Perhaps ten seconds had passed since the two men had leaped from the tree onto the wagon. Duffy turned to see how the lead wagon was faring. One of Yount’s sons was snapping the reins and shouting abuse at the laboring horses. Yount and his other son, both bleeding from minor cuts, were waving axes and holding at bay two of the robbers, who crouched at the rear of the first wagon.
Before the men on horseback could shout a warning, Duffy leaped again across the gap between the wagons, whirling his sword in a great horizontal arc, and a head bounced in the dust of the road a moment later. The other bandit, whom Duffy had only knocked sprawling, scrabbled frantically for his fallen sword, but the Irishman lunged at him with the dagger, burying it to the hilt under the man’s jaw.
Two of the three riders were now leaning from their saddles and hacking at the hawser connecting the two wagons. “God,” Duffy breathed wearily, getting up. He leaned out from the rail and brought the flat of his sword down hard on the skull of one of the galloping horses. The beast screeched, stumbled and fell in a thrashing somersault, pitching its rider headfirst onto the road. The horse behind tripped over the fallen one, and it too went tumbling.
The last rider, finding himself the only remaining representative of the robber gang, fell back, dismayed and uncertain.
“You’d be wise to go home while you still can,” Duffy called to him.
Oh no, he thought, a moment later—he’s got reinforcements. Two more riders were coming up fast from behind. Their swords were out and held low, and Duffy didn’t relish the prospect of fighting them. They’ll be passing that discouraged one in a second, he thought, and when he sees he’s got support I’ll have three of them to deal with.
Then Duffy blinked in astonishment, for one of the new riders had, in passing, casually leaned out and driven his blade through the back of the slower-riding robber. Why, they’re reinforcements for us, the Irishman thought with relief. He grinned and sat back as one of them drew alongside, a blond, curly-haired young man.
“It’s good to see you, lads,” Duffy called. “Though a sooner appearance—” He leaped backward then like a startled cat, for the rider had made a terribly quick cut at his face. The sword point nicked the end of the Irishman’s nose and then drove in at his chest; but Duffy had his own sword up by now, and parried the thrust.
“What’s going on?” Yount called. “Who are these bastards?”
“I don’t know,” Duffy shouted, trying a feint and thrust at the young rider. The man effortlessly got a bind on Duffy’s blade, and his parry and riposte were one movement. Not bad, considering he’s fighting from the back of a horse, Duffy thought as he leaped back again and the stranger’s sword lightly clipped his doublet.
The wagon rocked violently as the other of the pair leaped from his horse and swung aboard from the far side. Damnation, Duffy thought, whirling around just in time to block a flank cut from this new passenger, these boys are quick.
Yount and his son, hefting their axes, began clambering over the back rail of the first cart.
“Don’t get yourselves hurt,” the young man called to them. “It’s him we want.” He pointed at Duffy.
“I told you!” howled old Ludvig, peering above the foremost bench-back. “He’s a devil!”
There was a quick whiz-and-thump then, and the young man cocked his head uncertainly, and a moment later toppled forward, a feathered arrow jutting from his back.
God help us, Duffy thought hysterically, what now? “Keep the horses moving,” he yelled. “We’ve got to get clear of this madhouse.”
There were men—little men—in the shrubbery beside the road. Duffy looked more closely, and saw to his astonishment that they were dwarfs, carrying bows and dressed in little suits of chain mail. The blond rider saw them too, paled, and spurred his horse to flee; before he’d got ten yards, though, a dozen hard-driven arrows had found the gaps between his ribs and he rolled out of the saddle as his horse galloped on.
The wagons rattled along down the road, the fletching-feathered corpse rolled limply to a stop, and the dwarfs slung their bows and knelt with lowered heads as Yount’s hide shipment passed by.
The ranks of kneeling dwarfs stretched nearly a quarter of a mile, on both sides of the road. The Irishman slowly wiped his sword and sheathed it, but no one in the wagons spoke until the last dwarf had been five minutes passed.
“They... rescued you, didn’t they? The dwarfs?” Yount’s voice was thoughtful.
Duffy shrugged gloomily. “I don’t know. I guess they did.”
“I’ve carted hides through these woods for years,” Yount said. “I’ve seen bandits before. This is the first time I’ve seen dwarfs.”
“They bowed to him!” Ludvig called fearfully. “They knelt when he went by! He’s the king of the dwarfs!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, clerk,” Yount said irritably, “he’s taller than I am.”
Duffy sat down on one of the bales, discouraged by these new developments. I hate times, he thought, when it seems like there’s a... worldwide brotherhood whose one goal is to kill Brian Duffy. That’s the kind of thing which, true or not, it’s madness to believe. And even weirder is the brotherhood that seems to be dedicated to helping me. Why, for instance, did Giacomo Gritti save my life in Venice last week? Why did all the monsters in the Julian Alps get together to guide me through the pass? And now why did these dwarfs—famous for their sullen, secretive ways—turn out in droves and kill my attackers?
“I won’t ride with him.” Ludvig was in tears. “I’m a devout man, and I won’t travel with a king of dwarfs and mountain devils.”
Hmm, the Irishman thought uneasily—how did he hear of my Alpine guides?
“Shut up,” barked Yount, his voice harsh with uncertainty. “We’ll be in Vienna tomorrow afternoon, if we hurry. Whatever you are, stranger, I said you could ride with us, and I won’t turn you out now, especially after you saved us from those highwaymen.”
“Then turn me out,” Ludvig said. “Stop the wagons and let me get my stuff.”
Yount waved at him impatiently. “Shut up and keep still.”
“I’m not joking,” the clerk said. “Stop the wagons or I’ll jump out while they’re moving.”
Duffy stood up. “Yes, Yount, you’d better put on the brakes. I’ll walk from here. I don’t want to deprive you of your clerk—he’d die for sure out here alone.”
The old hides trader looked doubtful; clearly he’d be happy to be rid of the upsetting Irishman, but didn’t want to violate travellers’ countesy. “You’re sure you want to leave us?” he asked. “I won’t force you off, even to save poor idiot Ludvig.”
“I’m sure. I’ll do fine out here. If I get in any trouble I’ll just whistle up some dwarfs.”
The wagons squeaked and lurched to a halt as Duffy shouldered on his knapsack, bundled up his fur cloak and swung to the ground. Yount’s sons sadly waved farewell—clearly they’d found him much more interesting a companion than the pious clerk. Duffy waved, and the wagons strained and heaved into motion again.
The Irishman cursed wearily and sat down under a tree to have a gulp or two of wine, for it had been an exhausting morning. I suppose, he told himself, savoring the lukewarm and now somewhat vinegary chianti, I could somehow have avoided this maroonment; turned on old Ludvig and hissed, If you don’t shut up and let me ride along, I’ll have my good pal Satan chase you from here to Gibraltar. Ho ho. Duffy cut himself chunks of cheese, salami, onion and bread, and washed it all down with some more of the wine. Then he rubbed a split garlic clove around the cut in his nose, to keep it from mortifying.