“The Spider of Empire,” Erakes remarked. He grinned at Azarion’s quick, surprised glance. “You didn’t know that’s what she was called? Herself has many names outside the capital. Most not complimentary.”
“They aren’t complimentary inside the capital either,” Azarion muttered.
He tried to contain his impatience as they waited for the archer to appear, and prayed Dalvila wouldn’t leave the ramparts before then.
The rhythmic thud of hooves signaled the archer’s arrival. She gave Azarion and Erakes each a quick bow. “You asked for the best archer, Azarion Ataman. That’s me.”
He waved her to follow him farther down the ridge, sheltered among a cluster of stone outcroppings where Savatar scouts kept watch and reported back to the commanders.
“They’re too far away, Azarion,” Erakes argued. “Even for the best archer.”
Azarion ignored him. He pointed to where Dalvila stood. “Can you shoot her from here?”
The archer dismounted and eyed the ramparts, squinting and pacing a short distance one way and then the other. She nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring to take aim. More pacing and squinting had Azarion clenching his jaw to keep from hurrying her. Finally, she lowered the bow and shook her head. “They’re a good distance away, and she’s a small target. I’d have to just about stand on the field’s edge to guarantee a hit. I’ll never get an arrow in the air before I’m dead.”
“Impossible then?”
She shook her head again. “No, just improbable.”
“Try anyway.”
The archer bowed. “As you wish,Ataman.”
“Azarion, she better get that arrow in the air now.”
Erakes’s warning made him whip around. The empress was leaving the ramparts.
“Fuck!” he snarled before slamming his heels into his horse’ssides. The animal leapt forward toward the open field. He spotted an abandoned shield on the ground, leaned from the saddle, and snatched it up before slowing his horse to a walk. He kept the shield in front of him, a guard against Kraelian arrow fire.
The Kraelian war chant faded away as the soldiers wondered why a lone Savatar rode to the edge of the field to pace his horse before them. The empress paused, staring over the ramparts.
“Come on, bitch,” Azarion murmured. “Come back to the edge.” Behind him, the archer waited. He’d found a way to capture her attention. Now he just needed to keep it.
He pulled off his helm. He’d been beardless when he escaped from Kraelag a year earlier. The one he wore now was neatly trimmed, but it still obscured some of his features and altered his appearance. Distance would also make it difficult for her to see his face clearly, but Dalvila was familiar with more than his face. She’d seen him fight in the arena and fuck in her bed. She knew his body language, and he counted on that now, helmless and alone as he stared at her from the edge of the field.
She lunged for the rampart. From where Azarion stood, she was too far away for him to make out her expression, but her one word, venomous and bubbling with loathing, pealed across the battlefield.
“YOU!”
Azarion wheeled his horse around and raced back toward the outcropping. The empress’s shrieks blistered the air. “Kill him! Kill that gladiator!”
He flattened against the horse’s back, making himself as hard a target to hit as he could while they raced for the safety of the Savatar lines. The stretch of a bowstring and muffledthwumpof an arrow fired sounded close by. His archer had taken her shot.
Dalvila’s shrieking halted abruptly. Azarion dared not lookback as more arrow sounds filled the air, only this time aimed at him.
He galloped past the shielded outcropping before swinging around to where Erakes and the archer waited. “Did you hit her?”
The archer blew out a breath. “Yes, though I’m not sure it was a kill shot. I couldn’t tell if I got her in the chest or the shoulder. The shot knocked her backward, out of sight.”
“It’s chaos on the ramparts.” Erakes pointed to the city. “Look.”
People raced to and fro along the battlement walls. There was shouting and plenty of arm waving. Below, where the Kraelian army stood in formation, the commanders shouted for order. “Hold the line! Hold the line!”
Erakes leaned from the saddle to clap Azarion on the shoulder. “That was either good strategy to damage morale or personal retribution useful to all of us.” He saluted the archer. “Impressive shot. From what clan do you hail?”
She grinned. “Saiga, Erakes Ataman.”
“I’ll sing your praises to Insaza Ataman when I see him.”
