Chapter 483: Dance of the Decoys (2)
Lyan inhaled, tasting pine resin and the metallic edge of imminent violence. He felt Wilhelmina straighten, Alicia’s magic shiver at his back, Josephine’s cavalry gather like wound springs.
His knuckles whitened on the glaive. "Engage. No pursuit," Lyan ordered, his tone sharp.
Xena’s arrow sang, a high, keening note that cut through the hush like a violin string snapping. Even before the shaft found its mark, Lyan saw the way her shoulders dipped to ride out the recoil and how the bow-limbs quivered like startled birds. The first scout barely had time to widen his eyes; the arrow punched through the hollow beneath his jaw and lodged in the pine trunk behind him with a dull thuck. A wet hiss escaped his lips as he crumpled into the underbrush.
Xena did not pause to savor the shot. Her gloved fingers dipped, notched, drew. The string kissed the corner of her mouth a second time, and again the hiss of fletching sliced the mist. The follow-up scout, a wiry fellow trying to raise his horn, jerked as the broadhead slammed into the hinge of his shoulder and spine. He toppled backward, horn clattering on stone before rolling into shadow.
(Sharp as the moon’s own fang,) Lilith whispered approvingly. Even Griselda, who favored the roar of axes over the whisper of arrows, crackled a grudging spark of respect.
Ravia moved at that instant—no battle cry, just the crunch of grit beneath her boots as she exploded from cover. One heartbeat she was a statue at the column’s flank, the next a blur of leather, steel, and raven-black braid. Her curved blade flashed once, twice; mist splashed crimson where metal parted mail. The third scout managed a strangled shout that ended mid-syllable as her pommel cracked his larynx. His eyes filmed over in astonishment before he folded silently.
A fourth enemy lurched forward with a desperate backswing of a hunting mace. Ravia ducked inside the arc, shoulders rolling like water over stone, and plunged her sword into the man’s gut so deep the tip rang against backbone. She wrenched free without slowing, dark blade leaving a ribbon of steam in the cold air. Two breaths, four bodies—Ravia’s brutal arithmetic of war.
Josephine’s laughter sailed above the wet crunch of bodies meeting earth—bright, reckless, intoxicating. She pressed her heels; her gray gelding surged between trees, hooves flinging moss. A stunned scout spun to face the thunder of its charge—too late. Josephine stood in the stirrups, red hair whipping, eyes alight. Her knife—polished bone hilt, wicked inward curve—slid under the man’s ribs like a lover’s secret, up behind sternum, severing lungs from breath. She rode him down, wrenching the blade free as he collapsed in a wheeze. "You looked lost," she called over her shoulder, voice honeyed with mock sympathy.
Belle, ever the phantom, had peeled wide to the right. Where the pine trunks thinned, she burst through like green flame, mount dancing sideways to cut off the last scout as he bolted. Her rapier flashed—a silver thread drawn through fog. She did not hack; she stitched. One thrust found the gap above the man’s collar, another parted the artery at his thigh as he turned. He staggered, hand flailing for purchase; Belle whispered something he never heard and slid past, cloak snapping. He collapsed into ferns, leaving only the hush of settling fronds behind.