David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

And then it seemed Mark obeyed, stepping from the back of the wagon. He looked young, his armor dark and expensive. The riders circled about him as the older man smiled.

“Hiding during a battle,” he said. “Such shameful behavior.”

“Perhaps,” Mark said. He lunged at the nearest rider. He never got close enough to swing. Two crossbow bolts pierced his back, and he stumbled, his weapon falling from his hand. Haern winced. At least the man died bravely, even if he hadn’t accomplished…

But then he saw the child leap out the wagon’s front and bolt for the forest. Haern’s eyes flared wide. The kid was heading straight for him.

“Get him!” the riders shouted. One took off, dismounted at the forest’s edge, and then rushed on, his sword drawn. Haern flung his back against a tree. Should he interfere? Would they kill him, or merely keep him captive? Was this for ransom? Too much he didn’t know. Too much!

The boy rushed by, followed by the soldier. Haern stared, paralyzed by indecision. If he acted now, he’d reveal himself. Eight riders…what chance would he have? He’d be throwing his life away, and why? For all he knew, the boy belonged to the ambushers.

The soldier quickly gained ground, for he could make longer strides in the snow. He kept his sword drawn, and Haern recognized the way he held the blade in preparation for a thrust. This was no capture. This was no ransom. He ran, feeling slow and clumsy in the snow. The boy glanced behind, saw his pursuer, and then stumbled. Haern wanted to cry out but didn’t dare reveal his location. The soldier thrust. Blood spilled across the snow.

Haern slammed into the soldier with his shoulder, flinging him back. Before he could stand, he drew a sword, slapped aside a weak defense, and buried it in the soldier’s throat. The man gargled blood, quivered, and then lay still.

“You get him?” a man shouted from the road.

Haern ignored him and instead looked to the boy. He lay on his back, his whole body shaking. The thrust had cut deep into his arm, right to the bone. The blade had continued on, piercing his chest. He still breathed, and it didn’t sound wet. The tip hadn’t gone deep enough to pierce a lung. With proper care he might live, but at the moment he was wide-eyed with shock. He’d need time, which at the moment Haern sorely lacked. He sliced off a strip of his cloak and tied it around the boy’s arm, then took the boy’s hands and pressed them firmly against the wound on his chest.

“Stay still and quiet,” Haern whispered, propping him against the nearest tree. “I’ll come back for you, I promise. No matter what you do, don’t let go.”

He stood, drew his swords and looked to the road. Through the snow and trees he saw the thinnest glimpse of the riders. Amid the forest, the horses would be useless. There, he had his advantage, and he’d need every single one. So long as they didn’t know he was there, he had a chance.

He stepped gingerly across the snow, crouched low and hidden behind the trunks. The forest was quiet, and he heard their discussions with ease as they grew steadily heated.

“Terrance!” one shouted. “Where are you? Did the brat lose you somehow?”

“Jerek, Thomas, go look for him, and hurry. I don’t want to be out in this weather any longer than I have to.”

Haern smiled at the lucky break. He stayed to the side and watched two more men walk right past him. He started creeping after them, but they stopped halfway.

“See that, Jerek?” asked Thomas as he pointed. “Something ain’t right.”

They drew their swords and looked about as Haern realized what he pointed at: the footprints he’d left in the snow when chasing after the soldier and the boy.

Damn wilderness, thought Haern. Give me a city any day.

They followed the footprints, but they were no longer hurrying. His surprise advantage was nearly blown. He continued following, using the trees to hide in case they glanced back, but they were getting too close to where the soldier’s body lay.

“Found them!” said Jerek. “Shit, his throat’s cut.”

Haern gave up stealth, knowing he couldn’t muffle his running. The crunching of the snow turned them about, but he was too close, too fast. He gutted Thomas, ducked under a dying slash, and then turned to Jerek. Instead of the desperate lunge he expected, Jerek pulled back and held his sword with both hands in a defensive position. Haern felt respect for the man, as well as agitation. He didn’t need a drawn out duel against a worthy opponent. He needed the man killed before any others arrived.

“Ambush!” Jerek screamed. “It’s a fucking ambush!”

“One against five,” Haern said. “Some ambush.”

“There’s six of us, wretch.”

“You’ll be dead soon enough.”

He feinted, stepped to the left, and then lunged for real. Jerek bit on the feint, but not enough. He parried both blades aside, but he extended to do so. Haern closed the distance between them, slamming an elbow into the man’s chest while they both shoved their weapons together. Jerek tried to separate, but Haern shifted again, positioning his right foot in the way. When Jerek stepped back, he tripped, and that was all the opening Haern needed.

“Jerek? Thomas?” asked another soldier as he approached the bloody mess. Haern watched from his perch, doing his best to keep his breathing calm. Only three had come, not five, which meant one had stayed behind to protect the older man, presumably their leader. They were only a handful of paces from where the boy lay, but they stopped at the bodies of their comrades. Two held swords, while the third held a crossbow. They looked, and it took them only a second to realize Haern had climbed the tree, but that second was enough.

He fell upon them, leaving one bleeding from a gash in the neck and another holding a crossbow with a broken string. Haern kicked him in the chest to force him back, needing the space. The last swordsman hacked at him, but Haern spun his cloak, using it to appear further to the right than he was. The strike hit nothing but air and cloth. Haern continued his spin, slashing his arm, reversing the spin, and burying his sword into the henchman’s stomach, just below his armor.

Pain spiked up his arm. He struck on reflex, which ended up cutting the crossbowman across the mouth. The man dropped the dagger he’d drawn and clutched his jaw as blood ran across his hands. The man tried to say something, but it came out as an unintelligible sob. Haern glanced at his arm. The cut would scar, but assuming it didn’t get infected, he’d be fine. Frustrated at his mistake, he leapt at the lone survivor, who turned to flee. A kick took out his knee, and he fell. Haern’s swords pierced his lungs, and then he sobbed no more.

Cursing at the pain, Haern approached the road. He kept the blood on his blades, wanting the fear it would bring. When he stepped from between the trees, he saw both riders on the far side. The younger raised his crossbow and fired. It tore a hole in his cloak as he flung himself to the side. He spun around a tree and emerged, but the soldier had not even begun to reload.

“Who are you, stranger?” asked the older man. “What are you hoping for? Is it coin you want?”

“Too many questions,” Haern said, watching the other fighter. His hand kept inching toward his hip, but for what?

“Then answer me just one: is the boy alive?”

“I don’t know, or care. He was a distraction. If he lives, he’ll freeze by morning.”

Their leader seemed pleased by the answer. Haern made sure he didn’t blink, didn’t twitch, didn’t reveal the lie.

“Good,” said the older man. “Then what is it you want now? You cannot kill us, and you cannot make off with my gold. You’d need to tether the oxen and drive it many days to town. So please, accept my offer. Take your gold, as much as you can carry, and I will allow you to leave.”