Then he regained his composure and began desperately searching the ridgeline all around the camp. He showed no signs of falling. I frowned, set the knife against the dead sentry’s neck again and leaned against it hard. My arms trembled, but the knife began to move again, slowly, as if I were trying to cut a block of ice. The bowman’s hands flew to his neck and blood poured over them. He staggered, stumbled, and fell into one of the fires. He thrashed wildly, scattering burning coals everywhere, adding to the confusion.
I was deciding where to strike next when lightning lit the sky, showing me a clear, stark picture of the body. The rain had mingled with the blood, and it was everywhere. My hands were dark with it.
Unwilling to maim his hands, I rolled him over onto his stomach and struggled to remove his boots. Then I refocused myself and sawed through the thick tendons above the ankles and behind the knees. It crippled two more men. But the knife was moving more and more slowly, and my arms ached with the strain of it. The corpse was an excellent link, but the only energy I had was the strength of my body. Under these conditions, it felt more like I was cutting wood than flesh.
It had been scarcely more than a minute or two since the camp had been alerted. I spat water and took a moment’s rest for my trembling arms and exhausted mind. I eyed the camp below, watching the confusion and panic build.
A man emerged from the large tent at the base of the tree. He was dressed differently than the others, wearing a hauberk of bright chainmail that came nearly to his knees with a coif covering his head. He stepped into the chaos with a fearless grace, taking everything in at a glance. He snapped orders I couldn’t hear over the sound of rain and thunder. His men calmed, settled back into their positions, and took up their bows and swords.
As I watched him stride across the encampment I was reminded of ... something. He stood in plain view, not bothering to crouch behind one of the protective walls. He gestured to his men, and something in that motion was terribly familiar....
“Kvothe,” Marten hissed. I looked up to see the tracker with his bow drawn tight to his ear. “I’ve got the shot on their boss.”
“Take it.”
His bow hummed and the man sprouted an arrow from his upper thigh, piercing the chain mail, the leg itself, and the armor behind it. From the corner of my eye I saw Marten draw another arrow and put it to the string in a fluid motion, but before he could shoot it, I saw their leader bend. Not a deep bending at the waist as if he were doubling over in pain. He bent at the neck to look down at the arrow that had pierced his leg.
After a second’s scrutiny he grasped the arrow in a fist and snapped off the fletching. Then he reached behind himself and pulled the arrow from his leg. I froze as he looked straight toward us and pointed to our position with the hand that held the broken arrow. He spoke a brief word of command to his men, tossed the arrow into the fire, and stalked gracefully to the other side of the camp.
“Great Tehlu overroll me with your wings,” Marten said, his hand falling away from his bowstring. “Protect me from demons and creatures that walk in the night.”
Only the fact that I was deep in the Heart of Stone kept me from a similar reaction. I turned back to the camp in time to see a small forest of bows being bent in our direction. I ducked my head and aimed a kick at the stupefied tracker, knocking him over as the arrows hummed past. He tumbled over, his quiver of arrows scattering down the muddy bank.
“Tempi?” I called.
“Here,” he replied from off to my left. “
Aesh.
No arrow.”
More arrows sang overhead, a few of them sticking into trees. Soon they would get the range and start arcing the arrows overhead so they fell on us from above. A thought came to me as calmly as a bubble rising to the surface of a pond. “Tempi, bring me this man’s bow.”
“Ia.”
I heard Marten muttering something, his voice low, urgent, and indistinct. At first I thought he’d been shot, then I realized he was praying. “Tehlu shelter me from iron and anger,” he murmured softly. “Tehlu keep me safe from demons in the night.”
Tempi pushed the bow into my hand. I took a deep breath and broke my mind into two pieces, then three, then four. In each piece of my mind I held the bowstring. I forced myself to relax and broke my mind again, five. I tried again and failed. Tired, wet and cold, I had reached my limit. I heard bowstrings thrum again and arrows hit the ground around us like a heavy rain. I felt a tug on the outside of my arm near my shoulder as one of the arrows grazed me before burying itself in the dirt. There was a stinging, then a burning pain.
I pushed the pain away and set my teeth. Five would have to be enough. I drew my knife lightly across the back of my own arm, just enough to draw a little blood, then mouthed the proper bindings and drew the blade across the bowstring, hard.
The string held for a terrifying moment, then parted. The bow jerked in my hand, jolting my wounded arm before it flew out of my grasp. Cries of pain and dismay came over the ridge, letting me know I’d been at least partly successful. Hopefully all five strings had been severed, leaving us with only one or two bowmen to deal with.
But as soon as the bow flung itself out of my grasp, I felt the cold leech into me. Not just my arms, but all the way through me: stomach, chest, and throat. I had known I couldn’t trust the strength of my arm alone to make it through five bowstrings at once. So I had used the only fire that is always with an arcanist, the heat of my blood. Binder’s chills would have me soon. If I didn’t find a way to get warm, I would lapse into shock, then hypothermia, then death.
I fell out of the Heart of Stone and let the pieces of my mind slide back together, reeling a bit in confusion. Chill, wet, and dizzy, I clawed my way back to the top of the ridgeline. The rain felt cold as sleet on my skin.
I saw only one bowman. Unfortunately, he had kept his wits about him, and as soon as my face appeared over the top of the ridge, he drew and let fly in a smooth motion.
A gust of wind saved me. His arrow struck harsh yellow sparks from a stone outcrop not two feet from my head. Rain pelted my face and lightning spidered across the sky. I pushed myself back down out of sight and stabbed the sentry’s body over and over in a delirious rage.
Finally, I struck a buckle and the blade snapped. Panting, I dropped the broken knife. I came back to my senses with the sound of Marten’s forlorn praying in my ears. My limbs felt cold as lead, heavy and awkward.
Worse than that, I could feel the numb sluggishness of hypothermia creeping through me. I realized I wasn’t shivering, and knew it was a bad sign. I was soaking wet with no fire nearby to call my own.
Lightning etched the sky again. I had an idea. I laughed a terrible laugh.
I looked over the top of the ridge and was pleased to see no bowmen. But the leader was barking new orders and I didn’t doubt new bows would be found or strings replaced. Worse, they might simply abandon their shelter and overrun us with sheer numbers. There were easily a dozen men still standing.
Marten still lay praying on the bank. “Tehlu who the fire could not kill, watch over me in fire.”
I kicked at him. “Get up here damn you, or we’re all dead.” He paused in his praying and looked up. I shouted something incomprehensible and leaned over to drag him upward by the scruff of his shirt. I shook him hard and thrust his bow at him with my other hand, not knowing how it had come to be there.
Lightning flashed again and showed me what he saw. My hands and arms were covered with the sentry’s blood. The pelting rain made it streak and run, but hadn’t washed it away. It looked black in the brief, glaring light.
Marten took his bow numbly. “Shoot the tree,” I shouted over the thunder. He looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Shoot it!”
Something in my expression must have convinced him, but his arrows were scattered, and he took up his litany again as he searched the muddy bank for one. “Tehlu who held Encanis to the wheel, watch over me in darkness.”
After a long moment of searching he found an arrow and fumbled to fit it to his string with trembling hands, praying all the while. I turned my attention back to the camp. Their leader had brought them back under control. I could see his mouth shouting orders, but all I could hear was the sound of Marten’s trembling voice:
Tehlu, whose eyes are true,
Watch over me.
Suddenly the leader paused and cocked his head. He held himself perfectly still as if listening to something. Marten continued praying:
Tehlu, son of yourself,
Watch over me.
Their leader looked quickly to the left and right, as if he had heard something that disturbed him. He cocked his head again. “He can hear you!” I shouted madly at Marten. “Shoot! He’s getting them ready to do something!”
Marten took aim at the tree in the center of the camp. Wind buffeted him as he continued to pray.
Tehlu who was Menda who you were.
Watch over me in Menda’s name,
In Perial’s name
In Ordal’s name
In Andan’s name
Watch over me.
Their leader turned his head as if to search the sky for something. Something about the motion seemed terribly familiar, but my thoughts were growing muddy as binder’s chills tightened their grip. The bandit leader turned and bounded for the tent, disappearing inside. “Shoot the tree!” I screamed.
He let the arrow fly, and I saw it wedge firmly into the trunk of the massive oak that loomed in the center of the bandit’s camp. I scrabbled in the mud for one of Marten’s scattered arrows and began to laugh at what I was going to attempt. It might do nothing. It might kill me. The slippage alone ... But it didn’t matter. I was dead already unless I found a way to get warm and dry. I would go into shock soon. Perhaps I was already there.
My hand closed on an arrow. I broke my mind six ways and shouted my bindings as I drove it deep into the sodden ground. “As above, so below!” I shouted, making a joke only someone from the University could hope to understand.
A second passed. The wind faded.
There was a whiteness. A brightness. A noise. I was falling.
Then nothing.
CHAPTER NINETY-TWO
Taborlin the Great
I
WOKE. I WAS WARM and dry. It was dark.
I heard a familiar voice questioning. Marten’s voice, “It was all him. He did it.”
Questioning.
“I won’t never say, Den. I swear to God I won’t. I don’t want to think of it. Get him to tell you if you want.”
Questioning.
“You’d know if you’d seen. Then you wouldn’t want to know no more. Don’t cross him. I’ve seen him angry. That’s all I’ll say. Don’t cross him.”
Questioning.
“Leave off, Den. He was killing them one by one. Then he went a little crazy. He ... No. All I’ll say is this. I think he called the lighting down. Like God himself.”
Like Taborlin the Great,
I thought. And smiled. And slept.
CHAPTER NINETY-THREE
Mercenaries All
A
FTER FOURTEEN HOURS OF sleep I was fit as a fiddle. My companions seemed surprised by this, as they’d found me unconscious, cold to the touch, and covered in blood. They had stripped me, rubbed my limbs a bit, then rolled me in blankets and put me inside the bandits’ single surviving tent. The other five had been either burned, buried, or lost when a great white pillar of lightning blasted the tall oak that stood at the center of the bandits’ camp.
The next day was overcast but blessedly free of rain. First we tended to our hurts. Hespe had taken an arrow in the leg when the sentry had surprised them. Dedan had a deep gash along one of his shoulders, which was fairly lucky, considering he’d rushed the sentry bare-handed. When I asked him about it, he said he simply hadn’t had time to draw his sword.
Marten had an angry red lump on his forehead above one eyebrow, either from when I had kicked him over or dragged him around. It was tender to the touch, but he claimed he had gotten worse a dozen times in tavern brawls.
After I recovered from the chills I was fine. I could tell my companions were surprised by my sudden return from the doors of death and decided to leave them to their amazement. A little mystery wouldn’t hurt my reputation.
I bandaged the ragged cut where the arrow had grazed my shoulder and tended to a few bruises and scrapes I didn’t remember receiving. I also had the long, shallow cut I had made on the top of my arm, but it was barely worth stitches.
Tempi was unhurt, unruffled, unreadable.
Our second order of business was to tend to the dead. While I had been unconscious the rest of the group had pulled most of the burned, lifeless bodies to one side of the clearing. They tallied thus: