The Brunesman took a step back with one leg, and nearly toppled putting weight on the other. Seeing him off balance, Hewspear swung again-the Brunesman blocked it easily enough with the edge of his shield, but then Hewspear jerked his weapon back, hooking the shield edge with the lugs and pulling it back, and then thrusting forward, driving the point into the soldier’s stomach. I couldn’t see if it pierced the mail or not, but it doubled him over, and Hewspear finished him off with another downward stroke to the back of the neck and then began working on the lone Brunesman in tandem with the other Syldoon.
This played itself out everywhere I looked, advantages turning quickly for one small group or another, impossible to gauge who was actually winning the fight. A retreating Syldoon took a step back from a pair of advancing Brunesmen, ran into the stone wall, tried to slip away from it, and took a blade across the arm, right above the splinted vambrace. He screamed as blood covered the iron, dropped his sword, fended off two more blows as he turned and tried to get away from the wall and draw his suroka. Another blade struck him in the side, across the lamellar, doing little if any harm to him, but the next cut caught him across the back of the thigh. The Syldoon dropped to one knee, and I was sure he was dead. A Brunesman advanced, kicking the shield aside to deliver the fatal blow, and jerked back as the Syldoon drove his suroka up the inside of the hauberk, either into the soldier’s crotch or deep inner thigh.
The other Brunesman slashed twice across the Syldoon’s face and neck, felling him. But his comrade fell backwards on the grass, dropping his own sword as he clutched between his legs, trying to staunch the blood that was flowing far faster than I would have imagined possible. He was looking up at his comrade, leaning back on his shield, shaking his head over and over, and then Mulldoos came up behind the standing Brunesman, the wide blade of his falchion coming down hard. The Brunesman must have sensed him there or registered alarm on the other Brunesman’s face, as he tried turning, shield coming up, but it was far too late, as the falchion struck the soldier across the back of the neck. He would have been decapitated on the spot except the falchion hit some mail as well. The Brunesman fell, the gushing blood making the other man’s leg wound seem inconsequential.
Mulldoos took two more strides as the wounded soldier tried reaching for his sword, kicked the blade away, pressed the bottom edge of his shield on the Brunesman’s stomach, and then nearly cleaved his face in two with the falchion.
I turned away, feeling my gorge rise, and saw a Brunesman five paces away striding toward me, no doubt glad to see an unarmored opponent. I froze, nearly forgetting I was holding a crossbow before bringing it up fast and squeezing the long trigger. The bolt ricocheted off the top of his helm. The Brunesman shook it off, taking the last steps to finish me. I threw the crossbow at him as I reached for Lloi’s curved blade, missing the hilt on the first grab and only feeling my fingers close around it as I stared at the blade coming up from behind the shield. I knew I was dead for certain when the soldier stumbled and stopped.
Soffjian was suddenly there, her scale corselet blazing like fire, her cloak, hair, and the tassel of her weapon looking even more red than usual in the last day’s light, clouds roiling at her back. She was like some sublimely beautiful and horrible spirit the dying sun had set loose upon the world. The middle tine of her polearm was covered in blood, and as the Brunesman turned to face her, I saw a large blood spot in his lower back where the weapon had penetrated his gambeson.
He took a few steps toward her, moving slowly, but having forgotten about me completely. I considered running to get the crossbow back and reloading it, but having come so close to being cut down by the man, the urge to hurt him physically, personally, was stronger than any restraint or fear. For the first time in my life I felt rage-hot, coursing, powerful rage. I drew Lloi’s curved blade and started toward him, not sure what I meant to do, not caring.
Soffjian thrust several times in quick succession: high, low, a feint back high, low again. The Brunesman managed to block each one, if just barely, but she completely occupied his attention. So I took the sword in both hands and slashed across his back as hard as I could. It wasn’t a falchion, and I wasn’t Mulldoos, but Lloi’s blade cut through part of the filthy gambeson, tearing the weave and batting and leaving a gash across his back.
He screamed, wheeling around, and I saw over his shoulder that Soffjian was spinning to face another soldier, her hand splayed out as it had been in Alespell. She would be no more help.
The Brunesman had two wounds to the back, but neither incapacitated him. He came at me, shield up, sword hand hidden behind it, the blade angled over his shoulder. I swung at him wildly, the curved blade skidding off the surface of the shield, and started backing up, swinging again. He blocked the second blow easily and threw one of his own, his sword coming out fast, so fast. I managed to get Lloi’s blade in front of it, just barely, and felt the reverberations up my arm, stepping back quickly.
Realizing I didn’t pose much of a threat, the Brunesman came at me in a rush, not worrying overmuch about defense. He battered me with his shield, knocking me reeling into the wall behind me, the jutting stones digging into my back. The sword came down, and I managed to deflect it just enough with the curved blade and tried to move away, but he pinned me there with the shield, his face behind it, the nasal on his helm crooked, sweaty brown hair nearly in his eyes, lips curled away from teeth the color of ear wax. The face of my killer.
He pulled his sword arm back and thrust it forward. I managed to wriggle aside, but felt it slice into my side and yelped. He pushed harder with the shield as I started kicking and trying to shove him far enough off to escape or at least free Lloi’s sword.
The Brunesman’s arm went back again, but before he could drive it into me, his eyes went wide, and suddenly the point of Soffjian’s polearm burst out of his throat. I pushed away at the shield, now slack, trying to get away from him and the blood spraying out of him, and slipped to the side. He dropped his sword, fell to his knees, convulsed, and then Soffjian kicked him in the back as she wrenched her ranseur out of him and he fell forward, face smashing into the wall.
She stood there, a vision of sunset and death, and I shivered. I hadn’t even seen her come out of the forest. I didn’t remember her arriving on the scene at all. No doubt exactly as she intended.
Soffjian glanced at my side, and I looked down as well. There was some blood on my tunic, but not nearly so much as I imagined, and while the wound burned, my guts weren’t exactly spilling down my trousers.
“Look at you,” Soffjian said, lips almost caught smiling. “You have a lucky rib.” Then she turned and jogged off to another pocket of combat.
My hands were shaking as I slid Lloi’s sword in my belt and retrieved my crossbow, looking up repeatedly to be sure no one was moving in to kill me. Steadying myself as best I could and trying not to think about how close I’d come to being skewered, I fitted the bolt in the slot. I scanned the fighting around me, and that’s when I saw Captain Killcoin surrounded by three Brunesmen nearby, two with gambesons and swords and oval shields, the third as heavily armored as Gurdinn with the coat of plates over the mail, and various bits of steel or iron everywhere else. I thought it was Gurdinn, but he lacked the gray beard, and wielded a vicious-looking axe of some kind in both hands, the long crescent-shaped blade attached to the thick haft on two socketed spots, with a nasty point on top and a slightly curved point on the back end.