R. Salvatore - The Bear

"You fight for King Yeslnik!" yelled one of the club wielders.

Bransen laughed at the absurd notion, but he bit it short as he added, "I fight for no one."

"I'm not thinking that's true," said the swordsman. He gave a slight nod at the archer, a movement Bransen caught clearly so that he was not surprised when the archer let fly an arrow. It came in true and fast, center of mass, but just before it stabbed into the center of Bransen's chest he snapped his left forearm straight up and ducked, deflecting the arrow high, where it flew away into the darkness.

Nothing happened for a few heartbeats, the four men gawking at him. But all at once the archer reached for another arrow and the other three charged.

The swordsman was closest, blade leading. As soon as Bransen turned toward him he cowardly skidded to a stop and fell back a step.

Bransen turned back to meet the two others, who were swinging their clubs with abandon and shouting wildly as if they meant to simply run him over. Bransen started to retreat, as seemed the obvious route, but he noted the pattern, side to side, of the respective clubs, and marked his opening.

The swordsman to the side slipped around to keep up with Bransen's retreat and started in again. Across the way, the archer leveled his bow.

Bransen darted forward, twisting and bending as he went to avoid the backhand from the man to his left and the forehand from the one to his right. He slipped in between those clubs, the men frantically trying to realign with him, punching out with their free hands, bringing the clubs back to bear.

Bransen stopped short and spun fast, then threw himself around backward and to his right, turning into the backhanded reverse of the club. He crashed into the attacker's leading elbow, hooking the man's forearm and jerking it out straight. Understanding the movement of the man who was now behind him, Bransen dropped down diagonally, turning and tugging as he went, throwing out his foot to trip up the man he had caught. That thug rolled down over his leg just in time to catch the swinging club of his companion.

The other man, to his credit, managed to pull his strength from his swing and didn't hit his companion very hard, but still the jolt shocked them both enough for Bransen to continue through with his move. He jammed his left hand against the man's elbow and yanked back hard with his right, painfully straightening the arm. He tugged right through it with his leverage and his deceptive strength, pulling the club from the man's grasp as he flipped him right over to the ground at the feet of his companion.

Bransen straightened, spun, and swung, smashing his club hard against the club of his opponent but down low enough to catch the man's gripping fingers in the process. How he howled! His weapon flew, and he grabbed at his shattered hand, stumbling backward.

Bransen turned fast to meet the charge of the swordsman. He heard the bow fire behind him and instinctively dove diagonally down and to the right, guessing rightly that the archer was aiming left, away from the approaching leader. Bransen went right through a roll and back to his feet, barely two strides from his enemy. Instead of lifting the club to block he tossed it up into the air, calmly saying, "Here."

The swordsman's eyes reflexively followed the ascent, and he looked back just in time to see Bransen lunging forward, close enough for him to stab certainly, except that he hadn't the time to react. Bransen rolled his shoulders, his right arm coming forward in a devastating, driving punch that hit the man in the face, just under the nose, and drove through, sliding up past the nose as the man's head snapped backward.

The swordsman's feet came right out from under him, and he dropped hard to his back. Even before the man tumbled Bransen retracted, shoving off his front foot to straighten quickly, gaining momentum as he powerfully reversed his spin so that as the next attacker-the man he had flipped to the ground-leaped in at him, Bransen's elbow shot out behind, smashing him in the face.

The man grunted and staggered, his legs going weak. He didn't fall, though, as Bransen whirled about, a long-flying left hook chopping the man across the jaw. That blow, too, would have knocked him sidelong to the ground, except that Bransen needed this man upright. He caught him firmly, lined him up, and drove forward with all his strength toward the archer.

After a couple of strides the dazed man started to resist, but holding him in both hands by the leather jerkin, Bransen jerked his arms out straight, then yanked them back in as he lowered his forehead and snapped his head forward.

The crackling sound and gush of blood showed this one's nose to be broken. Again Bransen bulled him across the hilltop at the archer.

The Highwayman recognized that he didn't have the time to reach the bowman, for the two behind him weren't out of the fight quite yet. As he neared the central fire, Bransen threw the man backward. He clipped the logs and fell over, still a few feet short of the archer. Bransen went down low, almost to all fours, cleverly scooping a stone. He came up straight again and looked at his foe's leveled bow.

"You have only one shot, of course," Bransen said and smiled and began to walk steadily at the bowman. "Perhaps you will kill me, though I think that unlikely."

He could see the man trying to steady his hands, clearly unnerved by the ease with which Bransen had just dispatched his three companions-and after Bransen had used his arm to deflect the first arrow away and had dodged the second with his back to the bow!

Smiling, mocking the man with a chuckle, Bransen hopped left, hopped right, and threw the rock.

The bowman cried out and let fly, but he was ducking as he did, thinking more about turning to run away than anything else. Still, his shot came dangerously close, whipping past barely a finger's breadth from Bransen's head.

He was too close, the arrow too fast. He never could have blocked that shot, and it occurred to Bransen that he had just come an inch from death.

No matter. The archer was fleeing. The man he had head-butted writhed on the ground and seemed none too eager to try to get up anytime soon. Bransen turned.

That left only two.

The swordsman swayed as he stood there, his face bloody, his eyes already swelling from the brutal punch. The club wielder held his weapon in his left hand, the shattered fingers of his right hand tucked in tight against his side.

"Is this a dance you truly desire?" Bransen asked.

"Who are you?" the swordsman asked.

"I already told you."

"Why are you here?"

"Curiosity and disgust."

"Disgust?" asked the man with the club. "Have ye seen our homes? Have ye seen me kids, then, eight o' them, trampled dead under the spinning wheels of a chariot?"

Bransen had no answer to that. He lowered his eyes for a heartbeat and replied quietly, "I will go my way." Then he looked up and added in a much more sinister tone, "And if you try to stop me again or if I see you mistreating your own again like the dogs of war, I will kill you."

He was about to add that any who wanted to go with him would be welcome, but before he could speak he found himself reacting to a barrage of stones and sticks. He turned and blocked the most dangerous missiles, his eyes widening as he noted the charge.

The charge of children with sticks, some aflame, in hand. The charge of battered women, including the one who had been attacked behind the log. She came on most ferociously of all, throwing herself at Bransen, clawing at the air like a feral, rabid beast when he dodged aside. The look on her face, an expression locked in absolute denial, unsettled Bransen most of all.

A few stones hit him, though nothing serious, and the swordsman and club wielder hesitated, more than willing to let the children and the women begin the fight.