Vikram felt the noose draw tight.
RAO
Santosh’s men had tried to drag their horses with them onto the seeker’s path, which bought Prem’s people time, just as Rao had suspected it would. It was just enough time to arrange an ambush.
“I grew up in the imperial court,” Rao said to the assembled men, as they stopped to catch their breath. “I learned the traditional methods, the grand strategies that date back to the Age of Flowers. If Santosh is as much of a purist as I remember, he’ll adhere to the rules of fair warfare. Without horses or chariots, he’ll struggle. He’ll use sabers. No archers or chakram throwers—certainly no whips,” Rao said, gesturing at the steel whip coiled at Prem’s waist. “He won’t sully his men with the weapons of other nations. He’ll be badly equipped to face an ambush.”
Prem wiped the sweat from his forehead. He was still in his heavy shawl, knotted tight to keep it out of the way.
“He’s a purist, true enough,” Prem said. “Fine. Let’s try it.”
“I can use a bow,” Lata offered.
“You’re going to keep well away from the battle,” Prem told her firmly. Lata inclined her head in agreement, but Rao made sure she had a throwing knife regardless.
The Saketans stood in the shadows, steel whips readied. The archers climbed into the trees. Rao joined them, one chakram drawn from his wrist held steady between his fingertips.
When Santosh’s men appeared, all but one of their horses were gone. Run off, most likely, utterly spooked by the forest. Poor beasts.
Prem held his men until Rao threw the first chakram. When he threw the second, they rained down their arrows. As soon the last arrow was loosed—the Parijati either huddling together in the center of the path to avoid the blows, or bleeding and prone on the soil—Prem and his men reared forward, their whips cutting through the air.
Rao leapt down from his branch, skirting around the melee to avoid catching the edge of the whip swords himself. That was when he saw Santosh, crawling away from the battle.
He drew a dagger from his belt. He leapt at the man and—missed, as Santosh rolled away from the blade and jumped to his feet with more agility than Rao had expected of him.
Rao swore, flipped the blade in his hand, and slid it back into place on his belt as Santosh drew his saber.
The saber was little good against a blade whip, but it was very effective in close range against traditional Aloran weapons, which were all intended for throwing or for prosaic close-range stabbing. Rao had four chakrams left on his arm—a handful of throwing daggers at his waist. He jumped back, flinging a blade at Santosh. It missed.
It would have been nice—pleasant even—if Santosh had been a bad fighter. But he’d grown up noble if not royal, and he knew how to handle a Parijati saber. His movements were perfect—sharp slices and stabs at precise angles, which Rao had to dart to avoid, wishing he had a blade whip of his own.
The Saketans suddenly moved as one, shifting, and Prem leapt out, flinging his whip in a rippling slice that caught Santosh on his saber-wielding arm. Slashed through to the skin. The man cursed in pain—but did not drop his blade.
“Two against one? Where is your honor,” Santosh roared.
“Be sure to tell Chandra what dishonorable dogs we are, if you win,” Prem said cheerfully, his steel whip slicing a sharp arc through the air that Santosh stumbled to escape.
Behind the flash of the whip, Rao saw a figure move in close behind Prem, saber drawn, breaking through the defense provided by Prem’s men. There was no time to think. On instinct, Rao drew a chakram from his wrist and flung the sharp-edged discus at the Parijati soldier.
It went through the man’s skull. But not before the man’s blade caught Prem at the arm.
Prem’s whip dropped. His shawl, torn ragged by the blade, fell from his shoulder.
And Rao—froze.
On Prem’s exposed throat, his bleeding arm, were—marks. Bruises.
No. Not bruises. Whorls of bark, large as Rao’s palm. Veins, spidering from them, limned in green. The blood that poured from his wound was not quite red. Not quite human.
Santosh took advantage of Rao’s shock, of Prem’s stagger as he tried, despite his wound, to draw his shawl back into place. He lunged for the low prince.
Prem’s eyes widened. He fumbled for his whip. Rao, horrified, scrambled for one of his chakrams, his knives, anything—
Prem’s whip flashed through the air, cutting through Santosh’s armor, bloodying his arms and blowing open his lip. But Santosh had already thrust forward. His saber had slid, cleanly, straight through Prem’s stomach.