She trapped him on the island's crown with its spectacular view of the dangerous waters below. Later, Anhuset could only guess why her opponent suddenly decided to charge her. Maybe in the hopes of throwing her off the nearby edge, into the water, maybe to tackle her with the idea of brawling to the death. Whatever plan he had, she'd never know it. He raced toward her with a war cry and his sword raised. She'd simply pivoted out the way at the last minute and kicked him in the back. His momentum and her kick propelled him over the edge and into the lake below. She thought he might drown until a long shadow sped toward him as he thrashed in the water.
Anhuset raced back down the slope, angling toward the place where she'd left Serovek, fearful that Chamtivos and the remaining hunters had found and butchered him. A glimpse through the trees at additional boats landing on the shore to deposit yet more armed men sent her heart hurtling into her throat. “Gods' damn it,” she snarled. “Will this never end?”
Serovek would have to fend for himself a little longer while she dealt with this newest problem. She crept closer to the shore, pausing at the sight of these newest invaders, heavily armed and wearing clerics' garb. Anhuset recognized their clothing. Megiddo had worn something similar when he first presented himself to Brishen at Saggara. Nazim monks.
They lingered on the beach for a moment, talking among themselves. Tired of waiting for them to do something other than chat, Anhuset edged out of the forest's shelter far enough for them to see her. She was too far away for them to shoot at her if they proved to be hostile.
Instead there was much exclaiming at the sight of her, though they didn't approach. One monk stepped toward her, hands out in a sign of peace. “Sha-Anhuset?”
Wary, Anhuset remained where she was. He knew her name. Had Erostis or Klanek made it to the monastery to get help? She didn't have time to question him or exchange introductions and idle conversation.
“Yes,” she said. “And if you're through having a convocation on the beach, the margrave needs our help, and Chamtivos needs to die.”
Her remarks galvanized them all into a rush toward her and the forest. Three monks remained behind while the rest raced with her through the forest toward the protected ledge where Serovek sheltered.
The found him sprawled against a tree, long legs splayed, head drooping so that his chin rested on his chest. One hand lay limply in his lap, the other by his side. Were it not for the bruises mottling his face, he'd be as pale as the moon. Even his lips had lost their color. He looked to Anhuset like a broken doll tossed aside by a bored child.
She hurried to him, skirting Chamtivos's head where it had rolled between her and the Nazim monk who accompanied her. The warlord's death mask was one of bafflement, as if wondering why his gaze looked upon such a skewed perspective. Anhuset crouched beside Serovek and pressed her fingertips against the side of his throat, trying to ignore the panicked thud of her own heart. She scowled, torn between relief and worry. His pulse thumped faintly under her touch but was unsteady. She searched his body, looking for new wounds, for blood. Her relieved sigh must have been loud because he twitched the tiniest bit.
“Anhuset,” he said on a ghost of a breath before falling silent again. His eyelids fluttered but remained closed.
“Were Chamtivos and the margrave enemies before this?” The monk had joined her, his expression puzzled and sympathetic. “We've rescued others from the warlord's clutches. Those taken hostage were never brutalized this way.”
“I don't think the two even met before the attack,” she said, gently tucking a lock of Serovek's hair behind his ear. With Chamtivos dead, they'd never know why he'd visited his malice on Serovek's body, but she could guess. Jealousy and envy made even good people ugly at times. For those like Chamtivos, murderous and petty, with a streak of madness and a thirst for power a league wide, it made them monstrous.
“I'll return with two of my brothers to help carry him to the boats. Or I can stay with him if you wish to go.” The monk gestured to the slope below them. “We could try to carry him ourselves, but it would be a slower trip, and we might injure him even more if we jostle him too much.”
Anhuset held back a wry smile, recalling the grueling climb up the same slope with an unconscious Serovek draped across her shoulders and back. “You go; I'll stay.” The monk, unburdened by fatigue and the exertions of a battle, would be much faster than she any way in rounding up his fellow monks for help. And truth be told, she needed to be here, beside this resilient warrior who'd managed to kill six men, including their leader, by himself while injured and barely able to stand. He defied every assumption she'd ever made about humans, and Anhuset was heartily glad he'd proven her wrong.
She watched the monk, who'd introduced himself as Cuama, sprint back the way they'd come. He paused long enough to snatch Chamtivos's head from the leaf pile where it landed and soon disappeared into the trees. No doubt he'd present the head to the others as proof the warlord was indeed quite dead and no longer a thorn in their side.
She didn't try to wake Serovek. As long as he still breathed and showed no outward signs of distress, she'd let him be while they waited for Cuama to return with help. She used the time to strip the dead of all their weaponry, including the knife she pulled from the archer's body. The only things she left were the pair of arrows still lodged in the back of the man Serovek had obviously used as a shield in a charge toward his enemies. She braced her foot on the corpse, using the leverage to break the arrow shafts in half. By her initial count of the hunters who'd landed on the island, she, Serovek, and the monks had dispatched all of them, but she wasn't taking any chances by leaving retrievable, repairable weaponry.
Chamtivos's headless body lay crumpled in the dirt. Anhuset poked his body with her toe. “Scum with visions of greatness but no character to achieve it. Consider yourself privileged to have died by the hand of one whose boots you weren't fit to lick.” She gave the corpse a hard shove, sending it tumbling down the slope in a flail of arms and legs before it came to a thumping stop against a big conifer. “May the scavengers eat well,” she said and turned away to head back to Serovek.
By the time Cuama returned with three more monks, Anhuset had amassed a small arsenal of looted weapons and laid Serovek on his back in a cushion of leaf fall. The monks wasted no time constructing a sledge with fallen tree limbs and a pair of cloaks to carry Serovek down to the shore. She helped them lift, then lower him into one of the boats and climbed in with him.
Dark water lapped against the boat's sides, and the vessel yawed right, then left as Cuama and two of his brothers climbed in as well to take up oars. One more monk shoved the boat away from the shore, wading deep into the lake before hoisting himself into the vessel as well. Anhuset gave the island a brief glimpse before setting her sights on the opposite shore. “Goodbye and good riddance,” she muttered.
Those same arrowing wakes that had followed Chamtivos's boats to the island now moved parallel to the monks' boats for the return trip. She now knew what created the big wake, had caught a clear glimpse of a giant sinuous body with the head and skin of an eel, a great milky eye and a double set of jaws filled with curving fangs that had clamped down on one of Chamtivos's men and dragged him beneath the water.