He understood as well. Motionless as a doe in the grasses not ten paces from a hunting cat, his eyes wide, his breath panting and hot against the side of her neck.
Tears streamed down her cheeks-he clutched her in the belief that she could protect him, that she could defend his life. But she knew she couldn’t. She wasn’t old enough. She wasn’t fierce enough.
She saw Storii look back over a shoulder, saw her falter-
Sathand’s heavy footfalls were closing fast.
‘Go!’ Stavi shrieked at her sister. ‘ Just go! ’
Instead, Storii bent down, scooped up a rock, and then sprinted back towards them.
Fierce sister, brave sister. You fool.
They would die together then.
Stavi stumbled, fell to her knees, skinning them on the grasses. The burning pain loosed more tears, and everything blurred. The boy kicked himself free-now he would run, fast as his short legs could take him-
Instead, he stood and faced the charging warrior. The man was not a stranger, was he? No, he was kin. And in the shadow of a kinsman there was safety.
Stavi whispered, ‘Not this time.’
Sathand readied the knife in his hand, slowing now that the chase had come to an end-nowhere for them to go, was there?
His shoulder throbbed, and sharp bolts of pain shot out from his collar bone-he couldn’t even lift that arm-she’d broken it.
But the warrior’s rage was fading. They did not choose their parents-who does? They’re just… unlucky. But that is the way of the world. Spawn of rulers inherit more than power-they inherit what happens when that power collapses. When a night of blood is unleashed, and ambition floods black as locust ink.
He saw the stone gripped by one of the girls and nodded, pleased with her defiance. Only half her blood was Barghast, but it had awakened for this. He would have to take her down first.
‘What has happened?’ asked the girl standing beside the boy. ‘Sathand?’
He bared his teeth. The right words now could take the fight out of them. ‘You are orphans,’ he said. ‘Your par-’
The stone was a blur, catching him a glancing blow above his left eye. He cursed in pain and surprise, and then shook his head. Blood ran down into the eye, blinding it. ‘Spirits haunt you!’ He laughed. ‘I’ve taken fewer wounds in battle! But… one eye is enough. One working arm, too.’ Sathand edged forward.
The boy’s eyes were wide, uncomprehending. He suddenly smiled and held out his arms.
Sathand faltered. Yes, I’ve taken you up and swung you in the air. I’ve tickled you until you shrieked. But that is done now. He lifted the knife.
The twins stared, unmoving. Would they protect the boy? He suspected they would. With teeth and nails, they would.
We are as we are. ‘I am proud of you,’ he said. ‘Proud of you all. But this must be.’
The boy cried out as if in joy.
Something slammed into his back. He staggered. The knife fell from his hand. Sathand frowned down at it. Why would he drop his weapon? Why was his strength draining away? On his knees, his lone eye finding the boy’s, level at last. No, he’s not looking at me. He’s looking past me. Confusion, a roar of something rushing deep in his skull. The warrior twisted round.
The second arrow took him in the forehead, dead centre, punching through the bone and ploughing into the brain.
He never saw where it came from.
Stavi sank down on watery legs. Her sister ran to their brother and snatched him up. He yelped in delight.
In the greenish gloom, she could see the silhouette of a warrior astride a horse, sixty or more paces away. Something in that seemed unreal, and she struggled to track it down, and then gasped. That arrow. Sathand was turning round-in motion-and yet… sixty paces away! In this wind! Her gaze fell to Sathand’s corpse. She squinted at that arrow. I’ve seen the like before. I’ve -Stavi moaned and crawled forward until she could close a hand about the arrow’s shaft. ‘Father made this.’
The rider was closing at a loose canter.
Behind Stavi, her sister said, ‘That’s not Father.’
‘No-but look at the arrows!’
Storii set the boy down once more. ‘I see them. I see them, Stavi.’
As the warrior drew closer, they could see that something was wrong with him-and with his horse. The beast was too gaunt, its hide worn away in patches, its long, stained teeth gleaming, the holes of its eyes lightless, lifeless.
The rider was no better. But he held a horn bow, and within a saddle quiver a dozen or so of Onos Toolan’s arrows were visible. A cowl was draped over the warrior’s head, hiding what was left of his face and seemingly impervious to the gale. He let his horse slow to a walk, and then halted it ten paces away with a twitch of the reins.
