Maia winced with the pain of the landing, winding her way toward them. The kishion looked stunned and dazed, and Jon Tayt’s hands were suddenly around his throat, choking him. The hold was broken by a quick jab to Jon’s neck, and the two broke apart, panting and wheezing. Jon held his side and shuffled away as the kishion yanked the axe from the tree, giving the hunter a precious moment to draw another one from his belt.
The two men lunged at each other again, the axe blades glinting in the sunlight as they swung at each other. The clash of the blades was jarring, and then the kishion dropped low and hacked his blade into Jon Tayt’s meaty leg, eliciting a howl of pain. Blood flowed from the deep wound, and the look of agony on the hunter’s face made Maia shudder. She started toward the men at a run, determined to fling herself over Jon Tayt’s body—she would not see another friend murdered.
Then Jon Tayt swept his axe down and lopped off the kishion’s arm at the elbow while it still held the axe haft. The kishion roared with pain and staggered backward. He saw one of his daggers on the ground and jumped on it, fumbling with the blade to pick it up and throw it.
Jon Tayt’s axe whistled twice, the blade burying itself in the kishion’s chest.
He struggled to rise for a moment and then slumped to the ground, landing on his back. He lay still, eyes open and staring. His chest quivered with pain, but he could not breathe.
He was dying when Maia reached his side.
She gripped his dirty hand, tears stinging her eyes and falling hotly down her cheeks. The skin was still warm, but there was no strength in his grip. He had always offered that hand to her, to help her, to fight her enemies, to steer her through a crowd. Maia was not prepared for the devastation she felt when she realized she would never be able to see him again. She hung her head, the tears dripping from the tip of her nose onto his neck.
He blinked rapidly, unable to speak, and she watched as the life spark began to cool. She smoothed the hair from his forehead with one hand, gripping his remaining hand with her other, remembering how he had always stood at her side and tried to help her. She would never forget him. Her throat was so thick, she could not speak the words in her heart.
The tremors in his body stopped. He died gazing into her eyes, a small smile on his face.
We have the chancellor, Richard Syon. He left the abbey grounds to sue for peace, warning that the Medium would deliver them, and he surrendered himself to us. He is a short, fat man, completely contemptible in his false meekness and humility. I told the fool that there would be no truce. I told him that we fully expected the Medium to be summoned. It would be summoned by us. In consequence of his fool’s bravery, I said we would tie him to a stake, flay his back open, break his ribs out, and burn his entrails as he died. This is called the Blood Eagle. I told him we would do this when the sun sets. And then at midnight, after he was dead, we would fulfill our oath and destroy the inhabitants in a Void. I reminded him that the tower on the Tor commemorated another Aldermaston who had watched his abbey burn.
—Corriveaux Tenir, Victus of Dahomey
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Blight Leering
Jon Tayt yelled in pain as he torqued the two sticks, tightening the leather thongs wrapping his leg. The blood stopped flowing from the gaping wound on his leg, much to Maia’s relief. He muttered terrible oaths in Pry-rian, his face a mask of suffering and fury, and tied off the sticks to keep pressure on the wound. He then collapsed back on the gorse, panting, his chest heaving.
Maia had fetched the woad and began to treat the cut on his brow and his smashed nose, using a handkerchief to mop the blood from his bearded cheek.
“Fine . . . kettle . . . of fish,” he wheezed with hardly enough strength to utter it.
Maia felt tears swim in her eyes. “You came for me,” she said in amazement.
“Was never . . . far . . . behind,” he chuffed. He lifted his head a little and stared down at the leather thongs wrapped around his leg. “By Cheshu, a lucky stroke. Hit the bone,” he added with a wince. “But he suffered worse, I warrant. Never liked . . . that fellow much.” He gave her a hard look. “Never threaten a man’s hound.”
Maia stifled a sobbing laugh. “How did you reach me so quickly?”
He took some deep breaths to steady himself, lying still. “I will be brief, for once, because I am not much in the mood . . . for talk. I happened upon Collier at the Battleaxe. What a fine name for an inn! He was near death, poor man, and swooned from the loss of blood. I did what I could for him and then brought him to a wagon bound for Muirwood. I was a bit . . . impatient with the wagon master, grant me that, but I got him to the abbey straight away. They all laid hands on him. Maston stuff. He roused enough to tell us he had named you his heir in the event of his death, and then charged me to go after you. I came on the Argiver.”