The man grinned at her and circled; she turned on her heel, keeping the sword and the buckler up. He was tall, as tall as Rudi; lanky rather than leopard-graceful, but the crushing power of those long arms was a dreadful memory. He'd known what he was doing, too; if he hadn't been trying to subdue rather than kill she'd be dead or crippled or at least unconscious already.
Just a trace of a limp. And he doesn't look like there's any armor there, she thought.
He was wearing fringed leggings of mottled buckskin and a long woolen shirt covered in rondels of cloth sewn with images-a bow, a canoe, a horse, more-and a bearskin tunic over that. If he had a backpack or supplies, he'd cached them elsewhere.
"You are not like the women of the Prophet's men," he said.
The fighting-ax and bowie made precise, lazy circles to draw her eyes; she kept them on his, instead, and let the focus blur a little so that peripheral vision would be sharper. The white plumes of their breath puffed out into the chilly falling drizzle, slowing as they controlled the impulse to pant.
"They are sheep," he went on. "You are a she-wolf, like our Scout women, worthy of badges of merit of your own; I have followed you many days, and seen your skill. I will take you back to the Morrowlander camps northward, and you will bear strong cubs. The Prophet can go find comfort with his wooly ewes."
"Alae, nago nin, hwest yrch!" she said. "Oh, bite me, orc-breath!"
She was used to male admiration, but this was ridiculous. To herself she added: He didn't notice that there were two of us? Where is Mary?
"And-" the man began.
He attacked as his lips began to move, sweeping the hammer of his tomahawk towards her temple and flipping the bowie into a reverse grip so that the foot-long blade lay along his forearm, ready to block a cut.
Clung-tung!
Steel rang on steel as she swept the buckler around and up to knock the tomahawk aside. The impact nearly tore the little steel shield from her hand, and did send a jag of pain through her wrist and forearm, making her grit her teeth and work the fingers against the wooden grip to get the numbness out. The sheer strength was shocking, but Ritva was used to male warriors who were stronger than she was; men her height often had twenty pounds more muscle on their arms and shoulders. She wasn't used to fighting men that fast. She had to duck, because the deflection barely sent it over her head.
Ouch! she thought, and lunged, her right foot throwing up a ruck of forest duff as she extended.
The Scout was used to fighting with men who used shetes, point-heavy slashing blades with the balance thrown well forward of the hilt. He leapt backwards and landed with a grimace of surprise. A spreading red spot showed where she'd touched him, on the front of his wool shirt just above the solar plexus. She could see his eyes widen a little as he took in her sword and what it implied, thirty inches of double-edged steel starting at two thumbs' width and tapering to a murderous fang.
The shete hit hard, but once a blow was parried or missed its weight pinned the wielder's arm for an instant, and there was enough time for an agile man to get inside with shorter weapons. The Western longsword in Ritva's hand moved like light on sparkling water; it could drive at him like a spear, and cut anywhere along either side as quick as the flick of a beetle's wings.
Now he would fight to kill, for survival's sake.
"Lacho Calad!" she shrieked, and attacked. "Drego Morn!"
"Akela!" he shouted back, grinning.
Ting! The sword skidded off the blade of the bowie, and she jerked her torso back just enough that the tip of the knife scored the green leather over her mail-vest. Tack, and the return cut at the side of his leg was caught by the tough rawhide-bound ashwood shaft of the tomahawk; he tried to twist the sword out of her hand by turning the notched blade of the hand-ax against it. She leapt backwards, launching a frantic stop-thrust as her foot came down on a root…
In the end it came down to who slipped first. He skipped aside from a rush as she came in foot and hand behind the point of her sword, and the narrow head of the tomahawk came down on her left shoulder. It didn't cut through the light mail, or break the bone beneath-not quite. She gave a hiss as cold fire washed through that side of her body and the buckler slipped out of her fingers. Pivot, lunge -
Wet leaves skidded out from beneath one of the Scout's moccasins. He still fell backwards, but the point drove into his shoulder until it scored bone; she could feel the ugly jarring sensation up the blade and through the hilt. The fine steel bent and then came free again as she recovered. He threw the tomahawk, and won a few seconds when the top punched her ribs and she grunted with the impact. Then she lunged again, and the point sank four inches into his thigh.
That was enough. She recovered and retreated, right foot shuffling back to left and left moving back in turn, her mouth open as she brought her breathing back under control. Suddenly she was stiff and her legs wobbled, and she leaned forward a little to take the air in; her sight dimmed for an instant as the diamond clarity of life or death passed. Her enemy had a hand clamped to the leg wound, but blood welled around it, and the shoulder was bleeding too, and that arm was useless for now.
I'm not getting near him, he's too dangerous, she thought; her own left arm was still weak, and the shoulder was starting to really hurt where the ax had smashed flesh against bone. I'll wait until he bleeds out some more and weakens, then finish him.
The man saw it in her eyes, and nodded respect. Ritva raised her sword in salute.
"You fought well," she said, and in English. "Speak no ill of me to the Guardians; I'll make it quick."
He grinned, showing his strong yellow teeth; the face beneath the braids was turning a little gray.
"You let me live, I tell you about your sister," he said. "I give my word-honor of a Scout-I will not fight you or your people again. I go to place deep in woods, heal up."
Painfully, he brought three fingers to his brow in some sort of ritual gesture. She looked into the pain-glazed eyes and nodded.
"You're the one who's been dogging our tracks?" she said.
"You're good tracker, but I'm better!" he said, proudly boastful even then. "A Scout of thirty badges! I track you for the Prophet's men, with a priest."
"A priest?" she said.
"War-priest out of Corwin. High Seeker, they say." He spat aside. "Warlock, evil. We split up this morning when you two do-capture one, make her talk, he says. We know you all stop, make camp, hunt for food."
"Are the Cutters behind us?"
"Many days. Lost their horses, had to find more, not too many and not too good, pushed 'em too hard. Not used to nursing bad horses. We leave sign for them to follow. Go to your sister. Go now."
Ritva gave one crisp nod, toed the bowie knife over to where the man lay-he could cut bandages with that, enough to staunch the bleeding so he could get to wherever his gear was stowed-and ran.
Closer, she slowed, ghosting from tree to tree. If Mary was still up the tree watching, she'd…
Then she heard the scream. It came from the right place, and she slowed still further. Her left arm was still weak, too weak to use her bow.
Move swiftly, but don't dart; it draws the eye.
The rain had tapered off to a falling mist, but that cut visibility, too. A snort from a horse as it caught her familiar scent; their dappled Arabs were tied up to a line strung between two trees, but there was a third there-a strong nondescript brown beast, looking worn down as if by long hard riding. She ghosted closer…
Mary screamed again; she was up against the hundred-foot pine she'd been using as a blind, and a man in a robe the color of dried blood was holding her by the throat. Holding her off the ground, and squeezing, and her face was a mass of blood. The Dunedain longsword lay on the ground nearby, and a shete; they were both red, the sticky liquid turning thin and dripping away as rain washed the steel.