Read Online Implied Spaces by Walter Jon Williams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Walter Jon Williams
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sound of riders. One of the priests turned and dashed back into the plantation, along with a group of bandits. The other priest remained, with a handful of followers clumped behind him, so that he could protect them from arrow fire.
Aristide came forward again, his sword leveled. A few archers trotted forward as well, but rode wide, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and Tecmessa.
An archer sheltering behind the priest knelt, drew, let fly. Tecmessa took the arrow with a crack, a blast of wind, and a puff of dust.
The bandits, as one, took a step back, consternation plain on their features. The priest did not move.
Aristide paused in his advance and addressed the priest.
“I am Aristide, the traveler. Will you favor me with your name?”
The priest made no answer, but glared at him with orange eyes. His unnatural height was exaggerated as he stood on the wall that bordered the plantation. He wore a black turban with the tail wrapped around his lower face, a black robe, black pantaloons, boots. His hands and the skin around his eyes were blue. He wore an indigo-colored sash around his narrow waist with a pair of silver-hilted daggers stuck in it. The clay ball, no larger than a knuckle, quested on the end of its cord like the antenna of an insect.
“If not your name,” Aristide said, “then perhaps your purpose. Your order. Feel free to discourse on the name and nature of your god—who knows, I may convert.”
The priest gave no answer.
“Well.” Aristide whirled his sword in a bit of bravado. “As you choose to remain silent, let us then get on to the contest of skill.”
There was a barrage of bangs from the depths of the plantation, and cries of “ Grax! Grax! “ Aristide advanced, his eyes intent on the clay ball.
The ball swooped, darted, swung toward him. Tecmessa’s point angled toward it.
Something twisted in the air between them. Then untwisted. A preternatural silence seemed to descend on the field for an instant.
Aristide continued his advance. “We are well-matched, I see,” he said, “except of course in the matter of practical weaponry.”
Tecmessa slashed through the air and cut the priest’s leg in half just above the knee. As the priest fell, a backhand cut took his right hand.
The hand, the ball, and the cord fell to the ground, all lifeless.
The priest gave a howl of anger, snatched a dagger from his waist, and lunged as he rose on the elbow of his crippled arm. Aristide parried, and then his blade thrust forward, the single edge slicing the priest’s throat.
There was a red spurting, a rattle, a kicking of boots. The air tasted briefly of copper. The silver knife fell to the stones.
Tecmessa slashed out again, and three bandits vanished in a blast of air. The rest scrambled back in disorder.
Aristide leaped atop the wall and waved the archers forward, then moved into the plantation on the heels of the bandits.
Amid the palms ahead, a knot of bandits brandished weapons in the murk and dust. Arrows hissed between the trees. Lancers galloped in, then away. Grax had succeeded in cutting off the outlaws from their mounts, which made their escape problematical, but a barrage of cracks and booms made it clear that the priests were still guarding their flock.
“ Grax the Troll!” There was a storm of arrows, followed by a rush on the flank. Cries among the bandits showed that at least some of the arrows struck home. An unnaturally tall figure rushed to meet the threat, and the riders reined in and turned. All save the leader, who was too large to easily check his speed.
There was a bang, a swift eddy in the risen dust. Grax vanished.
“Damn!” said Aristide.
The Free Companions fell back in confusion. The outlaws gathered courage and prepared an attack. Aristide took several running steps forward, and took another pair of bandits with a blast from Tecmessa.
The priest turned, the clay ball moving ahead of him like a third, questing eye. Aristide dodged
Aristide came forward again, his sword leveled. A few archers trotted forward as well, but rode wide, keeping a respectful distance between themselves and Tecmessa.
An archer sheltering behind the priest knelt, drew, let fly. Tecmessa took the arrow with a crack, a blast of wind, and a puff of dust.
The bandits, as one, took a step back, consternation plain on their features. The priest did not move.
Aristide paused in his advance and addressed the priest.
“I am Aristide, the traveler. Will you favor me with your name?”
The priest made no answer, but glared at him with orange eyes. His unnatural height was exaggerated as he stood on the wall that bordered the plantation. He wore a black turban with the tail wrapped around his lower face, a black robe, black pantaloons, boots. His hands and the skin around his eyes were blue. He wore an indigo-colored sash around his narrow waist with a pair of silver-hilted daggers stuck in it. The clay ball, no larger than a knuckle, quested on the end of its cord like the antenna of an insect.
“If not your name,” Aristide said, “then perhaps your purpose. Your order. Feel free to discourse on the name and nature of your god—who knows, I may convert.”
The priest gave no answer.
“Well.” Aristide whirled his sword in a bit of bravado. “As you choose to remain silent, let us then get on to the contest of skill.”
There was a barrage of bangs from the depths of the plantation, and cries of “ Grax! Grax! “ Aristide advanced, his eyes intent on the clay ball.
The ball swooped, darted, swung toward him. Tecmessa’s point angled toward it.
Something twisted in the air between them. Then untwisted. A preternatural silence seemed to descend on the field for an instant.
Aristide continued his advance. “We are well-matched, I see,” he said, “except of course in the matter of practical weaponry.”
Tecmessa slashed through the air and cut the priest’s leg in half just above the knee. As the priest fell, a backhand cut took his right hand.
The hand, the ball, and the cord fell to the ground, all lifeless.
The priest gave a howl of anger, snatched a dagger from his waist, and lunged as he rose on the elbow of his crippled arm. Aristide parried, and then his blade thrust forward, the single edge slicing the priest’s throat.
There was a red spurting, a rattle, a kicking of boots. The air tasted briefly of copper. The silver knife fell to the stones.
Tecmessa slashed out again, and three bandits vanished in a blast of air. The rest scrambled back in disorder.
Aristide leaped atop the wall and waved the archers forward, then moved into the plantation on the heels of the bandits.
Amid the palms ahead, a knot of bandits brandished weapons in the murk and dust. Arrows hissed between the trees. Lancers galloped in, then away. Grax had succeeded in cutting off the outlaws from their mounts, which made their escape problematical, but a barrage of cracks and booms made it clear that the priests were still guarding their flock.
“ Grax the Troll!” There was a storm of arrows, followed by a rush on the flank. Cries among the bandits showed that at least some of the arrows struck home. An unnaturally tall figure rushed to meet the threat, and the riders reined in and turned. All save the leader, who was too large to easily check his speed.
There was a bang, a swift eddy in the risen dust. Grax vanished.
“Damn!” said Aristide.
The Free Companions fell back in confusion. The outlaws gathered courage and prepared an attack. Aristide took several running steps forward, and took another pair of bandits with a blast from Tecmessa.
The priest turned, the clay ball moving ahead of him like a third, questing eye. Aristide dodged
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