encounter, long ago, on a dark slum street, when he'd been with Crit and they'd seen those eyes floating over a teenage corpse. He found he couldn't answer; he just shook his head.
The power that was Ischade bared its teeth at him, the kill-fervor there as sharp as any Stepson's-or any night-mad wolf's. "I'll bring you your man. All of this"-Ischade spread a robed arm, and it was as if night split the day-"that you do is unnecessary. She owes me a person, and more. Wait here, you, and soon you'll see."
"Sure thing, Ischade." Strat found himself squatting down, digging in the sod with his brush-cutting knife. "I'll be right here." He must have blinked, or looked away, or something-the next he knew, she was gone, and a hawk's baby-cry resounded overhead, and men set their fires and ran for their horses.
Vaulting up on his bay, he wondered if Ischade was right-if he didn't need to risk all this manpower, if magic-hers and Randal's-alone could win the day. He didn't like to think that way; he was used to letting Crit do his tactical thinking for him; in times like this, a man who was half a Sacred Band pair sorely missed his partner.
And so, thinking more about who was absent than who was present, he urged his horse into a lope and sought the firegate, not realizing until a shape hovered in midair beside him that Randal, on a cloud-effigy of a horse, had drawn alongside.
"In her witching room, he is!" Randal shouted, his face white beneath its blanket of freckles. "And he's yet salvageable, if we can get him out. But it won't be easy-he's totally entranced. I couldn't rouse him in my mongoose form. I'll seek my power globe now and do my best. Fare well, Straton! May the Writ protect us all!"
And his nonhorse thundered away on unhooves.
Craziest damn way to run a war! Strat had come back to Sanctuary to get away from just this sort of thing.
The firewall, around him hot and snapping, gave matters the immediacy of battle, the plain-and-simple truth of life and death.
The fire was just a little out of control, and his horse had to leap hot flames. Within, sod was beginning to smoke and combust, sparks flew, men yelled and squirted water on themselves and their mounts as they let fly with flaming arrows and urged skittish horses toward Roxane's front door. Strat's plan was to ride roughshod right into Roxane's house, snatch Sync, and get out before she could bewitch them.
It wasn't a plan such as his partner might have made, and he was aware that he might rescue one soldier only to lose another-or others-to Roxane, but he had to do something.
Just as he'd finally convinced his horse of this, and was ready to lead his reformed group up her smoking stairs, an apparition appeared in the doorway: Ischade stood there, with Sync, his arm over her shoulder, and they walked calmly out onto the veranda and down the steps, onto a lawn spurting sparks and young flames.
Men whooped and raced toward her. Sync, beside her, looked around calmly, his brow knitted as if a slightly amusing problem had him distracted. Strat, wondering if he was dreaming-if it could really be this easy-got there fast, and with Ischade's help pulled Sync up behind him on the horse. The fire was loud, and hot, and the horses and men milling around them made talk nearly impossible. But Strat bellowed to the man next to him: "Put her up before you. Let's get out of here!"
The Stepson's mouth formed the word: "Who?"
Strat looked back down, and Ischade was gone. So he gave the signal to end the sack, and with Sync holding tight to his waist, aimed his sweating horse at a narrowing portal in the flames.
In the thick of Downwind, it was nearly dusk, but the flames from the southeast made a second sunset which wouldn't die.
Zip was in a twilight all his own, stumbling from sewer to alley to dungheap, one hand against his bleeding side, nearly doubled over from the pain. He'd been stabbed before, beaten often, starved and fevered in the course of life, but never so
The power that was Ischade bared its teeth at him, the kill-fervor there as sharp as any Stepson's-or any night-mad wolf's. "I'll bring you your man. All of this"-Ischade spread a robed arm, and it was as if night split the day-"that you do is unnecessary. She owes me a person, and more. Wait here, you, and soon you'll see."
"Sure thing, Ischade." Strat found himself squatting down, digging in the sod with his brush-cutting knife. "I'll be right here." He must have blinked, or looked away, or something-the next he knew, she was gone, and a hawk's baby-cry resounded overhead, and men set their fires and ran for their horses.
Vaulting up on his bay, he wondered if Ischade was right-if he didn't need to risk all this manpower, if magic-hers and Randal's-alone could win the day. He didn't like to think that way; he was used to letting Crit do his tactical thinking for him; in times like this, a man who was half a Sacred Band pair sorely missed his partner.
And so, thinking more about who was absent than who was present, he urged his horse into a lope and sought the firegate, not realizing until a shape hovered in midair beside him that Randal, on a cloud-effigy of a horse, had drawn alongside.
"In her witching room, he is!" Randal shouted, his face white beneath its blanket of freckles. "And he's yet salvageable, if we can get him out. But it won't be easy-he's totally entranced. I couldn't rouse him in my mongoose form. I'll seek my power globe now and do my best. Fare well, Straton! May the Writ protect us all!"
And his nonhorse thundered away on unhooves.
Craziest damn way to run a war! Strat had come back to Sanctuary to get away from just this sort of thing.
The firewall, around him hot and snapping, gave matters the immediacy of battle, the plain-and-simple truth of life and death.
The fire was just a little out of control, and his horse had to leap hot flames. Within, sod was beginning to smoke and combust, sparks flew, men yelled and squirted water on themselves and their mounts as they let fly with flaming arrows and urged skittish horses toward Roxane's front door. Strat's plan was to ride roughshod right into Roxane's house, snatch Sync, and get out before she could bewitch them.
It wasn't a plan such as his partner might have made, and he was aware that he might rescue one soldier only to lose another-or others-to Roxane, but he had to do something.
Just as he'd finally convinced his horse of this, and was ready to lead his reformed group up her smoking stairs, an apparition appeared in the doorway: Ischade stood there, with Sync, his arm over her shoulder, and they walked calmly out onto the veranda and down the steps, onto a lawn spurting sparks and young flames.
Men whooped and raced toward her. Sync, beside her, looked around calmly, his brow knitted as if a slightly amusing problem had him distracted. Strat, wondering if he was dreaming-if it could really be this easy-got there fast, and with Ischade's help pulled Sync up behind him on the horse. The fire was loud, and hot, and the horses and men milling around them made talk nearly impossible. But Strat bellowed to the man next to him: "Put her up before you. Let's get out of here!"
The Stepson's mouth formed the word: "Who?"
Strat looked back down, and Ischade was gone. So he gave the signal to end the sack, and with Sync holding tight to his waist, aimed his sweating horse at a narrowing portal in the flames.
In the thick of Downwind, it was nearly dusk, but the flames from the southeast made a second sunset which wouldn't die.
Zip was in a twilight all his own, stumbling from sewer to alley to dungheap, one hand against his bleeding side, nearly doubled over from the pain. He'd been stabbed before, beaten often, starved and fevered in the course of life, but never so
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