttered Féolan. As it was, he stood paralyzed, beyond speech or rational thought. He did not know, afterward, if he would have tried to flee or attack.
Only one was able to rise again to make his terrified escape.įéolan’s firm hand restraining his sword-arm was all that stood between Derkh and panic. Their assailants flew like rag dolls into the air, crashing down against boulder and scree. And then it was as if some raging storm flew in among them, a deafening wind that scattered men before it like so many leaves. So it was that Gabrielle never witnessed the event that Derkh and Féolan could only speak of afterwards in halting, awestruck words.ĭerkh and Féolan stood shoulder-to-shoulder against four men, black-hearted, thinking now only to exact a high price for their lives. Her eyes closed, and the roars and screams of battle faded away. The noise of the fighting boomed and receded in her head. Her old teacher Marcus's words were commanding, but Gabrielle's mind was too frightened and refused to obey. Tarkhet had thrown it at the exposed sweep of her body while she stretched up to block that last bow. It was her hands, instinctively clutching the hurt place, that discovered a knife-hilt jutting from under her sternum. She had fallen back against the cliff-face before she knew what was wrong with her. To Gabrielle it seemed rather that the blade burst from beneath her skin, some disastrous, inexplicable rupture of her own body. None of them noticed when Tarkhet fell back from the fray and pulled his knife.
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