Read Online The Gathering of the Lost by Helen Lowe - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Lowe
Tags: Fantasy
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either the mask or him—and a crossbow quarrel whined through the space where her head had been a heartbeat before, slapping into an adjacent poplar trunk.
Chapter 4
Dance of Shadows
B oth heralds dropped to the ground as a second bolt flew over Tarathan’s bent head and into the tree beside him with the same deadly thwack. Together they wormed into the adjoining shrubbery, away from the betraying pebbles of the path. The undergrowth was a broad ribbon of low and medium height bushes, with the statue of the lyre player on its far side. The aromatic scent of the shrubs filled the night air, and the babel of voices, laughter, and music from the ballroom was muted by distance. Everything was beautiful and very still. Jehane Mor, lying flat on damp earth a few paces from Tarathan, strained her ears to hear movement, but the assassins, too, had gone to ground.
Carefully, she strengthened and extended the psychic shield that she had snapped into place as soon as they dived for the undergrowth, making sure it covered both of them. Other than at very close quarters, it should foil even sharply attuned senses, making their bodies appear part moonlight and part black, streaming shadow, while their scent blended with the tang of earth and plants and night. Her pulse slowed and deepened, but Jehane Mor knew that those stalking them would be patient, too. It would do them little good, though, for very soon now, Tarathan’s seeking sense would have found out both their numbers and their hiding places.
A few moments later, she felt the brief touch of his mind as he began to ease away from her—and knew that now, the hunters had become the hunted.
Long seconds passed into minutes; the moon slipped behind a narrow bank of cloud and the garden darkened. Jehane Mor heard the faintest whisper of a footfall on grass, a hand stirring a leaf—and then a shadow moved on the far side of the shrubbery, holding a crossbow in silhouette. The cloth-wrapped head turned, searching, and she reinforced her shield until it almost acquired form in the darkness.
The moon was still hidden when the assassin moved again, slipping into the shadow cast by the statue. He was almost past the plinth when Tarathan rose up behind him in one soundless, fluid movement, covering the assassin’s mouth with his left hand and driving his dagger up through the back of the neck with his right. The body collapsed backward and Tarathan lowered it silently to the ground. Given the distance between them, Jehane Mor had feared that the shield’s protection might waver once Tarathan broke cover—but no more quarrels sang. And now Tarathan had the assassin’s crossbow.
The moon floated from behind the cloud, flooding the lawn with silver. A shadow shifted beneath nearby trees, away from the light, and then another slid into the darkness cast by a bank of shrubs at the far end of the walk. The first shadow uttered a soft call, the plaintive cry of a nightbird that ended in a sharp coughing moan as Tarathan shot him through the throat. The second assassin disappeared again.
Two down: Jehane Mor wondered how many more there were. Shield or no shield, given the limited size of the shrubbery the remaining assassins must pinpoint their location soon. Although at least the area was large enough that they could not simply pepper the undergrowth with arrows and rely on their job being done—assuming they had enough crossbowmen for that. She continued to lie still, tense with listening, as an owl hooted from further down the hill.
Another bird answered from a grove near the river as a pebble clicked on the adjoining path. The sound was so slight that without her shield in place, Jehane Mor might not have heard it. No other sound came, but she could sense the assassin now: feel rather than hear or see him move closer as his mind brushed against the perimeter of her psychic shield. She felt him hesitate, reacting to the shield’s compulsion to turn away—and Tarathan fired his
Chapter 4
Dance of Shadows
B oth heralds dropped to the ground as a second bolt flew over Tarathan’s bent head and into the tree beside him with the same deadly thwack. Together they wormed into the adjoining shrubbery, away from the betraying pebbles of the path. The undergrowth was a broad ribbon of low and medium height bushes, with the statue of the lyre player on its far side. The aromatic scent of the shrubs filled the night air, and the babel of voices, laughter, and music from the ballroom was muted by distance. Everything was beautiful and very still. Jehane Mor, lying flat on damp earth a few paces from Tarathan, strained her ears to hear movement, but the assassins, too, had gone to ground.
Carefully, she strengthened and extended the psychic shield that she had snapped into place as soon as they dived for the undergrowth, making sure it covered both of them. Other than at very close quarters, it should foil even sharply attuned senses, making their bodies appear part moonlight and part black, streaming shadow, while their scent blended with the tang of earth and plants and night. Her pulse slowed and deepened, but Jehane Mor knew that those stalking them would be patient, too. It would do them little good, though, for very soon now, Tarathan’s seeking sense would have found out both their numbers and their hiding places.
A few moments later, she felt the brief touch of his mind as he began to ease away from her—and knew that now, the hunters had become the hunted.
Long seconds passed into minutes; the moon slipped behind a narrow bank of cloud and the garden darkened. Jehane Mor heard the faintest whisper of a footfall on grass, a hand stirring a leaf—and then a shadow moved on the far side of the shrubbery, holding a crossbow in silhouette. The cloth-wrapped head turned, searching, and she reinforced her shield until it almost acquired form in the darkness.
The moon was still hidden when the assassin moved again, slipping into the shadow cast by the statue. He was almost past the plinth when Tarathan rose up behind him in one soundless, fluid movement, covering the assassin’s mouth with his left hand and driving his dagger up through the back of the neck with his right. The body collapsed backward and Tarathan lowered it silently to the ground. Given the distance between them, Jehane Mor had feared that the shield’s protection might waver once Tarathan broke cover—but no more quarrels sang. And now Tarathan had the assassin’s crossbow.
The moon floated from behind the cloud, flooding the lawn with silver. A shadow shifted beneath nearby trees, away from the light, and then another slid into the darkness cast by a bank of shrubs at the far end of the walk. The first shadow uttered a soft call, the plaintive cry of a nightbird that ended in a sharp coughing moan as Tarathan shot him through the throat. The second assassin disappeared again.
Two down: Jehane Mor wondered how many more there were. Shield or no shield, given the limited size of the shrubbery the remaining assassins must pinpoint their location soon. Although at least the area was large enough that they could not simply pepper the undergrowth with arrows and rely on their job being done—assuming they had enough crossbowmen for that. She continued to lie still, tense with listening, as an owl hooted from further down the hill.
Another bird answered from a grove near the river as a pebble clicked on the adjoining path. The sound was so slight that without her shield in place, Jehane Mor might not have heard it. No other sound came, but she could sense the assassin now: feel rather than hear or see him move closer as his mind brushed against the perimeter of her psychic shield. She felt him hesitate, reacting to the shield’s compulsion to turn away—and Tarathan fired his
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