Stalking Darkness

his neck. She’d practiced the move a thousand times against her father and others; this time she drew blood.
    There were plenty more with him, though, and she drew a long dagger in her left hand, using it to fend off thrusts to her open side.
    Syrtas was to her right, Kaylah to the left. Covering each other as best they could, they waded into the knot of bandits.
    The attackers outnumbered her side at least three to one, but Beka quickly realized that most of them relied more on brawn than skill. With almost disappointing ease, she ducked another swing and ran a man through, then pulled her blade free in time to strike another on the arm as he attacked Kaylah. The girl flashed her a grin, then lunged at a tall, scrawny youth who turned tail and fled.
    Looking around, Beka realized that there were mounted fighters at work, too. Mercalle and the others had come back at some point and were charging into the fray, their helmets flashing in the sunlight as they scattered ambushers and struck down the stragglers with their swords.
    The bandits were already beginning to fall back when more riders of the Horse Guard thundered down the road from the direction of the column. Tobin was at their head, with Portus and Braknil beside him.
    The enemy broke for cover and the horsemen followed, driving them into the trees and dismounting to give chase.
    “Come on!” cried Beka, rallying her blood-streaked comrades. “Let’s not let them steal all the fun!”
    When the rout was over, more than twenty ambushers lay dead in the snow. Beka’s riders had sustained nothing worse than a few sword cuts and arrow wounds.
    “By the Flame, that was a fair-sized gang,” Mercalle exclaimed.
    The lead carter crawled from under his sledge. “Looks like old Garon’s crew. They been harrying the traders up and down the valley for nigh onto three years now. The sheriffs couldn’t never catch ’em.”
    “They chose the wrong prey this time,” Sergeant Braknil remarked, grinning as he strode over to join them. “Looks to me like you had things pretty well in hand by the time we got here, Lieutenant.”
    “I wasn’t so sure,” Beka said, noticing for the first time how shaky her legs felt. “What are you doing here, anyway? Not that I’m not glad to see you.”
    “When Barius and Marten showed up, I sent Tobin and Arna back,” Mercalle explained. “But all of a sudden they came belting back with word that you were under attack. They didn’t know how big the force was or who, so I sent Arna back to the column for help and came on with the others. As it turns out, Braknil had talked the captain into letting the rest of the turma come meet you. He and Portus were less than a mile away when Arna met them.”
    The rest of the turma had drifted over to listen. “Any losses?” she asked.
    “Not a one, Lieutenant!” Corporal Nikides reported proudly. “Not bad for our first battle, eh?”
    “I don’t know that I’d claim routing bandits as a battle, but we acquitted ourselves well enough,” Beka said, grinning around at the others. “You did well, all of you.”
    Braknil exchanged a look with Mercalle and cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, there’s a custom some of the riders should observe. For their first kill, that is.”
    “Drinking the blood of the first man you kill to keep off the ghosts, you mean?”
    “That’s the one, Lieutenant. Some call it superstition nowadays, but I say the old ways are sound.”
    “I agree,” said Beka. She’d heard of the custom from her father, and from Alec, who’d done the same after his first fight. “How many of you made your first kill today?”
    Everyone in Mercalle’s decuria stepped forward, and several more from the others. “All right, then. All of you archers, find your first killing shaft. Come back here when you find it. The rest of you bring your swords.”
    Beka walked to the body of the first swordsman she’d killed, a middle-aged brigand with a braided beard. He lay on his back, a look of mild surprise on his unremarkable face. She stared down at him a moment, making herself remember the murder in his eyes as he charged at her. She was glad to be alive, but not to have killed him. It was an odd mix of feelings. Shaking her head, she pulled the arrow from his chest and joined the others standing in a rough half circle beside the road. When everyone else had come back, she looked around and felt the weight of the moment settle upon