Peter Brett: Brayan's Gold

“Boy had his chance to walk away,” Sandar said. Some of the others grunted in agreement, including the man Arlen had kicked.

“Don’t care,” Fed called. “‘No one gets hurt’, you said. ‘Just a dip in some Royal’s ledger.’” He pulled the bolt from his bow and slung the weapon over his shoulder, picking up the spare as well. “I’m done.” He moved to pick his way down the outcropping.

One of the other bowmen eased his draw as well. “Fed’s right. I’m sick of eatin’ gruel as anyone, but I ent lookin’ to kill over it.”

Arlen looked for the last bowman’s reaction, but the man only sighted and fired.

He got his shield up in time, but it was a heavy bow, and the shield was only a thin sheet of hammered steel riveted onto wood, meant more to defend against corelings and nightwolves than arrows. The arrowhead made it through before the shaft caught fast, puncturing the side of Arlen’s cheek. He stumbled back and almost lost his balance, squeezing the thunderstick so hard he was afraid it would go off in his hand. Everyone tensed.

But Arlen caught himself and straightened, turning to reveal the match clutched in his shield hand. He struck it with his thumb, and it lit with a pop.

“I’m going to light the fuse before the match burns my finger,” he said, waving the thunderstick, “and then I’m going to throw it at anyone still in my sight.”

A couple of men turned and ran outright. Sandar’s eyes narrowed, but at last he lifted his kerchief to spit, and whistled for the rest to follow him as he headed down the road.

The match did end up burning Arlen’s hand, but he never needed to light the fuse. A few minutes later he was back on his way up the mountain. Dawn Runner was not pleased about pulling the entire load, but it could not be helped. He didn’t think the bandits would be able to follow him on foot, but he kept the thunderstick and his drybox close to hand, just in case. It was nearing dark when he made it to the next wardpost.

Sandar was waiting.

The Messenger had shed his miner’s disguise, clad now in battered steel mail and carrying a heavy spear and shield. He sat atop a powerful destrier, much larger than a sleek courser like Dawn Runner. With a horse like that, and no cart to slow him or limit his path, it wasn’t surprising that he had gotten ahead of Arlen.

“Had to be a goody, dincha?” Sandar asked. “Couldn’t leave it alone. Guild is insured. You’re insured. You could’ve ridden off with Curk. The only loser would have been Count Brayan, and that bastard’s got gold comin’ out his arse.”

Arlen just looked at him.

“But now,” Sandar raised his spear. “Now I have to kill you. Can’t trust you to keep your mouth shut otherwise.”

“Any reason I should?” Arlen asked. “I don’t take kindly to having bows aimed at me.” He picked up the thunderstick sitting next to him in the driver’s seat.

Sandar moved his horse closer. “Do it,” he dared. “Blast this close’ll set off every crate. Kill us both, and the horses besides. Either way, them sticks ent getting to Brayan’s Gold.”

Arlen looked him hard in the eyes, knowing he was right. Whatever Curk might think, he wasn’t crazy, and didn’t want to die today.

“Then get off your horse,” Arlen said. “Fight me fair, and our spears can decide which of us walks away.”

“Ent no one can say you ent got stones, boy,” Sandar laughed. “If you want me to hand you a proper beating before I kill you, I’ll oblige.” He rode into the clearing by the wardpost, dismounting and staking down his horse. Arlen followed and set the thunderstick down, taking up his spear and shield before hopping down from the cart.

He set his feet apart in a comfortable stance, his shield and spear ready. He had practiced spearfighting with Cob and Ragen for countless hours, but this was real. This time, it would end in blood.

Like most Messengers, Sandar was built more like a bear than a man. His arms and shoulders were thick, with a barrel chest and a heavy gut. He held his weapons like they were a part of him, and his eyes had the dead, predatory stare of One Arm. Arlen knew he would not hesitate on the killing stroke.

They began to circle in opposite directions, eyes searching for an opening. Sandar made an exploratory thrust of his spear, but Arlen batted it aside easily and returned quickly to guard, refusing to be baited. He returned a measured thrust of his own. As expected, Sandar’s shield snapped up to intercept.

Again Sandar attacked, this time more forcefully, but the moves were all simple spear forms. Arlen knew all the counters and picked them by rote, waiting for the real attack, the one that would come as a surprise when he thought he was countering something else.

But that attack never came. Sandar was powerfully built and had murder in his eyes, but fought like a novice. After several minutes of dancing around the wardpost, Arlen tired of the game and stepped into the next predictable attack. He ducked, hooking Sandar’s shield with his own and raising both to cover himself as he stomped on the side of the Messenger’s knee.

There was a sharp snap that echoed in the crisp air, like the branch of a winter-stripped tree breaking off in the wind. Sandar screamed and collapsed to the ground.

“Son of the Core! You broke my ripping leg!” he howled.

“Promised I would,” Arlen said.

“I’ll kill you!” Sandar shrieked, writhing on the ground in agony.

Arlen took a step back and raised his visor. “I don’t think so. Fight’s over, Sandar. Sooner you realize that, the sooner I can come set that leg for you.”

Sandar glared at him, but after a moment, he threw his spear and shield out of reach. Arlen put down his own weapons and took Sandar’s spear. He braced it against the ground and snapped it with a sharp kick of his steel-shod heel. He laid the two halves on the ground by Sandar and knelt to examine the leg.

As he did, Sandar threw a fistful of loose dirt right in his eyes.

Arlen gave a yell and stumbled back, but Sandar was on him in an instant, knocking him to the ground. Flat on his back in heavy steel armor with another man atop him, Arlen had no way to rise.

“Ripping kill you!” he screamed, hammering Arlen about the head with heavy gauntleted fists. Rather than crippling him, the pain in his leg seemed to give him a mad strength like a cornered nightwolf.

Arlen’s head felt like the clapper from a bell, and it was impossible to think clearly. Half-blind from the grit, he felt more than saw the long knife that suddenly appeared in one of Sandar’s fists. The first thrust skittered across his breastplate, and the next bit into the interlocking rings at his shoulder joint.

Arlen threw his head back and howled. The armor turned the edge, but the pain was incredible, and he knew his shoulder would ache for days.

That was, assuming he lived through the next few minutes.

Sandar gave up trying to pierce the armor and stabbed the knife at Arlen’s throat. Arlen caught his wrist, and they struggled silently for the next few moments. Arlen strained every muscle he had, but Sandar had weight and leverage in addition to his mad strength. The blade drew ever closer to the thin but vulnerable seam between Arlen’s neckplate and helmet.

“Almost there,” Sandar whispered.

“Not quite,” Arlen grunted, punching a mailed fist into Sandar’s broken knee. The Messenger screamed and recoiled in agony, and Arlen punched him full in the jaw, rolling as the man fell and reversing the pin. He pinned the knife arm with his knee, and landed several more heavy blows before the weapon fell from Sandar’s limp hand.