David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Well, I ain’t seen a boy wandering around here, nor some man in gray. We’ve been shuttered inside for most of the past few days, the storm and all. If they went this way, they probably rode right on by.”

“Not sure they’re riding,” said Gert. “Think they’re walking, honestly. Not too many out right now, and we managed to find what might have been his tracks.”

“That so?”

“Led this way, actually,” said Ben. “You sure you ain’t seen nothing?”

Matthew paused, trying to think of a lie. Again his wife beat him to it, bless her heart.

“We turned them away,” she said. “They came wanting shelter, but they were bleeding, and he was armed. Looked like a thief, he did. We didn’t want any trouble, and we don’t want any now. He said he was on his way to Veldaren, if he’s to be trusted.”

The two men looked to one another, as if communicating silently.

“A hard woman that could refuse a wounded man asking for succor,” Ben said.

Matthew watched his wife give them an iron glare, one he’d been on the receiving end more times than he preferred.

“Life out here’s cold and cruel, gentlemen. We do what we can for our family. Maybe things are different where you come from, but here, that’s the way things are.”

“I understand,” Ben said. “We’re just getting paid to ask these questions. Your broth’s delicious, by the way. Feel it warming me all the way to my toes.”

Matthew started to relax, but only a little. The men seemed too confident, too sure of themselves. They were no strangers to those swords at their hips, either. The sooner they left, the better. When they finished, they stood and flung their cloaks over their shoulders.

“Our horses are probably itching to continue,” Gert said. “Or at least, get out of the wind.”

As they stepped toward the door, they stopped, and Gert turned toward the curtain where Evelyn had said Tristan slept.

“You know, I’ve been fighting and killing for a long while. If there’s anything I’ve seen before, it’s a chopped limb. Mind if I take a look? I can make sure you stitched it up right, well as cut it proper. There’s more art to keeping people alive than making ‘em dead, after all.”

Evelyn hesitated, and Matthew knew if she were unsure, then he was in over his head.

“If you wish,” he said, putting on his gloves. “I should get back outside. Only wanted to come visit with my guests, be polite. You two men have a good day.”

“Want me to come with?” asked Trevor.

“No,” Matthew said, harsher than he meant. “No, you ain’t much use outside. Stay with your ma.”

He got the idea, and his hand brushed the knife hidden in his pants. Matthew winced and hoped neither of the soldiers saw. He pulled the door open and stepped outside. When he shut it, he leaned his back against it, closed his eyes, and listened. Never one with an active imagination, he struggled to picture the most likely thing they’d do. They were searching for the boy, obviously. They’d step into the curtain, one inside to look, the other hanging back, watching them, waiting to see if anyone did anything stupid.

His hand closed around the pitchfork’s handle.

Something stupid like this.

Matthew kicked the door inward. It seemed like his entire vision narrowed down, just a thin window to see one of the soldiers staring back at him from the curtain, the one named Ben. His eyes widened for just a moment. His hand reached for his sword as if he were lagging in time. Matthew thrust the pitchfork for the soldier’s exposed throat. Ben’s sword couldn’t clear his scabbard in time, so instead he ducked and turned away from the thrust, a purely instinctual move. It only made matters worse. When two of the teeth pressed against the side of his face, Matthew shoved with every hard-worked muscle in his body. The tips were thick, but with such force behind them, they still punched through flesh and tore into bone.

Ben rolled his head downward, trying to pull free. When he did, blood spewed across the floor. He screamed. It might have been a word, a curse, but Matthew didn’t know, didn’t understand. Ben’s jaw hung off-kilter, his right cheek shredded and the bone connecting it shattered. The look in his eyes reminded Matthew of the one time he’d encountered a rabid coyote attacking his animals. His sword free, Ben charged, not waiting for Gert. Matthew took a step back, braced his legs, and shoved the pitchfork in the way. The teeth hit his chainmail, and amid the screams of his family he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. They didn’t punch through the armor, but they still bruised his flesh and pushed inward strong enough to break more bones.

Matthew twisted the handle to the side, bringing Ben to his knees, still stuck on the pitchfork’s teeth. Dimly he heard his wife cry out, the words not registering any meaning, only her tone. Gert rushed through the curtain, his sword swinging. Abandoning the clumsy weapon, Matthew lunged for the door. He landed on his knees, grabbed his shortsword, and spun. Gert bore down on him, swinging with both hands. Their blades connected, and panic flooded him when saw a tiny chip break off at the contact. His sword was weaker, the metal cheaper. It wouldn’t be long before it broke.

“Leave him alone!” he heard Evelyn shout, finally piercing through the haze. Gritting his teeth, he groaned as Gert pressed down with all his weight. He spared only a moment’s glance to see Ben fling the pitchfork to the dirt and turn toward his wife. He had to help her, but he was pinned and badly positioned.

“Trevor!” he screamed. Where was his boy? Why wasn’t he helping? Now wasn’t the time for fear, damn it! He angled his sword to block another chop, realized it was a feint, and smacked aside the thrust aimed for his belly. “Don’t you be a coward, boy, treat ‘em like damn hogs!”

Evelyn hurried across the room, grabbing the poker from the fire. She held it clumsily, a pathetic weapon compared to the gleaming sword Ben wielded in his blood soaked hand. Then he couldn’t spare the glimpse, for Gert had dropped to one knee, hoping to lessen the distance between them so he might lock Matthew’s sword out of position. Matthew struggled against it, but slowly his sword wavered, then hit the floor beside him. Gert’s elbows pressed against his chest, his knee atop one of his legs.

“Don’t worry ’bout your wife,” Gert said, his beady eyes inches away. “I’ll take good care of her. Your daughters, too.”

It was the absolute worst thing Gert could have said.

Matthew let go of his sword, one hand grabbing Gert’s wrist, the other ramming his eyes and mouth with his fingers. The soldier howled and tried to pull away, but Matthew dug his fingers in deeper and held on, feeling softness give way, cartilage crunch in his grip. Gert tore his wrist free, aimed the blade, and stabbed. Matthew rolled, knocking his attack off balance. The sword struck the floor. With every bit of strength in his right arm, Matthew slammed Gert’s head against the wall. He heard a wet crack, like the sound of a breaking pumpkin.

The abrupt end was startling. He heard his children crying, but saw no motion. He stood, shaking the gore from his hand. Evelyn huddled beside the fire, the poker at her feet, Trevor in her arms. He still held his blood-soaked knife. Nearby lay Ben, bled out from the cuts on his face and the deep stab wound at the small of his back.

“Everyone all right?” he asked. Evelyn met his eyes, then nodded. “Thank Ashhur.”

He gave his wife a hug, making sure he didn’t stain her dress with his right hand. The rest of his children stayed sitting, and he could tell they were traumatized by the violence. He went to each of them, hugging them and whispering that all would be well. At last he grabbed the dead bodies and dragged them outside by their feet.