All right, then, Thorn, you have masterminded this whole bloody plot, you have forced the merchant into everything, bullied the sorceress into being rescued—they’re both living in stark terror of you; and if you can make Maldron believe that, maybe there’s still a chance he’ll be a little easier on those two.
Thorn grinned. It was not far from the truth. She had bullied Spendwell, rescued Frostflower without asking if she would rather be killed quickly. For a moment, it all seemed amusing; and this might be the last chance Thorn would ever get to enjoy a little humor. Warriors’ God, if she only had Slicer in her hand, she could go down happy.
If she had Slicer in her hand, maybe she wouldn’t have had to go down at all. Four to one at worst, if there were three outside and the one in the oven room was a warrior. If they had not realized her sword was still in the wagon…and the damn dog should at least have barked if they had poked into the wagon…so her sword should still be safe.…
They were going to sneak until the last moment. If they planned to burst in through the door, they should have done it by now. They must think I have my sword, thought Thorn. They aren’t quite sure where in the house I am, and they’re shy about coming face to face with me and Slicer. She grinned again. If nothing else, at least I swung a good sword. Azkor’s guts, you’d think the stinking priest would send braver warriors after me.
She resheathed her knife, put her shoulder against the door, and waited, breathing softly. With luck, the door would be her first weapon. Amazing that the voices in the oven room mumbled on as before, unaware of what was going on. Well, even honest raids were never as long, or even as loud, as they seemed to the warriors.
The door began to push inward. At first, the movement was almost tentative enough to be caused by the wind, or by Thorn’s own muscles echoing her heartbeat. Without actually pushing back, she held the door steady for a moment. The hands outside slid around to a new point of leverage. Now Thorn let the door open easily to about the width of two or three fingers. Then she braced herself and whammed it shut.
One of the warriors howled in pain. As Thorn had hoped, the stupid bitch had got her fingers too close to the door frame, or maybe her blade too close between her body and the door. Thorn swung the bolt into place, yanked Stabber out of his sheath, and ran toward the inner room.
The supposed townsman was the first one out of that room. He stopped and fell back a step when he saw Thorn. Maybe he knew she was an outlaw warrior; but she was dressed like a landworker with knife in hand, and he looked baffled.
She jumped in close, held the knife at face level, and punched her other fist between his legs. It was dirty fighting, but it was the quickest way she could think of to find out whether he was a male spy or a warrior in disguise. He was a male, so she left him thrashing on the floor, cursing as if he’d rather have been knifed.
Frostflower and Spendwell were pushing out of the sickroom behind him. Thorn herded them back in. They retreated wordlessly—Maldron’s bitches outside were pounding on the bolted door—but Frostflower glanced over Thorn’s shoulder at the twitching townsman. “Maldron’s spy,” muttered Thorn. “Don’t worry, he’ll recover, maybe too soon. What about the baker?”
Burningloaf was trying to prop himself up on one elbow, blinking as if his mind was still asleep, looking bloodless as his own flour. He saw Thorn and gave a weak scream.
“Thorn, no!” cried Frostflower. “He did not help them—not this time!”
Maybe and maybe not, but Thorn was not going to waste time trying to find out, or even punching him for what he had done before. “Shut up and go back to sleep, you bastard!” she shouted at him while she pulled Frostflower and Spendwell to the back door. Then she spoke quickly and low, not wanting the baker to overhear. “All right, listen! Don’t come out with me. Some of them could be sneaking around. But if the front door goes, then get out the back and run like demons.”
“Starwind?” said Frostflower.
“Safe in the wagon with your dog. They won’t hurt them. If they catch you, merchant, you never did any of this on your own—I made you do it all.”
Thorn ducked out the back door. She went to the right—less distance to the corner of the house on that side. She carried Stabber in her left hand. Her right hand felt naked, but her left was better used to the knife. Maybe that was where she had made her mistake with Clopmule down in the priests’ tunnel, trying to work with Stabber in her right hand instead of her left where he belonged.
She had guessed right. One of the bitches was sneaking around the house. Either they realized what Thorn was doing, or they were going to try to break in through the back. Maldron’s warrior did not seem to be bothering too much about silence any longer. I hear her, thought Thorn, but chances are she hasn’t heard me yet. Good. I don’t have time to be overcautious.
She slipped up to within a stride and a half of the edge of the wall, then jumped away from the house and turned the corner in a wide part-circle. She timed it perfectly—she would have caught the other warrior flat against the wall, if only she’d had Slicer.
Bad luck and good. The other warrior was an axewoman—no sword for Thorn to win from her—but most axewomen were clumsy sows with arm muscles like stonemasons and brains like the stones. Thorn dodged the first swing, jumped back, and pretended to fall, careful to keep her left leg crooked under her.
The axewoman closed in and heaved up her weapon, laying herself open. Thorn straightened her leg and lunged up, slamming her knife into the axewoman’s left shoulder.
Maldron’s warrior screamed and tried to swerve her axe around, but it was already in downward momentum and she couldn’t turn it one-handed. Thorn dodged it easily, ducked, levered Stabber upward in the axewoman’s shoulder, pushed against her belly, and let the weight of the swinging axe carry her in a somersault over Thorn’s own back. It worked almost every time with axewomen. (And if they were smart enough not to open themselves up by taking a swing when you seemed to have fallen, then they pretty well had to give you a chance to get up again.)
Thorn grabbed the axe, less to use it than to get it out of its owner’s reach. The axewoman seemed to be effectively lambasted, cursing and clutching at what was left of her muscles between ribs and shoulder; but sometimes you could not be sure. Thorn raced the length of the house and almost reached the street before Maldron’s second warrior, holding a lighted torch, blocked her way. Where the Hell had she gotten the torch? Must have been lighting it while her companion—Thorn could still hear banging in front—was busy at the door. Gods, had they been planning to burn the door, or smoke us out?
This one was a swordswoman. She would be harder, especially with that burning torch…but Warriors’ God, what a beautiful blade! Nearly as beautiful as Slicer, and a lot closer. And me with nothing but Stabber and a damn clumsy axe that not even the axewoman would manage one-handed. Well, at least she’s holding the damn torch stiffly—must be the cow whose fingers I bruised in the door.
The only thing to do with the blasted axe was swing it low. Thorn tried to aim for the swordswoman’s shins. Maldron’s woman jumped back easily and—bruised fingers or not—made a swoop with the torch that almost caught Thorn’s arm. Damn axe! clumsy, off-balance—all it might be good for was trying a feint so she could get close enough to use Stabber.
Thorn started to swing her arm as if to loft the axe for an overhand stroke. She could see Maldron’s bitch grinning, waiting on her guard until the unaccustomed weapon pulled her opponent off balance. Smardon! thought Thorn, she must think I’m stupid. Now!
Thorn fell into a crouch, dropping the axe and thrusting upward with her knife. Something whirred over her head. Maldron’s bitch seemed to drop the torch even before Stabber hit her thigh. Another knife had landed in her chest.
Thorn twisted out of the way and let her fall. Behind them, the axewoman was screaming curses.
“You fathermilker!” Thorn shouted back. “Damn you to Azkor’s guts!” What a dirty, stinking—you threw kniv
es at animals in the woods when you were desperate for meat, not when you were fighting another warrior hand-to-hand. And to throw it at my back! Gods, maybe I threw a dirty punch a few moments ago, but that was only to find out…not to murder…I should go back and slice her in half at the navel with her own bloody axe!
But there was no time for revenge. Thorn extricated the fallen woman’s sword and turned into the street.
Maldron’s third warrior was waiting, sword in right hand, dagger in left. Her stance looked good.
“I’ll tell his Reverence what happened to Snaste,” she said. “Frankly, she deserved something like that.”
“Tell him what you like,” said Thorn. “If he adds something else to whatever he already has planned, I probably won’t feel it anyway.”
“Your fighting deserves a clean death, Thorn. I’ll try to give you one.”
After the axewoman with her knife-throwing, and that other cow, Snaste, who must have seen what the axewoman was about to do and grinned at it, this last warrior looked like a friend. “Damn your guts,” said Thorn. “I think if this were a plain raid, I’d enjoy fighting you.”
“And if it were a raid, I could give you a clean fight. As it is, I can only offer you a clean death.”
“Idiots!” This voice came from the house. Thorn glanced around. She could make out the head and shoulders of Maldron’s spy, outlined at the window lattice. “You idiot, Silverstroke!” he went on. “His Reverence wants her alive!”
Silverstroke turned her face toward the window. “I have never seen the reason in sending anyone to Hellbog with additional tortures beforehand.”
Thorn hefted the sword. It was not Slicer, but it had a good balance. Maybe she should lunge now? No; Silverstroke was only pretending her attention was on the spy. Let Maldron’s warrior make the first move.
“You’re judging your priest, warrior!” said the spy.
“Does Maldron really expect Thorn to surrender while she’s still breathing?” On the last word, Silverstroke lunged, not even turning her head until her sword was already aimed—well aimed, too. It would have been a solid hit if Thorn had herself been off-guard instead of pretending.
The street seemed to grow slightly darker. The villagers would be putting out their lamps in order to see more clearly as they squinted through their windows at the street. The people in poor, crummy flyspecks like Gammer’s Oak did not see fighting every year. They would be talking about tonight for the rest of their lives. Well, that was fame, of sorts. Meanwhile, you could be sure none of the villagers was going to interfere with warriors. As for the lights going out, warriors were used to fighting in the dark. The Warriors’ God had the eyes of a cat in the reflecting circular brows of an owl.
Silverstroke was good—one of the best Thorn had fought for years—but not quite good enough. Her reflexes were quick, but her swings were a little too wide, so that it took her too much time to recover and aim again. She tried to get in too many swings and thrusts, wearing herself out while Thorn avoided flamboyance and stayed fresher. Nor did Silverstroke vary her feints often enough or skillfully enough. She usually pretended to swing and turned it into a thrust—and her thrusts were weak because her standard swing threw off her thrusting aim. When she did start with a thrust and turn it into a swing, Thorn could see it coming right away. None of these faults was very big—only big enough to make the difference. Silverstroke had three scratches to Thorn’s one by the time Thorn got her against the wall with the sword point resting on her belly.
Now Thorn had a better chance to study her opponent’s face. As she had suspected, Silverstroke was young, probably not long away from her teachers. She had not yet fought many warriors better than herself. “You’ll be one of the great swordswomen someday, if you live long enough,” said Thorn.
Silverstroke smiled wryly, threw her sword down and sheathed her knife with a gesture of surrender. Thorn nodded. Now to get Spendwell and Frostflower to the wagon without scaring them out the back door into the woods or letting the whole town know Spendwell was a willing accomplice.
“Merchant!” Thorn shouted. “All right, merchant, come out of there. Your wagon’s in the street and so is a burning torch!”
She heard the bolt rubbing against the door. So far all right, but he could be moving faster. She glanced at the torch where it lay, still burning, near the body of the warrior Snaste.
Thorn had to be careful what she said—she had better not trap herself into making a threat she would not want to carry out—but a little show for the commoners peeking out through their darkened windows, a little shouting and waving the torch around, might help give Spendwell a townful of witnesses that he had been forced. “Hurry up, merchant! I’m getting that torch.”
Silverstroke leaned against the wall, diddling with one of her nicks. If it had been Snaste or the axewoman, Thorn would have made sure she was flat on the ground before turning her back on her; but you could trust these high-minded, clean-mouthed warriors who chose names that sounded like… Hell, it sounded almost like a sorceron’s name! Silverstroke had warned Thorn she would pull a dirty trick if she could; but that was before she showed an empty palm.
Thorn took about three steps toward the torch, and then Silverstroke fell on her from behind.
She hadn’t stopped to pick up sword or draw knife—she used her body, throwing herself against Thorn’s backside to lever her own bent knees down on the fallen woman’s elbows. Thorn kept her grip on both Stabber and Snaste’s sword; and if she were on her back she could have used them—everything else being equal, she judged she was stronger than Maldron’s young bitch—but she was not double-jointed. Like this, her arms were pinned; and, with one of Silverstroke’s hands clamping down on her neck, she could not twist to her side and up. She tried kicking, but Silverstroke was too far forward for Thorn’s heel to connect. She tried humping her back, and Silverstroke’s hand damn near broke her neck.
She thought, by the position of thumb and fingers, that it was her attacker’s right hand, and it felt as if it had the whole weight of arm and body leaning on it—but she didn’t quite believe her attacker was Silverstroke and not yet another of Maldron’s warriors until she heard her speak.
“I’m sorry, Thorn.”
“You dirty, fathermilking bitch!” It was hard to talk, with a hand and arm bearing down on her neck and one side of her face being pressed into the hard filth of the street. “You gave the surrender!”
“In a normal raid, I would have kept it. You are the better swordswoman.”
Thorn heard the door opening. Its scrape echoed through the dirt beneath her ear. You’re a little damn late, Spendwell! Thorn relaxed her muscles. If Silverstroke moved her center of balance too far while getting out her knife and aiming it, Thorn might yet catch her off-guard and roll free. If not, a relaxed body would let the blade go in easier.
“Stop! Silverstroke, you—”
“Keep away, Slapdust!”
The spy, not the merchant, had come out. Thorn felt his running feet thud towards them. He must have grabbed Silverstroke’s arm, because her body went off-balance. Thorn jerked, twisted, and rolled free. Her first glimpse was the spy trying to hold back Silverstroke’s knife hand.
“Stand clear!” Thorn shouted at the man as she slashed out with her own knife and cut open Silverstroke’s arm.
Blood spurted. Thorn had hit a vein. Good.
After a quick glance to be sure Thorn would not strike again, Silverstroke dropped her knife and began groping for the pressure point to hold and choke the bleeding.
Thorn got to her feet. “Thanks, spy.”
“Thank him when you’re on the scaffold, Thorn,” said Silverstroke.
Maldron’s warrior should be safe enough now, busy trying to keep her own blood inside her; but Thorn moved well out of her reach anyway. “Spendwell!” She saw them in the doorway, him and Frostflower, but she shouted again for the benefit of the town. “Merchant, get your stinking arse out here!”
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nbsp; He seemed to flush. He opened his mouth, but closed it and pushed his way out past the spy Slapdust. Looking in the other direction, he hurried by Silverstroke. The sorceress, however, paused before Maldron’s warrior.
“We were only scouts, Thorn,” said Silverstroke. “We were not supposed to attack you, only wait here and keep watch on your movements in case you came into Gammer’s Oak.”
Frostflower looked at Thorn. Thorn nodded. Maybe the sorceress had decided to try a little sorcery again to close up Silverstroke’s wound—that would be worth losing a few more moments.
But Frostflower only pulled off her head kerchief and folded it into a bandage as she knelt in front of the bleeding young swordswoman.
“His Reverence is bringing thirty more women up Straight Road North after you.” Silverstroke let Frostflower take her arm, suddenly pulled back as if just realizing it was a sorceress who touched her, then shrugged slightly and watched her wrap the bandage. “Maldron is leading them himself, with his nephew Daseron. He’s mounted ten of them on horses.”
“Hellbog he has!” Horses—the farmers’ own animals—even a priest’s private messenger had to be specially consecrated if he was going to ride a horse for speed. If Maldron had emptied his horse stables—ten or twelve grown horses was a good number for any farmer to keep—and consecrated the warriors to ride them…granted, it took less to consecrate a warrior for horseback than a common messenger or spy…but, gods! he was determined to catch them tonight.
“His Reverence will hang you for two days for this, Silverstroke!” said the spy.
“Before I stop bleeding, or afterwards?” The warrior stared him down, then turned her face back to Thorn. “They should have started by now. His Reverence planned to start at dusk, he and the others riding horses in front, the rest following on donkeys or foot.”
Frostflower pulled the bandage tight, and the bleeding slowed to almost nothing. “Do not leave it tight too long,” she said.
Frostflower and Thorn Page 29