James White: The First Protector

"If you want to fight," he said in a tone that mixed exasperation and admiration at the other's bravery, "you should try to defend your…"

He had been about to say father or grandfather, but hesitated. At close quarters he could see that the old man's face was completely hairless and totally without expression. Not only was his skull as shining and featureless as an ocean-washed stone, there was not the slightest trace of hair around his mouth and chin or even where his lashes and eyebrows should have been. This, Declan thought, was a person who had suffered some strange malady or, perhaps, he had travelled from a far country where everyone looked like that. When compared with the thick, black hair and delicate and animated features of the boy, it was obvious that there was no family relationship.

"… your master," he corrected himself, and went on, "Stand before him, guard him from attack and don't try to swing that pig-sticker around your head or try to slash with it. It's blunt, too heavy for you and it would swing you off balance and leave you open to a counterattack. The only advantage it has is its length. You are young and fast on your feet, so duck under your enemy's slash then step forward and stab with it, straight-armed…"

"Like this?" said the boy, jabbing the point of the blade viciously at his chest. Surprised at the other's strength, Declan danced backward out of range.

"Behave yourself, boy!" he said angrily. "Do you want me to take the flat of my hand to your skinny rump? 1 am not your enemy."

"So you pretend," said the boy, showing no sign of fear as he moved back, his sword still raised. "We are not gullible fools and we don't believe your generous offer of help. You wear the rags of a beggar but carry a large, bright long-axe. You, too, are a robber like the others, if there are any others."

Ignoring him, Declan turned to the old man and said, "Control this cheeky young cub's tongue, and both of you move back to the wagon, now, and do as I say. I've no time to waste on stupid arguing because…" He heard the quiet thump and swishing of feet in the undergrowth and, looking away from the fire to avoid losing his night vision, he swung around to face the sound before ending, "… they are here!"

There were four of them as he had guessed, advancing at a confident, unhurried run in close line abreast, their cloaks thrown back to free their arms for fighting. Two of them carried short swords and knives while another, who was armed with only a pikestaff, broke away without a word being spoken, to begin running in the direction of the wagon and the old man and boy. The fourth man, who was a little in front of the others and plainly their leader, was swinging an axe that was in length and weight the equal of Declan's own.

The other's belly, as he had suspected it would be from hearing the man's wheezing voice earlier, was larger than his chest but not by much, and the arms that bulged out of the short-sleeved tunic looked as if they had been grown on a tree. The hair and beard showed streaks of reddish-white in the firelight which also glittered on teeth that were bared in a wide snarl of anticipation.

The big man was the principal danger and, if the other two made a simultaneous flanking attack, he would be unbeatable and Declan would not have to worry about feeling cold or hungry or anything else for much longer. This would have to be a short fight, he decided, because he would certainly lose a long one and it was plain that they were confident of being able to kill him. Somehow he had to try to make them overconfident so that they would not worry about attacking him one at a time so that he would be able to spring his surprise. He lowered his weapon and made a low, frightened, pleading sound, the cry of an arrant coward who has no wish to do battle, then he turned and ran around the fire and toward the trees.

But not nearly as fast as he was able.

One of the his attackers stopped and gave a low, scornful laugh while the second one's run slowed to a walk. It was plain that they did not wish to spoil their leader's fun by sharing in the kill. Declan ran slowly and waited until the sound of the big man's pounding feet and his loud, labored breathing were close behind him, then he sprang his surprise. Instead of running faster he checked his pace and turned, swinging his axe transversely at chest level.

The other was a large man but slow he was not His axe was already raised for a vertical blow that would have split his victim's head in two, but Declan was able to alter the direction of his own attack so as to knock the other's swinging blade down and away from his body while raising his own weapon to aim another blow. But Declan did not check his swing to defend himself as the other would have expected. Instead he pivoted on both feet, increased the speed of his swing, rotated full circle and, ignoring the blade coming down at him, jumped forward. He heard the thick leather of the other's tunic and underlying clothing rip apart and felt a slower pull against his wrists as a protruding tip of his axe met the stronger and softer resistance of flesh before pulling free. Frantically he dodged aside to avoid the other's two-handed vertical swing as the big man gave a high-pitched grunt.

The other's axeblade thudded harmlessly into the ground beside Declan, then he took one hand away from the handle to press it tightly against his middle. He backed away then, dragging the axe along the ground while blood that looked black in the firelight trickled between his fingers. Plainly the big man was no longer a threat, but the fight was not yet over. The heat of the nearby fire was warming his body, but hunger and his recent exertions were making him so weak that the axe felt like a heavy wooden log in his hands.

The man who had held back earlier to allow his leader to slay Declan was running at him from one side while the other one was rounding the fire to attack from the opposite flank. The wagon and tinkers were out of sight behind him and he couldn't risk looking back to see what the pikeman was doing to them. He ran at the nearest of the two attackers swinging the axe around his head but, he realized at once, not to good effect. The other was able to fend off the blow with his shorter weapon, duck forward and under and slash at his lower body with the knife that he also carried. Frantically, Declan bent forward at the waist so that the blade tore a long rent in his already-torn garments but not in him. He jumped back and swung around to see what the other attacker was doing.

At first it seemed that the man was standing still at about ten paces distant and doing nothing at all. Then he saw that the other had dropped his short sword to the ground and was holding, not a knife but a vicious looking gae bolga, a throwing weapon with forward-angled spikes along both sides of its short blade, behind and below his waist, and with his arm stretched back to hurl it at Declan. Without a stout shield to deflect the thrown blade, there was only one defense possible and that was another attack.

He changed quickly to a one-handed grip on the thick shaft of his axe and with a great effort raised the blade to the level of the other's face. He began to run toward the man sideways so as to present the thinnest possible target against the dark background of the trees but, he felt sure, awkwardly and far too slowly. His hope, a truly desperate one, was that the sharp, advancing point of his axehead would worry the other enough to put him off his aim.

But it was something else that did that.

The clearing and surrounding trees were lit suddenly as if by a flash of lightning that had come to ground close behind him. So bright was the light that for a moment the flames of the cooking fire were bleached out to show only the gray of charring logs. He was so surprised that he scarcely felt the points of the thrown gae bolga as they ripped across his cheek.