“Do you think that pig-sticker will hold us off, boy?” the outlaw roared.
“I notice you’re not making any move to come in,” Coll retorted.
“There are half a dozen men on the other side of your shelter! Come out, or they’ll come in at your back as I come in from the front!”
There was a rustle behind Coll, and Dicea hissed, “He lies! ”
The outlaw glared, but his men were watching, so he beckoned them on and dove in after Coll with a roar.
Coll pushed his spear forward and grounded the butt. But the outlaw shoved it aside with contempt and seized Coll’s neck in both hands. Coll rolled back, but managed to drive his knee up as the outlaw fell on him. It struck the outlaw’s groin: his eyes went wide, and he made a gargling noise, but his hands only loosened a little, not enough for Coll to breathe. He rolled, trying to break the outlaw’s hold, rolled him right next to Dicea—and his sister brained the outlaw with a rock.
Coll rolled free, gasping and choking, nodding thanks to Dicea as he turned back to the hole, but two outlaws were already halfway through, grinning and stabbing at him with spears. Coll rolled aside, just enough so that both missed, and came up to strike a short, vicious jab into the nearest man’s jaw. The other lunged for Dicea …
… and jolted to a stop so suddenly that his face slammed into the forest mold. Something dragged him backward. The other outlaw shouted as he turned to strike at whatever was at his feet. Coll drew his dagger, then set it against the man’s throat. The outlaw froze, staring up at Coll, fear in his eyes.
The other outlaw shouted as whatever-it-was pulled him clear of the lean-to. There was a brief thrashing, a meaty thud, and he fell back into the door hole, limp and unconscious. Then the other bandit began to move, and Coll barely managed to twitch his knife aside in time. The man shouted as he slid out, and Coll stared after him, Dicea coming up beside him. They saw him sit up swinging a blow, saw Dirk let go of his ankles just in time to block and counterpunch right into the outlaw’s jaw. The man swayed back, and Dicea struck with her rock again. He went limp. Dirk looked into the hole, eyebrows raised. “Maybe we should train her to the quarterstaff, Coll.”
“Behind you!” the serf cried, and Dirk swung about to see a quarterstaff swinging at his head.
6
Dirk rolled, the quarterstaff gouged earth where he’d been, and he thrust upward. The outlaw dropped his staff with a howl, clutching his forearm; blood rose between his fingers. Dirk kept on rolling, up to his feet, and struck the man’s head with the hilt of his sword. The outlaw fell like an ox in the shambles, and Dirk turned to the next enemy.
There was none, at least not nearby. Farther away, Gar was harrying a whole rank of outlaws, whooping and shouting as he rode from one end of the line to the other, then whirled his horse and rode back again, just in time to strike down the few who tried to slip past him to get at Coll and his family. Gar wasn’t even using a sword—just a straight stick three feet long! Coll stared, amazed to realize the big man was actually having fun. He hadn’t known Gar could.
“Coward!” the biggest outlaw raged. “Swine! Of course you can herd us all, with your steel shirt and your high horse and your sword at your hip! Come down from there and fight me man to man, if you’ve the heart for it!” Gar drew in his horse, his eyes glittering.
“Oh, no!” Dirk groaned. “I never thought he’d be a sucker for a dare!” He stepped over to his own horse and mounted quickly.
Sure enough, Gar swung down from the saddle and unbuckled his breastplate. “I hope you fight as well as you talk, little man! I haven’t had a good match in years!”
The “little man” was easily the biggest of the outlaws, more than six feet tall and burly as an oak. However he was still a head shorter than Gar, and although the knight looked less muscular, Coll had some idea of how strong he was. The outlaw stared at Gar, amazed to see him on the ground; then he grinned, showing several gaps between his stained teeth. “No match in years? Then you’re out of practice, I’d say.”
“Come on and find out,” Gar invited.
The big outlaw saw that Gar’s hands were still busy with buckles; he roared and charged, flailing with his sword. Gar stepped inside the swing, caught his arm, and whirled, sending the big outlaw flying. As he fell, the giant called, “You’ll have to do better than that!”
The outlaw scrambled to his feet. “Hang all knights and their fancy tricks!”
“Try.” Gar tossed his breastplate aside. “Just try.”
The outlaw bellowed and charged again, arms wide for a bear hug. Gar yanked off his helmet and threw it in the man’s face. “I’m not done disrobing, if you don’t mind.”
The big outlaw went reeling back; two of his men stepped forward to catch him. He threw them off with a snarl and went to pick up his sword as Gar pulled the chainmail shirt over his head and threw it over his horse’s withers. “I like to know who I’m fighting. Do you have a name?”
The outlaw chief reddened. “Aye, I’ve a name, and a proper one it is! I’m Banhael, I am! What are you? And no ‘sir,’ mind you—I said man to man!”
“Well enough. I’m Gar.” Banhael gave a shout of delight, and the giant grinned. “Yes, only one syllable—a name fit for a serf. You’ve two syllables, so you feel your name is distinguished, I take it.”
Banhael wasn’t too sure what a syllable was, but he knew a mocking tone when he heard one. “We’ll see which of us fights like a peasant,” he growled, “and which like a knight!” With that, he leaped forward, slashing with his two-handed sword, not even pausing to riposte but slashing again from the other side, over and over again in a rough figure eight.
He managed it so easily because Gar didn’t stop to block a single cut; he only retreated, smiling as though he were amused. That angered Banhael. His sword swings became wilder and wilder as he roared, “Stand still, you hopping monkey! Stand and fight!”
“If you say so,” Gar said agreeably, and brought his own sword up in a parry. Banhael’s blade glanced off it and shot into the dirt. He yanked it out with a curse—and felt a wasp sting on his neck. The other outlaws called out angrily as he clapped a hand to it, a hand that came away with a smear of blood of a color that matched the smear on the end of Gar’s blade. “Count your throat cut,” Gar said quietly, “but like a true hero, fight on until I’ve stabbed your heart.”
“You would, would you!” Banhael shouted, and swung a huge, vicious overhand chop straight at Gar’s head.
Of course, that head wasn’t there when the blow landed. Gar danced aside, then in to catch Banhael’s wrist as his sword sank into the dirt again. He tried to draw it out, but Gar held his wrist down as he stepped up chest to chest, gazing down into the shorter man’s face and purring, “I should think you’d have learned not to swing that cleaver as though you were chopping logs. You should try thrusting with the point, like this.” He leaped back, his rapier flickered in, and Banhael felt a sting on his cheek. “Second blood,” Gar said quietly. “Do try thrusting, Banhael.”
“Just as you say, teacher,” Banhael snarled, and stabbed two-handed, straight toward Gar’s chest.
Gar parried; the sword hissed aside, cutting the cloth of his gambeson. Redness stained the padding, and the bandits shouted approval. “There,” Gar said. “See how much more effective it is? But your technique is faulty; you should thrust like this!” The rapier flickered in again, feinting quickly toward hip, then toward heart; in a panic, Banhael swung his huge blade from side to side, but the rapier was gone before his crude block arrived, then darted in a third time to score his other cheek. The outlaws shouted in anger, and Coll gathered himself to charge out to protect his friend if they mobbed him—and hoped his friend could protect Coll and his family. The outlaws did start toward the duelers—but Dirk moved his horse halfway around the little clearing, and they ground to a halt, watching him warily. His own rapier was drawn now, and he, too, was grinning.