Then she let the body fall.
By the time the moon touched the Needle Rock, Borte was back at the cart. She had twenty-three horses. Seven Tangut heads, strung by their topknots from her saddle. And her father’s body, already cold, already beginning to forget the shape of a man. blood and bone mongol heleer
“Who are you?” he gasped. His accent was thick, but the words were Mongol. The tongue of the conquered. Then she let the body fall
Borte moved.
The sentry died first. She didn’t stab him. She slid the blade under his sternum and up, a single hard push, and his scream turned into a wet bubble. He fell against her, and she held him upright for three heartbeats—long enough for the drunk by the horses to look away. Seven Tangut heads, strung by their topknots from her saddle
He twisted, a dagger in his hand.