David Chandler - Den of thieves

Gurrh made no attempt to fight the guards, but they couldn’t harm him either. He fended off most of their attacks with ease, and when one of them did manage to strike him, he either shrugged off the blade or just laughed as if he was being tickled. From his hiding place, Croy watched Bikker get more and more red in the face.

“All of you, get out there,” Bikker ordered. The guards rushed forth as the barrier was lowered once more, all except the captain.

“But sir, why aren’t you leading the men?” the captain demanded. “Surely your sword would make short work of that thing.”

“I can’t very well abandon the house, now can I? Did it occur to you that this might be a trick? Do as you’re told.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said, and hurried out to join his men.

Gurrh grabbed a halberd that came whistling toward his nose and snapped its haft like a twig. He buried the blade end in the grass by his feet. Its owner tried to smash at the ogre’s eyes with the broken length of wood in his hands, but to no avail.

Two of the guards got around behind the ogre to attack from the rear, but Gurrh didn’t even turn to engage them. One of them sunk a military fork into the thick matted hair near Gurrh’s spine, but the ogre only rolled his shoulders as if he were having his back scratched. The other aimed his pikestaff at Gurrh’s left kidney, and this time Gurrh did respond, but only by shifting slightly to one side so the guard staggered past him with the momentum of his charge.

The flanking maneuver was not without result, however. As Gurrh sidestepped, a guard with a glaive saw his opportunity and jabbed upward, right past the metal fencepost Gurrh was using to parry. The long curved blade of the glaive slipped through Gurrh’s defense and caromed off the giant’s cheek. A dark line of blood appeared on Gurrh’s preternaturally white skin.

Croy gasped. He’d been convinced that the ogre was invulnerable. He’d never have suggested Gurrh for this job if he’d thought there was a chance the gentle creature could be hurt. It was all he could do not to run out of hiding and rescue Gurrh from his attackers.

Not that the ogre really needed the help. Gurrh grabbed the glaive away from the retainer and threw it into the dark grass behind him. Its owner raced after it. The giant blocked two more attacks, then reached up with his free hand and patted at the wound on his face.

“Thou hast bloodied me,” the ogre said. He seemed more surprised than angered. He brought his iron spear around and put a deep notch in the wooden haft of a billhook that might have touched his chest if its wielder had been faster. “I thought it not possible.”

Croy bit his lip. The ogre’s face was his one weak spot-the one part of his body not covered by the thick protective hair. This fact was not lost on the retainers. They might be sell-swords, cheaply come by and poorly trained-but some of them, at least, were not fools.

Suddenly every attack was aimed at Gurrh’s eyes or nose or mouth. The severed end of a polearm (Gurrh had already broken off the iron blade) slammed into the ogre’s lower lip, and more blood leaked from the white flesh there. A guard with a bow started firing arrows toward Gurrh’s eyes, releasing and notching a new arrow as fast as he could. Glaive and halberd blades were jabbed and swung at Gurrh’s face with great rapidity, and it was all the ogre could do to keep them from slicing his features to ribbons.

It was time. Croy could wait no longer. He would defend his friend with his own blades. There was no curse stopping him from fighting. Malden’s original plan had required him to stay behind as a lookout while Gurrh took on Bikker and his men, but Croy refused to accept that role.

He would show Cythera what he was capable of. That she could trust him-that he could save her, and her mother, if he was just given a chance. Enough skulduggery! Enough thievery! This was work for a real knight.

Croy slipped his shortsword out of its sheath and brought it to a low ready position. He stood up from the bush where he’d been crouching like a footpad. Enough, he thought. Enough skulking, enough lurking.

It was time to fight.

Croy’s wound throbbed as he strode across the grass. It did not pain him, but only sought to remind him that he was not at the full extent of his powers.

He ignored it.

The ogre was beset now, with guards on every side trying to bring him down. They focused their attacks on his vulnerable face, and it was all the ogre could do to protect his eyes. Already he was bleeding from a dozen cuts on his cheeks and forehead.

“Enough,” Croy said, loud enough to be heard over the clamor of battle.

His announcement did not have the effect he’d hoped for.

One of the guards looked over and saw him, but the rest maintained their attack on Gurrh. Apparently the guards still thought the ogre was the main danger, even with the presence of an Ancient Blade on the field. Well, Croy thought, he had taught plenty of men to respect the sword he carried and the office it represented. He snarled and lifted the round oak shield he’d strapped across his left forearm. Normally he fought with two swords and no protection, but his left arm wasn’t strong enough yet to hold a sword properly so he’d chosen the shield instead. It had an iron boss in its center and a strip of steel around its rim. He’d trained with every manner of shield made by man or dwarf, and he knew exactly what to do with them. Just now, he clanged his shortsword against the boss, making a noise as loud as a ringing bell. “Over here,” he shouted.

That got a few more of the guards looking at him. One split off from the group attacking the ogre and jogged over to confront him. He was a big man carrying a military fork, its two long tines sharpened only at their points. A weapon usually meant for bringing down horses on the battlefield or for punching through heavy armor.

Of course, it would pierce Croy’s vitals just fine, should he allow its owner an opening.

“Who are you, and what in the Bloodgod’s foulest name do you want?” the guard challenged. He brought his fork down and shifted his hands backward on the haft. That put his points close to Croy’s chest and kept the guard well outside of sword range.

The knight smiled. “I am Sir Croy, and I serve the Burgrave, the king, and the Lady. I want you to drop that thing and run away. But I don’t think you will.”

“I think you’re right. Get out of here, knight-we have our hands full already.”

Croy shook his head. “I can’t do that. I want you to know that I’m sorry about this. But you serve an evil master, and I have much work to do tonight. So I can’t offer you any quarter.”

The guard’s lips curled back and he started to laugh wickedly.

Gurrh screamed then. It was not a pretty noise-it sounded like a lion being brought down by archers. The guard looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.

Croy took the advantage. It wasn’t the most honorable thing he’d ever done, but he was hard-pressed. He jammed his shield forward onto the tines of the military fork, hard enough to embed them deep in the oak. Before the guard could respond and pull them free, Croy twisted his left arm around-it hurt, but he had the strength to do it-and wrested the haft of the polearm right out of the guard’s hands. Then he hurled himself forward, leading with his right shoulder, and let the shortsword whistle through the air.

Swords wanted to cut. They wanted to draw blood-it was what they were made to do. Like a horse that when given its head will follow a track rather than traipsing off into brambles and rough ground, the sword cut through the air with very little help from Croy’s strength. It connected with the guard’s shoulder and bit deep into the meat of his arm. The guard howled and dropped to his knees as blood darkened his sleeve.