Jerdren was ready for him. Teeth bared in a savage grin, he ripped the short sword from its sheath and brought it down in a slashing blow. The raider staggered back, folded in half over his torn belly, and fell across his already dead companion, gasping and wheezing.
Other men came from the north now, on foot, swords and javelins ready. Jerdren gritted his teeth. Time those armsmen he’d hired back up north earned their pay. He could only hope he’d chosen well, as the remaining riders swept up and joined battle with the two brothers.
Two men converged on him, grinning as they brought their swords down. Jerdren drew his horse to one side and kneed it forward, bringing his blade down hard against the nearest fellow’s unprotected neck. With a grunt of pain, the man fell forward and slid limply to the ground. Jerdren came back around sharply and slashed backhand at the second man—a sinewy fellow with a beard nearly as red as his own. Blades clashed before red-beard drew back, trying to find a way under his opponent’s guard.
Jerdren’s eyes flicked briefly left and right. The hired guards were keeping the bandits away from the wagons still, and up along the road, the footmen were moving nearer. They wouldn’t risk getting trampled, he thought, and he kneed his mount forward as he thrust. His enemy parried the blow, but the effort left him off-balance, and before he could recover, Jerdren slashed across the man’s face, opening a long, nasty cut just below the eye. Blood ran down his cheek. The fellow cursed raggedly, drew his horse aside, and came around, his sword ready to thrust. Jerdren slashed downward across it with the flat of his own, slamming it into the man’s unfortunate mount. The horse neighed frantically and staggered back, a thin line of blood darkening its pale gray coat.
Jerdren kneed his horse again, bringing the blade around hard as he rode past red-beard then checked and turned back. The hill pony reared. A bright-red arc of blood shimmered in the early sun as his rider slid down the beasts withers and fell to the road, where he lay still, sword still clutched in his fingers. The pony bolted back past the carts.
A quick glance assured Jerdren that the footmen hadn’t come any nearer. There were men down beyond the carts and north of the road. He didn’t dare take count just yet. One man lay limp across the neck of his pony and just beyond them, Blorys was fighting the last of the riders. Someone back along the wagons was howling in pain.
One of his hired men shouted, “All but two of ’em down, back here!”
“Stay alert!” Jerdren bellowed back.
A wail of agony was cut short as Blorys brought his hand down hard, two-handed, and cut deep into the man’s neck. The pony spun halfway around and bolted back toward the rough line of bandits still waiting up-road, dragging his rider. The foot fighters drew back, and several of them turned to run.
Jerdren’s exultant laugh stopped them. “Going somewhere? Cowards!”
Two of the men turned back, their faces dark with anger, but the third—a thin, beardless creature clad in greasy leathers—caught his breath on a sob, threw down his spear and fled down the middle of the road. The mercenary laughed again and urged his mount into a gallop, left hand wrapped around the reins, sword in his right. Blorys’ angry shout came after him, but he ignored that and clove a path through the scattering footmen, riding down the unfortunate fellow and dispatching him with one hard, slashing backhand. He fought his excited horse to a halt, brought him back around, and grinned at the remaining spearmen and archers, most of whom simply stared back. A warning shout from a hatchet-faced older man brought two of them around to face the charging Blorys. The younger man was cursing steadily, and he cast his brother a furious look before engaging the two ragged but determined spearmen. Hatchet-face drew back a pace, apparently watching for an opening.
I can’t get at him without going through Blor, Jerdren thought. He ducked as an arrow soared just over his head, slapped aside a spear with the flat of his blade, and turned toward the other two hulking brutes who clutched their spears and watched him grimly.
“Man on a horse has all the odds against footmen, hasn’t he?” he asked cheerfully. With a flash of teeth, he dropped from the saddle and sketched them a bow. “Like your chances better this way?”
Behind him, Blorys cursed, and one of the footmen cried out in pain.
The two men facing Jerdren glanced at each other, then shouted, and both charged him. Jerdren slapped one spear aside with a backhanded, flat-bladed sweep, sending its holder staggering, briefly off balance. Before the man could regain his feet properly, Jerdren ducked, coming up under the shaft of the second spear and grabbing it, hard. He yanked, thrusting with his blade at the same time. The man wore no armor, not even hardened leather. The sword went through his belly, stuck briefly in bone, then ripped free as Jerdren let go the spear and dropped back, yanking hard on the hilt. The mortally wounded man fell, clutching his belly. Jerdren was already pivoting on one heel, bringing the dripping blade around in a hard, flat, two-handed swing. Droplets of blood flew from the blade, glittering like rubies, before the weapon slashed through an upraised spear haft and through the robber’s neck. Jerdren didn’t even bother to see if he still lived; he was already across the road, ready to aid his brother.
But Blorys was off his horse, reins in one hand and bloody sword in the other, as he nudged each of the three men with a booted foot. The hatchet-faced man groaned faintly. The others were silent and rolled limply away from the pressure.
A sudden stillness reigned once more, except for the wheezing of the wounded man at Blorys’ feet, the faint sobbing of someone back among the carts, and a woman’s frightened weeping coming from the lead wagon. Jerdren bit back exasperation. I warned that hide merchant not to bring his lady, didn’t I?
He walked back to the lead wagon, his bay gelding now quiet and trailing after him.
A keen look around assured him that the road, at least, was clear. There had been fairly heavy fighting along the north side of the caravan, and he could see two fallen men beyond the third wagon. Two of the hired men were injured, but neither of them too badly. One sat pale and quiet as one of his fellows bandaged an oozing cut on his brow. The second tended to his own forearm, a bloody bandit’s arrow at his side. A third man lay still and pale beside the middle cart.
“Fell from his horse,” one of his comrades told Jerdren. “That one there—” he pointed to a dead bandit some paces away—“busted his head with a stone. Last thing he ever did.” Brief silence, which the man broke. “We took two of ’em prisoner, but one’s not likely to live. Bad cut in the leg.”
“I’ll deal with them shortly. You did well, you men,” Jerdren said. He raised his voice a little as he turned toward the lead wagon. “Lhodis! Hide merchant! How’re your people there?”
Blorys came up, leading his mare, a dripping sword in his free hand. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek. His eyes were dark with anger. Jerdren held up a hand as a tremulous voice came from the lead wagon.
“We’re… fine, swordsman! All right, I th-think.”
“Good! Everything’s taken care of! We’ll move on as soon as we can. You and your folk just stay inside there! Nothing out here you need to worry about.” Nothing you need to see, either, hide merchant, he added to himself. You or your lady.
Blorys dabbed at the cut on his cheek and cleared his throat ominously. Jerdren held up a hand for silence. “Later, brother,” he said. “We need to clear the road, and get moving.”
“Clear the—damn it all, Jers,” the younger man said flatly. “And if there’s more of ’em?”
“After what we did to the ones who showed themselves?”