Raymond E. Feist - The King’s Buccaneer

He held his hand aloft, signaling the men on the docks to be quiet. They waited for the sound of battle to reach them. Long moments passed, then suddenly an alarm sounded from the keep. The pirate captain signaled and the assembled throng of cut-throats roared as one and sped into the town. Within minutes, flames were lighting the night, as torches were put to strategic buildings.

Captain Render howled a delighted laugh, knowing that the once peaceful town of Crydee was dissolving into chaos. He was in his element, and like the master of ceremonies at a grand palace gala, he delighted in every aspect of the event unfolding as planned. Pulling his own sword from its scabbard, he turned and raced after his charging men, intent on getting his fair share of the murder.

Briana’s eyes opened. Something was wrong. A child of Armengar, a city of constant warfare, she had learned to sleep in armor with a sword in her hand before reaching womanhood. Past sixty years of age, she still moved out of her bed with the fluid grace of a woman half her age. Without thought, she drew her sword from the scabbard that hung from the wall peg closest to her dressing table. Clad only in a thin nightshirt, her grey hair tumbling around her shoulders, she moved toward the door of her suite.

A scream echoed down the hall and Briana hurried toward the door. It opened as she reached for it, and she leaped back, her sword coming up. Before her stood a stranger, holding a sword leveled in her direction. A rough voice shouted from down the corridor and the distant sounds of fighting came from somewhere else in the keep. The figure in the door showed no features, as another stood behind him holding a torch, rendering the first man in silhouette. Briana brought her sword up, shifted her stance, and waited.

The shadowy figure stepped forward: a short man with close-cropped blond hair, his blue eyes half-mad under heavy brows as he grinned at her. ‘Just a grandmother with a sword,’ he complained, his voice almost a whine. ‘Too old to sell. I’ll kill her.’ He lashed out with his sword. The Duchess parried easily, slipping her blade around his and running up inside his guard to catch him under the arm in a swift killing blow.

‘She’s killed Little Harold!’ cried the man holding the torch. Three men rushed forward past the torchbearer, fanning out. Briana stepped back, keeping her eyes on the centermost, while remaining aware of the other two. She knew the center opponent was likely to feign attack, while the true attack would come from one or both of the men on the flanks. Her only hope was that these men were not practiced in fighting in a coordinated fashion and would inconvenience one another.

As she anticipated, the center swordsman leaped forward and then back. The man on her left, her weakest side, was moving toward her, his massive cutlass held high for a slashing bow. Briana ducked under his blade, impaling him on her sword point. As the man’s legs went rubbery, she gripped his free hand with her own. Swinging him to her right, she propelled him into the path of the attacker on the right.

The center attacker was the next to die, as he fully expected her to be occupied by his companions and did not anticipate her attack. Briana’s sword lashed out, taking him in the throat, and he stumbled back, unable to make a sound as blood fountained from the gaping wound under his chin. The last man died as he tried to free himself from the body of his companion, a slashing blow to the back of his exposed neck killing him instantly.

Briana reached down and freed a long dagger from the belt of the last man to die, as she knew she would have no time to don armor or find a shield. The raider who stood before the door holding the torch was watching down the hall, expecting the other three to have finished the lone woman in her chamber. He died before he had time to turn and see if the murder was done.

The dying man fell atop his torch, extinguishing it. Briana turned in shock as the hallway remained lighted. Angry red and yellow light illuminated the corridor, and she saw that the far end of the hall was ablaze. A scream caused Briana to turn from the flames and run as fast as she could toward her daughter’s rooms.

Bare feet slapped on flagstones as the Duchess of Crydee raced to the far end of the hall. There Abigail crouched in a doorway, her nightgown half torn from her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear and she screamed again. At her feet lay a dead raider, and at her side Margaret crouched, a long dagger held ready to defend herself. A wounded man eyed her warily, and Margaret never acknowledged her mother’s approach, so as not to give the man warning. He died a second later as Briana struck him from behind.

Margaret grabbed the fallen man’s sword and felt its balance. Abigail rose, and Margaret thrust the dagger at her, hilt first.

Abigail looked down at the bloody weapon and reached to take it, then clutched at failing fabric as the nightdress slipped down off her shoulder.

‘Damn it, Abigail, worry about your modesty later! If you live long enough.’

Abigail took the dagger, and the torn nightgown fell to her waist. She covered her breasts with her left arm and awkwardly gripped the bloody hilt. Then she grabbed the fabric of her gown and tried to cover herself.

Briana pointed down the hallway, saying, ‘For them to be here, they’ve already killed our soldiers on the lower floors. If we can hold at the tower until the rest of the garrison fights its way from the barracks to the keep, we may survive.’

The three women headed toward the far door, to the southern tower of the keep. But before they were halfway to the door, a half-dozen men came into view. Briana halted and motioned for her daughter and Abigail to move back toward their quarters, as she stood ready to defend them.

Margaret took one step and halted as more men came into view behind them. She spun, back to back with her mother, and said, ‘We can’t.’

Briana glanced behind her, then said, ‘Try to hold as long as you can.’

Margaret pushed Abigail to her left, saying, ‘They will try to come at me from my weak side.’ When Abigail looked confused, she said, ‘My left side! Don’t worry about your right. Stab at anything that moves on your left.’

The frightened girl awkwardly held the blade out, her knuckles white from holding it so tight. Her left arm pressed hard across her chest, holding up the top of her tattered nightdress. The men at both ends of the hall approached warily. They stopped out of sword range and waited.

Then those facing Margaret and Abigail moved aside, to let three large men in black masks come to the fore. The leader of the three looked at the women a long moment and said, ‘Kill the old one, but do not harm the two young ones.’

With unexpected speed, one of the three men lashed out underhand with a heavy black whip. The slaver’s strap snaked toward Margaret’s sword arm. She instinctively twisted her wrist in a downward parry, but this was not a blade she attempted to block. The cord turned over in a serpentine and suddenly snapped around her arm, the stinging impact bringing a gasp from her. Rough leather closed down on her forearm as the large slaver pulled hard on the whip. Margaret was a strong young woman, but she was pulled off balance, yelling as she fell.

Briana spun around to see what was wrong with her daughter, and found Abigail staring, eyes wide with terror, as Margaret was dragged along the floor by the big slaver. Briana leaped forward, blade slashing down, trying to sever the whip.

Margaret rolled on her back, yelling to Abigail, ‘Cut it!’

Then she saw Briana’s eyes widen. Behind her stood a raider, and Margaret knew he had seized the moment to strike from behind. ‘Abby! Cut the cord!’ screamed Margaret, but her companion could only huddle in fear, pressing her back to the wall.