“It sounded like it came from the old mill.”
Maldynado wondered if they should have searched in that direction first. The grounds around it were open, though, and, if someone waited in there, odds weren’t in favor of being able to sneak up without being noticed.
“Let’s check the river first,” Maldynado said.
A dozen paces ahead, water lapped at the banks. The frogs remained silent.
The hedge ended at a pebbly beach. Downstream, a hint of orange came into view-burning embers in a campfire. Maldynado didn’t see anyone, but reeds strangled the shoreline in places, and driftwood large enough to hide behind littered the beach.
Staying low, he headed for the fire. The grasses and vegetation weren’t high enough to provide much camouflage, and Maldynado felt vulnerable as they approached, but nobody jumped out at them, nor did snipers start shooting from the mill. He and Yara reached the remains of the campfire. Cook fire, Maldynado amended, after almost stepping in a refuse hole filled with fish heads and bones. A flat rock by the fire held the oily remnants of a fried meal. Hints of green drew him closer. Yes, those were the remains of herbs-most people in the empire would call them weeds-that someone had chopped to add to the fish. Only Basilard would scavenge up seasonings for a meal cooked on a rock.
“They were here,” Maldynado said.
Foliage rustled. That was the only warning Maldynado received.
He spun toward the brush in time to see a dark figure leaping out of the night at him. The outline of a knife was visible against the night sky, a knife meant to pierce Maldynado’s back, but he dropped to his belly before his attacker reached him.
“Visitors,” Maldynado barked for Yara’s sake as he rolled away from the fire pit.
A twang cut through the air-a crossbow firing. The quarrel bit into the pebbles inches from Maldynado’s face, spraying sand. He leaped to his feet, his rapier in hand, his back to the river. Two hooded men charged him. Two more men were already trading blows with Yara on the other side of the campfire.
Before Maldynado’s attackers crashed into him, he leaped to the side of one. As Sicarius had so often demonstrated in group sparring practice, the way to fight multiple opponents was not to fight multiple opponents. If he kept one in the way of the other, he’d only have to face the nearest man.
As the closest figure spun toward him, Maldynado launched a feint-stab combination to test his opponent. With multiple foes to worry about, the temptation was to rush and try to finish one first, but a man in a hurry could make mistakes. Especially in such poor lighting.
Maldynado’s feint didn’t fool his attacker. Steel clashed against steel and the jolt of a hard parry from a heavier weapon ran up his arm. The follow-up came by way of a combination of slashes, alternating toward his chest and thighs. His foe wielded a saber, and Maldynado recognized the style. Pure army. The sort of combinations that were drilled into young soldiers during their early years of training. The attacks were competent, but lacked the lightning speed of something from Sicarius or even Basilard. Maldynado kept his feet moving, so the second man couldn’t circle around his comrade, and parried blows while waiting for his foe to repeat a familiar pattern. Further, he used the man’s body to block any snipers aiming at him from the brush.
The second man made a wide circle in a new attempt to reach his side, so Maldynado decided to take care of him first. Without slowing his parries, or looking at the encroaching foe, he dipped his left hand to his belt and drew the utility knife there. Using his swordplay to hide the movement, he readied the shorter blade to throw.
“What’s the story with the hoods?” Maldynado asked, hoping to further distract the men. “The executioner look isn’t in fashion this season, you know.”
The hooded figure in front of him said nothing, though, as the saber blows failed to hit more than steel, his movements grew faster and choppier, a sign of growing frustration. Good. Maldynado would turn defense to offense in a moment, but he wanted the second man out of the ring first. He continued to defend, his sword gliding from side to side, eyes ostensibly focused on the opponent to his front, until the other fellow committed himself to a charge.
Without missing a parry, Maldynado hurled the knife. The blade took the man in the chest with enough force to stop him mid-run. He pitched sideways, hands clutching his chest as he thudded to the pebbles.
The attack startled the first man, and he stumbled on a rock. Maldynado knew he had the man off-balance and didn’t bother with a feint. He batted his foe’s blade to the side and lunged in, leading with his rapier. Under other circumstances, he might have tried to subdue his foe instead of stabbing him, but Yara, enmeshed in a battle of her own, might need help. His rapier slid between ribs, and the man screamed. His saber clattered onto the pebbles.
Maldynado pulled his blade free and raced around the campfire. One of Yara’s attackers lay prone a couple feet away from her, but she was on the ground, entangled with the other. Even as Maldynado ran toward them, Yara yelped with pain, and the dark figure found his way on top. He straddled Yara, holding her down with one hand while the other raised a knife, ready to plunge it deep.
Maldynado leaped, kicking the blade as he came down beside them.
Yara’s attacker snarled and reached for another weapon on his belt, but Maldynado launched a second kick, this time into the person’s shoulder. The man tumbled sideways, helped aside by an angry thrust from Yara. She jumped to her feet, landing in a crouch, hands balled into fists. She snatched her sword up from the rocks and looked like she was going to ram it down the man’s throat.
Not certain any of the other three would live, and figuring information would be helpful, Maldynado lifted an arm to block her at the same time as he stepped on the fallen man’s shoulder to keep him from going anywhere. Yara snarled, and Maldynado wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t ram her sword down his throat. Saving a woman didn’t count for as much as it once had.
Maldynado grabbed the man by the shirt and pinned him to the beach. His prisoner snatched a handful of pebbles and hurled them at him. They plunked off his chest. After what Maldynado had endured in the recent train battle, the pebbles were laughable. Using both hands, he hauled the man to his feet. More than his feet. The man lacked Maldynado’s height, so his toes dragged across the pebbles. It wasn’t necessary, but Maldynado hefted him a couple more inches into the air, in case such power might impress Yara.
She said nothing, merely yanking the figure’s hood off. A young, short-haired man sneered at them.
“Who are you?” Maldynado asked. “Why’d you attack us?”
The prisoner growled.
“That’s not an acceptable answer.” Maldynado lowered one arm and curled his fingers into a ball. He wasn’t much for torturing folks, but a fist to the belly often softened a man’s resistance-or caused him to throw up on one’s shoes.
Twang!
A crossbow quarrel sped out of the darkness and sliced into the outside of Maldynado’s arm. He cursed and released his prisoner. The man sprinted for the river. During the split second Maldynado was debating whether to chase him or hurl himself to the ground and find cover- idiot, how had he forgotten the crossbowman? — Yara raced into the brush. Afraid she’d be shot, Maldynado charged after her.
Before he reached the undergrowth, foliage thrashed ahead of him, followed by a loud thunk.
“Awk!” came a man’s pained cry.
Leaves rattled, and the crossbow wielder darted onto the beach, dropping his weapon when it caught on a bush. He leaped over the campfire and dove into the river. His comrade had already disappeared into the water. Splashes announced enthusiastic swimming, and Maldynado couldn’t muster the desire to hurl himself into the river on a cold night to give chase.
“Brave men.” Yara picked up the discarded crossbow and waved it in the air.