The former officer chose magnanimously to ignore the complaint. He gestured to his men and women, all probably his own troops, and they set to searching the wagons.
Dassem’s hands clenched as bolts of cloth, blankets, baskets and cooking utensils came crashing out of the wagons amid protests and shouts.
‘You are searching all the wagons and carts?’ he called to the retired – or cashiered – officer.
Luel turned his way, searched the dim firelight. ‘All must contribute to the tithe.’ He squinted, frowning. ‘And you are…?’
Dassem started for his cart.
‘Stop that man!’ Luel bellowed.
Dassem threw down a number of the outlaw soldiers nearby but had to halt as numerous crossbows were levelled against him. He stood, waiting, while Luel marched up to study him closely.
Face to face, Luel said, ‘You are in an awful hurry to reach your goods, my friend.’
Dassem said nothing, fists clenched. His gaze was fixed into the darkness where his cart lay.
‘Forgot to hide something, perhaps? Some gold or silver maybe?’ Luel looked him up and down. ‘You don’t look wealthy, but perhaps it’s all hidden away in your wagon or among your rags, hey?’
Dassem studied the seven glinting crossbow quarrels arrayed before him, with more behind, no doubt. He damned this man for taking what looked like his entire command with him from the Kanian fold.
A bellow arose from the dark, a shout of open terror. ‘Plague!’
Dassem looked to the night sky and mouthed a silent curse.
One of the ex-soldiers came running to Luel, pointing a shaking finger back into the darkness. ‘A cart,’ he gasped, ‘a girl – plague!’
‘It is not plague,’ Dassem announced to everyone.
Luel’s gaze narrowed in suspicion. ‘What’s this? You bring a sick family member south with you?’
Horst now pushed forward, saying, outraged, ‘You told me she was old and infirm!’
‘She is not sick,’ Dassem repeated, stubbornly, but sounding unconvincing even to himself.
‘I’ve seen plague,’ the outlaw told Luel, ‘and she has it.’ He slapped his hands to his mouth, saying, ‘Gods! There must have been sickly vapours in there and they touched me!’
Luel nodded to the fellow. ‘Burn it.’
‘No!’ Dassem lurched forward, then spun as a crossbow bolt gouged his left side, passing on into the darkness.
He stilled, hunched in pain, a hand pressed to his side, panting. Luel watched him warily, then waved his man onward. ‘Go on. Burn it.’
Dassem reached out to Horst. ‘Think, man. How could she be a carrier? Has anyone got sick? Have I?’ But the fat caravan-master just backed away, shaking his head.
The outlaw jogged off. Dassem watched him disappear between the wagons, and steeled himself to follow though it meant a suicidal charge through a hail of crossbow bolts.
Even as he tensed for the leap, a great flash erupted from the nearby fire, blinding him and bringing cries of surprise and shock from everyone. A hand took his arm and he did not fight as he recognized the touch.
‘This way,’ Shear whispered, dragging him along by the elbow.
He wiped at his tearing eyes. ‘What was that? Are you a mage?’
‘No. It is a chemical made by a people north of my homeland. They trade small pinches of it.’
‘That was a pinch?’
She pushed him up against a wagon. ‘Do you begin all your fights unarmed?’
‘Well – it was a spur of the moment thing.’ He blinked repeatedly, struggling to regain his vision. ‘Lead me to the northernmost part of the clearing.’
Shouts and panic now filled the air as the caravan merchants and families sought to flee. Luel’s command-voice rose over the tumult: ‘Find them and kill them!’
Shear took his arm and thrust a weapon into his hand. He hefted it and was appalled by its balance. ‘What is this?’
She was pulling him along. ‘A sword. I took it from one of the outlaws.’
‘It is wretched.’
‘So throw it away and request something more suitable.’
Shapes moved now in his vision; families dashing about in the dark. Shear moved suddenly and a body fell to the dirt, writhing and gurgling.
He wiped at his face. ‘My apologies. It is a fine blade.’
They hurried onward; he could see almost well enough now to make his own way. ‘You believe me, then?’ he asked as they threaded between wagons. ‘This isn’t the plague.’
‘If it was the plague, she’d be dead by now. As would you.’
‘Exactly. Then why all this?’
‘Fear is fear. It has no logic.’
He could make out the cart; men and women were gathered there, carrying torches. They’d pulled it clear and were throwing dry wood and brush up against its sides.
Despite the searing pain at his side, he clamped both hands on to the weapon, hissing, ‘Hood witness,’ and charged.
Together they cleared the area around the cart very quickly. Then by mutual nods they separated, he going to the left, she the right, and worked their way southward through the caravanserai slaying every outlaw they met.
After the fifteenth, he began to feel sorry for these common soldiers, renegade or not, and switched to incapacitating cuts across the face, weapon arm, side, or neck. Some of these would bleed out, he knew, but others would have the option of limping away.
He found Luel in the south-west corner, behind a semicircle of defending crossbowers, double-ranked. Some sort of word, or battle instinct, must have warned him of what was coming and he was retreating behind his surviving men and women. They were pacing backwards, kneeling, firing into the dark, switching ranks and reloading – all in sequence.
Crouched in the grasses, Dassem admired their precision and discipline.
Shear joined him and together they followed, hunched, parting the grass with their blades to study the formation for an opening.
‘Perhaps we shall have to let them go,’ Shear offered.
‘We have to end this or they will return.’ He peered back towards the camp, thinking. ‘A moment,’ he said, and jogged off.
In the camp he found what he sought: a family of Seti tribal descent, refugees of some feud or blood-crime. He approached the aged grandfather guarding their felt-covered cart and nodded a greeting. The man held a wicked recurve bow low before him, an arrow nocked. A tall spear, adorned with wolf-tails, leaned up against the cart next to him.
Dassem motioned to the weapon. ‘May I borrow your fine spear?’
The fellow reached over and held it out. ‘An honour, Sword of Death.’
Dassem shook his head. ‘No longer.’
‘I saw what I saw. And I heard the stories from Heng.’
Dassem merely held the weapon out, horizontal, and inclined his head in thanks. Then he jogged back westward to Shear’s position in the dark.
He approached, hunched low, spear level with the ground. The stamp of horses’ hooves reached him, together with mild nickering and the jangle of tack. Shear was behind low brush and she gestured ahead. She whispered, ‘They are collecting the horses.’