Astrid of the Dunedain held up her hand. "That's fighting," she said, as the small column stopped.
Alleyne's head turned; his hearing was about as good as hers. The harsh, flat, unmusical clamor of steel on steel carried a long way; the banging of sword on shield nearly as much, with shouts and the screams of men in pain. It was difficult to tell exactly where the sound came from, except northward; the winding trail and the steep ridge on either side played tricks with sound, and so did the deep forest all about. They looked at each other and nodded, reaching for the helmets at their saddlebows.
This is too close to the place they're holding Rudi, she thought. There are no coincidences. And aloud: "Go!"
Rudi drew his bow and shot his last arrow. The shaft bounced off a man's helmet, and made him flick his head back instinctively. The impact wasn't enough to hurt, but it distracted him:
With Tiphaine d'Ath before him, that was quite enough. The sword moved with a deceptive smoothness, darting out and back like the snap of a frog's tongue. A trail of red followed it through the air, and the man-at-arms staggered backward with his metal-backed gloves clapped to his face, dropping sword and shield. He fell and began to shriek as he rolled down the hill, the weight of his armor pulling him faster and faster until he struck a tree, grasping its roughness like a drowning man at sea, still pawing at his ruined eye. Then she was backing again as the other two pushed doggedly uphill, toiling, using their shields to hold her off. Metal on metal; she leapt backward and up, a broadsword hissing under her boot soles:
"Here!" Mathilda cried. "I've got it spanned!"
Delia took a long breath and accepted the crossbow Norman Arminger's child had taken from beside the fallen Alan. It was heavy, too heavy and long for a child to aim, but the weaver's arms and shoulders were strong from long years at the loom and wheel. What made Rudi bare his teeth was the desperate clumsiness of her grip. In fact "Duck!" he yelled.
Tiphaine did, spinning aside from a thrust and out of the path of the bolt. The tung of the steel bow releasing was not over when the crack of impact sounded, and one of the enemy screamed a curse and threw his shield aside; the thick, heavy missile had gouged far enough into it to wound his left forearm.
"Oh, Goddess, I nearly shot her!" Delia moaned.
The mistress of Ath slid forward again, moving to her left into the man's now-shieldless side. He turned desperately to keep his face to her, but blocked his comrade at the same time. Their swords struck, sparked, slid down to lock at the guards. The dagger in her left hand punched up with the twisting drive of her arm and shoulder and hip behind it, the narrow point breaking the links of riveted mail under his short ribs. The man went to his knees and clutched at himself. She skipped back once more; the slope was more gentle now, flattening to the hilltop meadow. The last man-at-arms began a rush, then stopped and ducked back beneath his shield as he met the smile and glacier eyes and realized that the odds were now even. That made him slip, the long grass crushed into slippery pulp under his boot soles, holding him for an instant while he scrabbled for balance and his weight pinned the bottom edge of his kite-shaped shield into the dirt. Tiphaine bounced back with a long running lunge, and the point went home over the shield and into his face with a crackle of breaking bone and shattering teeth.
Rudi wheeled at Delia's scream. Another armored man had her, his left arm clamping her close behind his shield and the right holding the edge of a sword to her neck; he recognized the china blue eyes-Joris Stein. None of them had noticed his approach from the rear.
"Bravo, Tiph," he said as she freed her blade with a jerk and wheeled, poised in a perfect stance. "You're good, and I'd be the last man to deny it. Checkmate, though. This black-haired piece of peasant ass is your squeeze, isn't she? Can't fault your taste; she smells fine. It's true what they say; blonds like us have more fun."
Tiphaine straightened, flicking the sword and dagger to the sides, shedding a spatter of red from the blades; she was panting deep and slow, sweat and red blood running down her face, her own from a nick on one cheek mingling with sprays from others.
"I should have known," she said. "That was always your idea of misdirection; have somebody else grab them by the nose while you snuck up to corncob them."
"And you were always too subtle for your own good, Tiph. This time my approach worked, though, didn't it?"
"Not quite yet," she said. "What's the word, Joris?"
The knight's face moved; you could tell he was smiling behind the coif. "Simple. I'm here for the witch-brat, dead or alive-preferably alive. The Lord Protector wants him, and as a loyal vassal you'll hand him over, right? Do that and you get your fucktoy back intact. I think that's important to you, Tiph; you were always the sentimental type."
"Compared to you, I suppose I am: which is a judgment on both of us, when you think about it."
"And you get to keep the princess, so you don't look too bad."
"You've got a written decree?" she asked, her voice that cool water-flowing-on-rock tone again.
She walked towards him as she spoke, with her hands out to either side and the blades pointing down, looking at him from beneath pale brows with eyes the color of ice at the edge of a winter pond. Each step was delicately precise. Calmly, she went on: "Somehow I don't think you do, seeing as you just pitched into us without warning, and I don't think those were Household regulars. Not unless Conrad's letting the standards slip."
"Of course there's nothing in writing. And not one step closer. I know exactly how far you can lunge, all right? We sparred often enough."
"Where did you get that conroi of so-called men-at-arms, though? Clown school?" she asked, halting, seemingly casual and relaxed.
Joris shrugged, and Delia took a sharp breath as the sharp edge dimpled the white skin of her throat. A tiny, slow trickle of blood started.
"They were the best I could get on short notice, for a job like this, who wouldn't ask too many questions. Still, they were good enough to soak up crossbow bolts. And now that you and your trusty vassals have conveniently killed them, I don't even have to split the money."
"Well, I do have an explicit order from the consort to keep Mathilda and Rudi here. Orders from my liege. Who's also yours, last time I looked."
Joris tensed, and his voice went from friendly conversational to a snarl for an instant: "You always got the plum jobs-she always favored you and Kat! It wasn't right!"
"Well, Joris, that was because she knew if a situation like this ever did come up, you'd be the one who'd rat her out for a higher offer."
"I suppose you can't be bought?" he spat.
"No, you're the one who can't be bought, Joris. That's the problem. You can only be rented. And she's not going to be happy with you for putting her daughter right in the middle of a running fight, either."
"That's why we didn't do any shooting."
"Oh, that'll make it all right, then."
"The Lord Protector's orders take precedence," the knight said, cheerful again. "Also, unless you hand the witch-brat over-I'll be leaving him to the Hounds, by the way, so the Lord Protector gets a pass from the missus-I'm going to cut your little bed-buddy's throat, and I don't think you're into necrophilia, right? Not really practical considering the anatomy."
"No, you're not going to do that, Joris," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because if you did kill her, you still wouldn't get the boy, and I'd kill you very slowly instead of quickly."
"I'll take my chances," Joris said. "I wouldn't like to face you on even terms, Lady d'Ath, I admit it. You're fucking unnatural in more ways than one. But me in full harness and you in that fancy riding outfit? Yeah, I like those odds. The armor and shield make up for the speed, and I've got you beat on strength and reach."