R. Salvatore: The Highwayman

Prydae did use iron for his open-faced helmet and for the metal greaves overlaid onto thick leather breeches. His belt was leather, too, wrapped in a bright red sash of fine fabric; and complementing that, a red ribbon was tied about Prydae's right upper arm, a black one tight about his left biceps, a sign of his station in the Holdings of Pryd. Only Prydae or his father, Pryd, could by law wear such distinctive armbands within the holding.

"Well, my friend, shall we go and remind the peasants of the importance of the House of Pryd?" the young nobleman remarked, turning a sly smile at the garrison captain.

"Indeed, my liege."

"Take care the powries, for they are no easy foe."

"Yes, my liege."

Prydae gave a nod to his trusted soldier, a man hand-picked by his father to watch over him, then cracked his whip. The horses burst from the brush, charging up the short incline to the road and thundering down onto it, the chariot bouncing wildly. Prydae held his stance securely, urging the galloping horses on even harder.

He cracked the whip above his head and waved the peasants out of the way-and how they scrambled, diving from the road!

Prydae soon came in sight of the one mounted soldier who had been at the forefront of the work area and was now bringing up the rear of the fleeing peasants, shouting at them to run for their lives. The man was lurching, one shoulder forward, and Prydae noted the flash of red behind him, the telltale shimmer of the blood-soaked berets.

More peasants dove to the side; one was not quite fast enough and got clipped by Prydae's team and sent flying from the road. Before the young nobleman, the wounded soldier seemed hardly in control of his mount anymore, but the well-trained horse veered out of the way just in time, leaving the racing chariot a straight line to the charging bloody-cap dwarves.

Those powries were odd little creatures, each standing under five feet, with a broad, thick torso and shoulders at least as wide as those of a large man, but with spindly little limbs, whose size was exaggerated by the bulky, padded, and metal-stripped armor the dwarves wore around their barrel-like torsos and by the fact that the powries were almost always bearded, with bushy, wild-flying hair sticking out from under their caps. Prydae was seasoned enough not to underestimate the strength in those spindly limbs, though-as he was reminded now by a dwarf, near the front of their charging line, who carried an iron-headed axe so huge and bulky that few humans could have wielded it.

With typical ferocity, the ten bloodthirsty dwarves didn't turn from the sudden appearance and charge of the prince and his entourage.

Prydae grasped one of the small iron-tipped spears set at the front of his chariot, and hoisted it high. Before him, the powries parted ranks, some scrambling wide, others barely sidestepping the charging horses, no doubt to try to strike at him as the chariot raced past. Prydae let the scythe blades of his wheels handle the immediate threat, the spinning weapons slicing deep into the surprised dwarves, taking a leg from one, disemboweling another, and hooking the leather tunic of a third, who was trying to scramble aside, pulling it along in a bone-crunching tumble. Then the prince threw his spear deep into the chest of a powrie at the side of the road.

He had no time to grab another spear, for a dwarf at the left side of the road before him was already launching an axe his way. Prydae shifted his reins to his right hand and cracked his whip at the dwarf with his left. He felt the thump as the axe smacked against his breastplate and bounced aside, clipping his chin and drawing a line of blood.

Prydae growled through the pain and pulled hard on the reins, wanting to slow his team, wanting to get back around in time to repay that particular dwarf before his soldiers killed them all.

As the chariot slowed, Prydae let go of the reins altogether and grabbed his shield and leaped from the chariot back, drawing his sword as he went.

The powries were scattering now as the full force rolled over them; in those initial moments of combat, more than half were down. Prydae did not lose sight of the axe thrower in that turmoil, noting the dwarf scrambling toward the trees. Running full out, Prydae's longer legs chewing up the ground, he caught up to the wretch in the shadows of the nearest boughs.

The powrie spun to meet the charge, an axe in either hand. It wasted no time, but came forward wildly, slashing left and right.

Prydae dodged back, avoiding one cut, and got his shield out in front to block the second. His arm went numb under the force of the heavy blow, and good luck alone prevented him from having his arm cloven, for the axe crunched right through his wood and leather shield, hooking in place.

Prydae retracted the shield arm hard, tugging the axe along with it. The powrie started to tug back, but it saw the danger as Prydae stabbed ahead powerfully with his iron-bladed sword.

Metal rang against metal as the powrie cunningly parried with its free axe. But the dwarf lost its grip on that second, trapped axe, with the prince spinning and tugging it free. Prydae threw his arm out behind him, dropping his shield and hardly interrupting his momentum as he charged forward, stabbing again and again.

The powrie frantically slashed with its axe, clipping Prydae's sword, though the prince was already retracting it anyway. The powrie managed to retreat enough so that the prince's next strike fell short of the mark.

More important to Prydae was that he saw his attacks were keeping the dwarf moving and dancing, preventing it from reaching for its third axe that Prydae saw strapped behind its left shoulder. Fortunately, since its left hand was the empty one, the dwarf could not both fight and retrieve the remaining weapon.

And Prydae was determined not to give the creature a chance. He stepped boldly ahead, and the powrie's axe rang out against his thrusting sword. He stepped and slashed; the powrie darted back to his left, just under the blow, then riposted hard with a slash and back slash of the axe, forcing Prydae to throw back his hips. When the powrie tried to use this apparent opening to toss its axe to its left hand, freeing the right so it could easily reach its other weapon, Prydae came forward again.

The powrie had barely caught the axe in its left hand. Recognizing its own vulnerability, it simply threw the weapon forward.

But Prydae didn't flinch, ignoring the dull metallic ring as the axe bounced off his breastplate. The powrie had its right arm back, reaching for the axe, presenting Prydae with a fine opening through the armhole of its jerkin.

The nobleman warrior took that opening. He slammed in hard against the dwarf, wrapping his free arm around the beast to keep its arm trapped between them, while his sword sank deep through the armpit.

The pair went down hard, the impact of the ground only furthering the sword's bite. His face barely inches from the powrie's grimace, Prydae heard its growl and groan. He felt the wretched little creature tense beneath him, tightening every one of its muscles as if it meant to simply crush the sword within it!

And still the powrie growled long and low, a rumbling breath of denial.

It went on and on and on, and Prydae did not let go, did not lessen the pressure on the stabbing blade. He tried to turn his sword, which brought a different pitch to the powrie's groaning protest, and the vicious dwarf even tried to bite Prydae's face.

But there was little energy in its lunge, and gradually Prydae felt the powrie's muscles relax. The growling stopped and the dwarf lay very still, eyes wide and staring at Prydae with hatred.

They were dull eyes, though, with no life behind them.

Prydae pulled himself off the dwarf and yanked his sword free. He stood and surveyed the area. One fight was still raging, but his soldiers seemed to have it under complete control, with several of the mounted warriors surrounding a single dwarf who already had at least five spears sticking from him.