* * *
‘Is this the truth?’ asked an astonished Shimmer.
The Brethren shade before her, once Lieutenant Shirdar, bowed. ‘We offer no excuse. We were … blinded … commander. The Vow—’
‘Damn the Vow!’ Shimmer grated. ‘Cowl used your damned fixation to manipulate you!’
The shade wavered, fading, then reasserting its presence as if attempting to go but being held against its wishes. ‘It is yours too,’ it murmured.
Shimmer raised a gauntleted hand as if she would strike it. ‘Gather the Brethren. There are second and third investiture soldiers abandoned in the field, alone, beleaguered. Find them, protect them, guide them here!’
‘And K'azz?’
‘We will be—’ She cast about, pointed to a hill in the west. ‘There. Our rallying point.’
Shirdar bowed his head. ‘As you order.’
‘Yes! As I order. Now go!’
The shade disappeared. ‘Avowed!’ Shimmer yelled, raising her arms and turning full circle. ‘There are soldiers abandoned in the field! Our brothers and sisters! Go! Find them! Bring them to me! The Brethren will guide you!’
A great shout answered her call, arms raised. The Avowed spread out for the field. Smoky, Shell and Bower paused to eye Shimmer – she waved them on. Even Greymane bowed, obviously meaning to go. She cocked a brow. ‘Where are you going? The Brethren will not talk to you.’
The man's thick lips turned up in a one-sided smile. His eyes now laughed with some hidden joke. ‘Skinner, you say, has been cast out. Very good. I go now to do what should've been done some time ago.’
Her breath caught. ‘I forbid it!’
The smile broadened with the hidden joke. ‘As you have constantly reminded me, Shimmer, I am no Avowed.’ And he bowed, leaving.
You fool! There are too many! He is not alone.
‘Commander,’ a Guardsman sergeant, Trench, asked.
‘Yes?’
‘The rallying point?’
She pulled her gaze reluctantly from the back of the renegade as he jogged into the fire-dotted night. ‘Yes. This way. We withdraw to that hill.’
A Brethren shade appeared before her. ‘The Claw comes.’
Shimmer pushed Trench from her. ‘Go! Assemble. Go on.’ And she backed away. The man hesitated, hand going to his sword. ‘I order you to go!’ Grimacing his unwillingness, the sergeant turned and ran.
Shimmer continued backing away. She unsheathed her whipsword and it flexed before her, almost invisible in profile so thin was it. Darker shapes arose in the field around her. She turned, counting. Ten. Two Hands. She flicked the blade, weaving it, and she turned, spinning. Slowly at first, then quickening, the blade nearly invisible. And so the dance^ Shimmer heard again the dry voice of her old instructress lashing her. The sword-dance of spinning cuts. Beautiful – but oh so deadly.
The Claws closed, knives out, crouched. Thrown weapons glanced from the twisting blade. Training of a lifetime refined over a further century flicked out the tempered blade to lick arms, legs and heads as she spun. Claws flinched away, gasping at razor cuts that sawed through flesh to scrape bone, sever wrists, lacerate faces and slit throats.
A second wave challenged, ducking, probing. The blade licked whipping through them all, extending suddenly to its full length. Shimmer spun, twisting and leaping. The blade's razor edge flicked, kissing all remaining, and she landed, arms extended, panting.
She stilled, weapon extended before her, quivering, blood running from its length. All ten were down, some weeping, holding faces, bloodied stumps. Three more stood a few paces off, their eyes huge. Shimmer saw them and at the same instant each raised a crossbow. Damn – no momentum.
Then another jumped among them, kicking, rolling, and they rocked backwards to fall, immobile, felled by blows of feet and hands. This new figure strode up to her – female, slim and wiry, wrapped head to foot in dark cloth strips. Those strips wet with blood at her feet and torn away from her bloodied hands by the ferocity of her blows. Shimmer inclined her head in greeting. ‘I could have handled them.’
‘Perhaps.’ Only dark, calculating eyes were visible in her face and these shifted away. She raised her chin to the retreating Guardsmen. ‘You are withdrawing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then go with my permission and never return to these lands.’
Shimmer's brows rose. ‘And you are?’
The female Claw ignored the question.
Another Claw came running out of the dark, this one a man with a pinched rat's face, dark mussed hair and an unsettling crazy grin. Shimmer recognized him from briefings on the Claw – Possum, Clawmaster. He crouched behind the woman as if guarding her back. The Master of the Claws following around a woman like a pet dog? Then this must be … Shimmer froze in shock. Gods! It's her! Of course, Mistress of the Claw, once rival of Dancer himself!
Trench with a full Blade was running their way. Shimmer raised a hand to forestall them.
Unconcerned, the woman motioned aside, to the east. ‘And those?’
Shimmer knew who she meant. ‘Disavowed. Disgraced. Stricken from our ranks.’
‘I see. May I ask the reason for this falling out?’
She doesn't know! ‘Skinner exceeded his authority.’ All too true.
‘How depressingly familiar …’ Musing, still gazing away, the woman – Laseen in truth? – spoke. ‘Very well. We are done here. Go! Return and you will be hunted down and slain. Accepted?’
Shimmer offered a shallow bow. ‘Accepted.’
The woman turned away, paused before the Clawmaster, who bowed profoundly on one knee. ‘Come, Possum. We have much to discuss – now.’ And she walked off into the dark, and, after a courtly mocking bow – that grin, unbalanced – Possum followed.
Trench jogged up. ‘Who was that?’
‘A … Claw officer. We have struck a truce.’
‘A truce? What of Skinner?’
‘I don't believe he's interested in any truces.’
Trench adjusted his hauberk. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Come, Sergeant, we've a defensive perimeter to build. No sense trusting to the Empire's good graces, yes?’
‘Aye, Commander.’
The sergeant headed off but Shimmer lingered. She gazed back to where the two disappeared into the night. So, met at last. Is your word good, Empress? Shall you simply allow us to withdraw? Or will other voices, other councils, sway? I wonder …