"Well met, stranger!" the leader called, and one of his men chuckled. "We have met him well indeed, Ostricht."
"Be still, Tomkin!" Ostricht snapped, then to Geoffrey again, "Be sure you may ride our pathways in safety, young merchant—if you pay our toll."
Geoffrey forced himself to look casual and heaved a sigh. "Ah me, how the cost of doing business keeps rising! Very well, forester—how much toll does your lord demand?"
At the word 'forester,' the outlaws all began to snicker. Ostricht glared them down, then smiled at Geoffrey. "A half of all your goods, young merchant."
Geoffrey stared. "A half! Nay, sir! That is far too high a tax! If I were to pay that at every toll gate, I would have nothing left to sell before I came to the next town!"
A soft rustling sounded all around him as archers drew their bows.
"True," Ostricht admitted, "but we shall see to it that there are no other tolls—and if you do not pay us half, you will not live to sell the other half."
"Oh, I think that I shall," Geoffrey said quietly.
He rolled off Fess and down, below the archers' aim. For a second they stood, realizing that their arrows might very well hit one another—which gave Geoffrey just enough time to spring upward, whipping the sword out from behind his back and lunging at Ostricht.
Suprised, the leader nonetheless managed to parry, but not well—Geoffrey's blade grazed his left arm. He howled in anger, but Geoffrey was already crowding him, sword flickering in and out, pushing him back and back among his own men. A ranker broke out of the paralysis of surprise and swung his quarterstaff with a snarl; Geoffrey chopped it aside, thrust into the man's thigh, hearing the bellow of pain as he collapsed and Geoffrey turned to catch Ostricht's blade on his own, then riposted quickly to thrust at the bandit leader's face. Ostricht flinched away, and a quarterstaff cracked across the back of Geoffrey's shoulders. He grunted with pain and half-turned, just far enough to lash a kick into the stomach of the man who had struck him—a foul blow was fully justified, when an assailant struck from behind. Then back he spun, to catch Ostricht's blade in a bind and step up corps d corps, backing the bandit leader into a tree. An arrow whistled past his ear to bite into the trunk, and Geoffrey snarled, "Fool!"
"Fool!" Ostricht agreed in a bellow. "Put up your bows! Do you mean to slay me?" Prudently, he didn't wait for an answer, but shoved hard, trying to push Geoffrey far enough away so that he could disentangle his blade ...
It was like trying to shove a boulder.
A quarterstaff caught Geoffrey across the back of the knees.
He grunted and threw an arm around Ostricht. The bandit leader saw his chance and shoved, hard, and Geoffrey fell ...
... with Ostricht right on top of him.
Even so, Geoffrey managed to twist as he fell, and rose up with his dagger at Ostricht's throat, sword sweeping up to knock aside the quarterstaves that struck at him as he bellowed, "Hold! Or I'll cut his throat!"
The bandits froze.
Then an ugly, bearded one snarled, "Do, and we'll crush you to jelly!"
Geoffrey's hand twitched, and a drop of blood appeared on Ostricht's throat. The bandit leader went rigid, eyes wide in horror.
"Crush away, then," Geoffrey hissed.
The bandit glared at him, but held his staff still—and his tongue.
"Away!" Ostricht grated. "Put down your bows! If he falls, he's like to slit my throat as he topples!"
"Wisely said," Geoffrey agreed. "Bid them back away now, a good ten feet."
"Do as he says!" Ostricht snapped. Reluctantly, the bandits gave ground. "Now," Geoffrey said, "put down your bows."
He did not even look, only kept his gaze locked with Ostricht's, his lips thin, hand rock-steady.
"Obey!" Ostricht groaned.
There was silence. Then one bow dropped, and all the others clattered down beside it.
"Now," said Geoffrey, "take me to your leader." Ostricht stared at him, and his men growled and muttered. "I would sooner die!" the bandit leader snapped. "You have chosen." Geoffrey swung the sword-tip down, right above Ostricht's eyes.
The bandits howled, starting forward, then froze. "Thrust," Ostricht grated. "I shall not betray my chief!"
"Thrust," growled one of the bandits, "and we shall slay you."
But Geoffrey ignored him, frowning. "What manner of bandit chieftain is this Quicksilver, to inspire such loyalty in you?"
"A leader worth a thousand of the lord who claims the right to rule us," Ostricht snapped. "Strike, and be done—but I shall not betray Quicksilver!"
"Then we shall carve up what's left," another bandit growled.
"Carve!" Geoffrey snarled, and leaped up and back, kicking Ostricht aside as he did. He stumbled back, his knees not yet fully recovered, and the bandits roared and closed in. But Geoffrey had aimed well; he fell back against a tree. Quarterstaves rained down at him, but he blocked them with sword and dagger. Sticks exploded against his ribs, drubbed his shoulders, pounded his thighs, for he could not block them all—but by the same token, the bandits were too closely packed to be able to get much of a swing. Geoffrey's knees were strong enough for kicks, though, and suddenly all but two of the bandits were rolling on the ground, howling in pain, and the remaining pair were streaked with blood from Geoffrey's sword.
He shouted, "Havoc!" and leaped at the one on his right, chopping and thrusting. His knees held, and the man howled, falling back with a gash in his thigh. Geoffrey spun in time to parry the staff that struck down from his left, then riposted and grazed the man's ribs. He swung back to the front just in time to parry a thrust from Ostricht, then advanced on him, thrusting so quickly that the man scarcely had time to parry, and certainly none to riposte. He gave ground, and none of his men could help him now—until a tree suddenly struck his back, and Geoffrey caught his sword in a quick circling movement of his own blade. Ostricht's sword went flying, and he stood at bay, bloodied and gasping for breath, staring wildly at the blade whose point touched his throat.
"Now," Geoffrey called out, "one of you who can still walk, lead me to Quicksilver!"
"I am here," said a voice behind him.
Geoffrey spun about, leaping aside to keep his point near Ostricht's throat even in his amazement at the sound of that voice. He stared at its owner.
She was long and lithe, slender and supple. If Helen's face would have launched a thousand ships, Quicksilver's figure would have wrecked them, for the helmsmen would not have been able to keep their eyes on the sea ahead. Her auburn hair was caught by a gleaming headband, but fell loose about her shoulders in a swaying mass. She wore a copper-colored surcoat, but not the armor it should have covered, giving her, in effect, a long split skirt over girded loins, and a bodice that tied about her neck and just below her breasts, binding them as firmly as any brassiere. Her buskins were soft leather, almost moccasins, but crossgartered up over her calves.
And her face ...
Wide across high cheekbones, narrowing to a small, firm chin—a small, straight nose, huge dark brown eyes, a high unlined forehead, wide mouth with full, ripe lips ...
Geoffrey caught his breath. His thoughts spun, seeking refuge, some defense against this goddess whose mere presence seemed to demand his homage, the total devotion of every fiber of his being, and found it—in the errant thought that he had, most surely, seen faces more beautiful.
But not bodies ...
Perhaps one or two faces more beautiful, but this one had a compelling quality, some strange attraction that made every cell within him scream to feel her touch, her embrace, fought for some action that would bring him into contact with her, no matter how brutal that action might be.