The powries swung and rushed right in, one thrusting a spear, the other stabbing with its own sword, a weapon of bronze.
Two quick, sharp raps turned both those weapons aside. The man retracted his blade to his right, spun it end over end suddenly, and it disappeared behind him.
The foolish dwarves kept coming.
Out from the left now stabbed the silvery sword, forward, a quick tap to the side to push the dwarf's sword wide, and then ferociously ahead to stab the powrie in the chest. The man came forward at the same time, turning at the last second so that the thrusting spear flashed past him. He caught that spear shaft in his right hand as he stepped closer to the dwarf, tearing free his sword from its falling comrade. Too close to use the weapon effectively, the man tossed the sword up into the air, and predictably, the powrie's eyes followed its ascent.
The man hit the powrie with three short left jabs-short but amazingly hard. The dwarf staggered back a step, dazed.
The man caught the sword as it fell, and his hand flashed out, smashing the snake pommel into the dwarf's face. He had to turn as another dwarf came at him; and as he did, he flipped the sword and stabbed straight behind him, plunging the magnificent blade through the stunned dwarf's chest so forcefully that its tip exploded right out through the creature's back.
The man let go of the hilt again, his hands moving in a side-to-side blur before him to confuse the next attacker. Somehow those flashing hands evaded the stabbing powrie sword. The man's right palm slapped the blade out to the dwarf's right, while the lightning-fast fighter brought his left hand under the dwarf's arm, backhanding it out even further. Suddenly he grabbed the dwarf's wrist and pulled it between them. His right hand bent the dwarf's wrist, overextending the ligaments and bringing a howl of pain. A sudden brutal jerk took the strength from the dwarf's fingers, and the man slid his hand down, pulling free the powrie's sword.
"You only get one chance," he said, throwing the dwarf's arm out wide, slapping him across the face with his left hand, then grabbing the powrie by the hair, and forcefully tugged it back.
The dwarf growled and started to punch, but his forward movement only served to present the man with a clear line to an exposed throat.
The sword slid in, turning the growl to a gurgle, and the man pushed on.
The dwarf wasn't punching anymore but was frozen in place, staring up at the morning sky, its arms out to the sides and twitching.
The man was gone, leaving the powrie's sword in place.
Another dwarf pursued, with several more circling as if to cut the man off, for it seemed as if their enemy were unarmed now.
The man remedied that as he came upon the dwarf he'd skewered with his sword. The man dove into a sidelong roll right over the dwarf, catching his sword's hilt. When he landed on his feet on the other side, with two powries rushing up in front of him, he had his sword in hand. He put it to sudden and devastating work, launching a series of short back-and-forth slashes, striking their weapons in succession. Somewhere in the side-to-side blur, he thrust out, once and then again, and one of the powries staggered back, bright blood erupting from its shoulder and chest.
Now the man's sword went into a tight circular motion around the remaining dwarf's sword. He had the dwarf watching the dazzling display: he knew from its spinning eyes.
A fatal mistake.
The sword then changed its angle, and, with a sudden shove and a cry that came from somewhere deep inside, the man threw the dwarf's weapon out wide and stiffened the fingers of his free hand as he stepped forward, thrusting that hand straight out, his fingers driving into the powrie's windpipe.
The dwarf shuddered and staggered back, all its body jerking in death spasms.
"Who shall be next?" the man asked, spinning and bringing his sword into a series of left and right diagonal cuts.
But none of the remaining dwarves wanted anything to do with him! They were off and running, scattering to every direction.
The man laughed and looked at the coach, where the Prince of Delaval was peeking out and slowly opening the door and where the unnerved driver was staring at him from above. "They always run when half are down," the man calmly explained. "If only they would play it out to the end, they might find me growing tired."
As he finished, he launched into a series of leaps, twisting and striking out with his sword, a barrage that would have likely taken down any ten enemies standing too near.
"Or perhaps not," the man said with a salute.
"Who are you?" Prince Yeslnik asked.
"My reputation has not preceded me? I am wounded."
"The Highwayman," Harkin said.
"Thank you for that," the man in black replied. "I would hate to think that all my hard work these past months has been for naught."
Prince Yeslnik slid out of the coach. "Your reputation does not do you justice, my friend."
"Why, thank you."
"You will be rewarded." Behind the prince, the Highwayman could see his female companion staring out at him from the coach, leaning toward him eagerly.
So predictable a reaction from these fair ladies of court.
"And pardoned," the excited prince went on, "for any crime of which you have been accused. You will live the life of a wealthy and free man, from one end of Honce to the other."
"As if that was yours to give," said the man. " 'Tis a big place."
"Then in Delaval Holding at least," Yeslnik said. "You may walk freely in Delaval."
"I have no desire to travel to Delaval."
"Well…"
"But a reward does sound fine, and so I will take it…now."
Yeslnik seemed unsettled, but he composed himself quickly and turned to the packs tied on the back of the coach.
"A hundred silver coins, then," Yeslnik offered.
"I prefer gold."
The prince glanced back at him, a momentary flash of anger betraying his true feelings. "Gold, then, a hundred pieces."
"Surely you have more than that. You did come to collect your uncle's taxes from Pryd Holding. You know-we both do-the burden Delaval places on the people of Pryd in exchange for keeping them free from the advances of Laird Ethelbert."
Prince Yeslnik stood up very straight. "Name your price then."
"Why, all of it, of course," the Highwayman said.
The prince looked shocked.
"You see, I lied when I told the powrie that it gave the wrong answer. I agree with it! Taking you hostage for ransom would be a terrible choice."
There was no missing the threat in those words, and Yeslnik's bluster seemed to melt away.
"All of it," the Highwayman repeated, "and be glad, stupid prince, that I have no need for human blood. My mask is black, you see."
He walked over past the prince and right up to the woman who was hanging half out of the coach. How her green eyes sparkled as he neared, and her breasts heaved with excitement.
He reached up as if to stroke her face.
And tore the bejeweled necklace from her neck. She gave a little shriek and lifted her hand over her tiny mouth, and her eyelids fluttered as if she would swoon.
"Surely a beauty as radiant as your own needs no baubles," he said sweetly.
She stammered and tittered, and the Highwayman glanced back at Prince Yeslnik, offering a look of pity.
"Such substance," he said as he turned back to Olym, masking his sarcasm beneath a voice that seemed husky with awe.
She sucked in her breath and brought her hand up before her mouth again; and this time, the Highwayman took a closer look at the shining emerald ring she wore. He took that hand in his own and kissed it.