R. Salvatore - The Ancient

Yeslnik slashed across at the man’s head, but of course the agile Highwayman easily ducked the awkward strike, then came up again and with even less effort sidestepped the next futile stab.

“Truly, Prince Yeslnik, you are making this more difficult,” the Highwayman said. He ducked another slash, sidestepped another stab, then caught the move he had been waiting for, an uppercut thrusting the knife for the bottom of his chin.

It never got close. The Highwayman’s left hand caught the prince’s forearm, and his right hand clamped over Yeslnik’s at just the right angle for the thief to buckle the prince’s wrist, bending the hand forward suddenly. The Highwayman pressed, overextending the bend, driving Yeslnik’s knuckles down toward his wrist. Under that strain and pain, Yeslnik could not hold his grip on the knife. Even as he realized he had let it go, the Highwayman’s left hand shot out and slapped him across the face, backhanded him the other way, and slapped him a third time for good measure.

“Do you insist on making this harder?” the Highwayman asked, presenting the knife out, handle first, toward the prince.

Infuriated beyond reason, Yeslnik grabbed the blade and slashed wildly, again hitting nothing but air. In sheer frustration he threw the knife. His eyes went wide indeed when he noted that the thief had caught it so easily.

Yeslnik turned and cried out, bolting for the door. “Take my wife!” he shrieked.

The Highwayman sprang into a sidelong cartwheel, catching his hand on the edge of the vanity, planting his other hand flat on its top, and springing away to intercept Yeslnik at the door.

“Your knife,” he said, tossing the blade into the air.

Yeslnik’s eyes followed its ascent as the prince skidded to a stop. To his credit Yeslnik caught the blade, but when he looked back down he found the tip of a fabulous and too-familiar sword an inch from his face. He gave a curious sound, strangely similar to his wife’s earlier mewling, and let the knife drop to the floor.

The Highwayman shook his head. “Now what am I to do with you?”

“Oh,” Lady Olym wailed, throwing her arm against her forehead and falling back, conveniently onto the room’s rather large bed.

Both the Highwayman and Yeslnik sighed.

A noise from somewhere down the hall reminded them that the ceremony had ended and many of the castle’s inhabitants were returning from the lower bailey.

“Under the bed,” the Highwayman ordered Yeslnik abruptly, prodding the prince with his sword, guiding him around. Finally he stepped up and pushed Yeslnik forward.

“While you ravish my wife above me?”

“Oh,” wailed Olym, and her knees drifted apart.

The Highwayman shoved Yeslnik harder for that, putting him down to his knees at the side of the bed. “You with him,” he ordered Olym, and all humor had left his tone. “Under the bed!”

“But…” Olym protested, as sadly as any bride left at the altar.

“Under the bed. Now! The both of you.” He prodded Yeslnik as he spoke, driving the man under with the tip of his sword. Grabbing Olym with his free hand, he yanked her off the bed. She fell heavily at his feet, but nothing other than her pride was hurt, he saw, as she looked up and reached for him desperately.

Yeslnik grabbed her and dragged her under the bed with him.

“In the middle,” the Highwayman ordered. He dropped down and prodded at them with his sword, forcing them back from the edge. He looked all around, thinking to block the four openings of the bed. But alas, there was not enough furniture in the room to seal them in.

Sounds from outside the room heightened the Highwayman’s urgency. Improvising, he leaped in a roll across the end of the bed, coming to his feet facing the foot. He looked from its thin legs to his sword and back. His eyes scanned the headboard. He could clear it and easily, he realized, as the movements sorted out before him. He had to be precise; he had to be quick.

But he was Jhesta Tu.

The Highwayman presented his sword before him and took a deep and steadying breath. Underneath the bed Yeslnik and Olym chattered but he left their voices far behind, concentrating on the task before him. Both hands grasped the hilt of the sword as he lifted it slowly before his right shoulder, keeping the blade perpendicular to the floor.

He stepped out with his left foot suddenly, slashing the blade down low, then reversed the swing so quickly that it passed over the severed bed leg before the bed had even dropped. Now he stepped right, finishing the move as his backhand took out the other leg.

The foot of the bed dropped as the Highwayman leaped back to the right in a twisting somersault. He came to his feet beside the bed, his back to it. Halfway up its length he continued his spin, his blade neatly severing the third leg.

Yeslnik and Olym cried out in protest, but their initial escape route, anticipated by the Highwayman, had been lost with the collapse of the bed’s right side.

The Highwayman let go of the sword with his right hand as he came around. As soon as he faced the bed squarely again his legs twitched, lifting him in a dive ahead and to the side. He turned his free right hand under and caught the top of the headboard, allowing him to turn about as he lifted a straight-legged somersault that ended with a sudden tuck that spun him over and a more sudden extension that landed him upright facing the bed. But only for a moment, for he dropped and slashed to the right, and the fourth and final leg fell away, dropping the full weight of the bed onto Yeslnik and Olym, mercifully muffling their annoying cries.

The Highwayman stepped back and regarded his handiwork with a nod that reflected both surprise and satisfaction. He looked down at the small sack tied to his belt, bulging with coin and jewels, and nodded again.

“Do remember that I did not kill you, and it would have been an easy thing,” he said to Yeslnik, bending low and peering under at the grunting and outraged man. “And do remember that I did not ravish your wife.”

Yeslnik cursed and spat at him, but the Highwayman had perplexed himself with his own words. He leaned back to consider them and didn’t even notice the feeble insult, verbal or watery.

“You remember that I did not ravish her,” the Highwayman clarified, looking back at Yeslnik. “I do hope that dear Lady Olym will forget that fact, for I am certain that my lack of action angers her more than anything else I might have done, murdering you included.”

“How dare you?” Yeslnik demanded.

“It is really quite easy,” the Highwayman assured him, and with a tap of two fingers to his forehead, he rushed away to the window.

But darkness hadn’t fallen yet, and the upper bailey teemed with guards.

Nearly an hour passed before Prince Yeslnik finally managed to squirm out from under the heavy bed. His howls took some time to get the attention of some servants, who at last rushed in and helped him pull the bed up enough to allow Olym to unceremoniously slither out.

“You!” Olym screamed at her husband. She made no effort to cover herself, though more and more people were charging into the room to see what was the matter. “You fancy yourself the laird of a holding, and you cannot deal with a single thief? You are a hero among men, and yet a single, small man chases you under your wife’s bed like a frightened rabbit?” She moved to slap him, but Yeslnik caught her arm then her other one and held her fast.

“Would you be less angry if he had ravished you?” Yeslnik asked, more an accusation than a question. Lady Olym wailed-the first sincere wail she had offered that day-and collapsed onto what was left of her bed.

It seemed as if Yeslnik only then realized that the room was full of people, many of whom were staring at his revealed wife. “Out! Out!” he demanded, chasing them from the room. He gave a last, disgusted look at Olym and followed, ordering the guards to find the Highwayman and not return without the bastard’s severed head.