So that was it. Out of time. Logen wrapped the three fingers of his left hand round the hilt of his sword, the cold metal pressing into his palm. The big man’s spear point edged a little closer. The tall one had relaxed a little, confident they had him. His spear was pointing up into the air, unready. There was no telling what the two behind were doing. The desire to glance over his shoulder was almost irresistible, but Logen forced himself to look ahead.
“I always had respect for you, Ninefingers, even though we stood on different sides. I’ve no feud with you. But Bethod wants vengeance, he’s drunk on it, and I swore to serve.” Blacktoe looked him sadly in the eye. “I’m sorry it’s me. For what it’s worth.”
“Likewise,” muttered Logen, “I’m sorry it’s you.” He slid the sword slowly from the scabbard. “For what it’s worth,” and he snapped his arm out, smashing the sword’s pommel into Blacktoe’s mouth. The old warrior gave a squawk as the dull metal crunched into his teeth and tumbled backwards out of the saddle, his axe flying from his hand and clattering into the road. Logen grabbed hold of the shaft of the big man’s spear, just below the blade.
“Go!” he bellowed at Quai, but the apprentice only stared back, blinking. The man with no neck pulled hard at the spear, nearly jerking Logen out of the saddle, but he kept his grip. He reared up in the stirrups, raising the sword high above his head. Neckless took one hand from his spear, his eyes going wide, and held it up on an instinct. Logen swung the sword down with all his strength.
He was shocked by the sharpness of it. It took the big man’s arm off just below the elbow then struck into his shoulder, cleaving through the fur and the mail beneath and splitting him to his stomach, near in half. Blood showered across the road, spattering in the face of Logen’s horse. It was trained for riding but not for war and it reared and span around, kicking and plunging in a panic. It was the best Logen could do to stay on top of the damn thing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bayaz smack Quai’s horse on the rump, and it sped off with the apprentice bouncing in the saddle, the packhorse galloping along behind.
Then everything was a mess of plunging and snorting beasts, clashing and scraping metal, curses and cries. Battle. A familiar place, but no less terrifying for that. Logen clung to the reins with his right hand as his horse bucked and thrashed, swinging the sword wildly round his head, more to scare his enemies than hurt them. Every moment he expected the jolt and searing pain as he was stuck through with a spear, then the ground to rush up and smack him in the face.
He saw Quai and Bayaz galloping away down the road, hotly pursued by the tall man, his spear couched under his arm. He saw Blacktoe rolling to his feet, spitting blood, scrambling for his axe. He saw the two men who’d come from behind fighting for control of their own twisting horses, spears waving in their hands. He saw the body of the one he’d just killed loll in half and topple slowly out of the saddle, blood pouring out over the muddy ground.
Logen squawked as he felt a spear-point dig into the back of his shoulder, and he was shoved forward, almost over his horse’s head. Then he realised he was facing down the road, and still alive. He dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and it sped away, sending mud flying from its hooves and into the faces of the men behind. He fumbled the sword across into his right hand, nearly dropping the reins and falling into the road. He shrugged his shoulder but the wound didn’t feel too bad—he could still move the arm alright.
“I’m still alive. Still alive.” The road flashed by beneath him, the wind stinging his eyes. He was making ground on the tall man—the rags on his horse’s hooves were slowing him down now, slipping on the muddy ground. Logen gripped the hilt of the sword as hard as he could, raised it behind him. The head of his enemy snapped round, but too late. There was a hollow bonk of metal on metal as sword smashed into helmet, leaving a deep dent and sending the tall man sprawling. His head bounced once against the road, foot still caught in one stirrup, then he came free and tumbled over and over on the grass, arms and legs flopping. His riderless horse galloped on, eyes rolling at Logen as he passed.
“Still alive.” Logen looked over his shoulder. Blacktoe was back in the saddle and galloping after him, axe raised above his head, tangled hair flying out behind. The two other spearmen were with him, urging their horses forwards, but there was still some distance between them. Logen laughed. Perhaps he’d make it after all. He waved his sword at Blacktoe as the road entered a wood in the valley’s bottom.
“I’m still alive!” he screamed at the top of his voice, and then his horse pulled up so suddenly that Logen was almost flung over its head. It was only by throwing one arm round its neck that he kept his seat at all. As soon as he fell back into the saddle he saw the problem, and it was a bad one.
Several tree trunks had been hauled across the road, their branches chopped off and the stumps filed down to vicious points, sticking out in all directions. Two more mailed Carls stood in front, spears at the ready. Even the best of horsemen couldn’t have jumped that barrier, and Logen wasn’t the best of horsemen. Bayaz and his apprentice had reached the same decision. Both sat still on their horses before the barricade, the old man looking puzzled, the young one simply scared.
Logen fingered the grip of his sword and cast desperately around, peering into the trees for some way out. He saw more men now. Archers. One, then two, then three of them, creeping slowly forward on both sides of the road, arrows nocked and strings drawn back.
Logen turned round in the saddle, but Blacktoe and his two companions were trotting up, there was no escape that way. They reined in a few strides away, well out of reach of Logen’s sword. His shoulders slumped. The chase was done. Blacktoe leaned over and spat some blood onto the ground. “Alright, Bloody-Nine, that’s as far as you go.”
“Funny thing,” muttered Logen, looking down at the long grey blade of the sword, dashed and spattered with red. “All that time I fought for Bethod against you, and now you fight for him against me. Seems we’re never on the same side, and he’s the only winner. Funny thing.”
“Aye,” mumbled Blacktoe through his bloody lips, “funny.” But no one was laughing. Blacktoe and his Carls had faces hard as death, Quai looked on the verge of tears. Only Bayaz, for reasons beyond understanding, still had his customary good humour. “Alright, Ninefingers, get off the horse. Bethod wants you alive, but he’ll take you dead, if he has to. Down! Now!”
Logen’s thoughts began to turn to how they might escape, once he’d given up. Blacktoe wasn’t like to make a mistake once he had them. Logen would likely be kicked half to death for the fight he’d given them already, if they didn’t take his kneecaps off. They’d be trussed up tight like chickens for the slaughter. He pictured himself flung down on the stones with half a mile of chain around him, Bethod smiling down from his throne, Calder and Scale laughing, probably poking at him with something sharp.
Logen looked around. He looked at the cold arrowheads and the cold spear-points, and the cold eyes of the men pointing them. There was no way out of this little spot.
“Alright, you win.” Logen threw his sword down, point first. He had it in mind that it would bite into the soil and stand there, swaying back and forth, but it toppled over and clattered against the dirt. It was that sort of day. He slowly swung one leg over the saddle and slid down into the road.
“That’s better. Now the rest of you.” Quai instantly slithered off his horse and stood there, glancing nervously up at Bayaz, but the Magus made no move. Blacktoe frowned and hefted his axe. “You too, old man.”