“What?”
“Have you got your sword?”
* * *
“Hail!”
The procession came to a halt as Raven and Conall stepped out onto the road. Four pairs of eyes regarded them with deep suspicion. The fifth, belonging to the woman in chains, stared at them with silent pleading.
One of the men reached for the sword at his back, but one of the others – who Raven immediately thought of as their leader – stopped him with a gesture. “Easy, Ragnar, stay your hand.”
“Valdyr’s beard! Are we sparing bandits now?” Ragnar growled, his arm still raised.
“And what bandits would simply walk up and introduce themselves? Not that these have yet done so.” The leader’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? Speak quickly.”
“Simple travellers, like yourselves,” Raven said. “Our camp lies yonder. We heard voices and thought to investigate.”
“Do you always waylay others upon the road?” the leader asked, with a wry smile. “That seems a good way to wind up with a blade in your gut.” His eyes travelled lasciviously down the length of her body. “Or elsewhere.”
His gaze made Raven’s skin crawl. Suppressing her disgust, she shook her head. “Not usually, but the night is cold. We have a fire, if you wish to rest your feet a while, and some bread and ale left if you’re hungry. We know full well how far it is to the next inn.”
At the mention of food, the men behind the leader looked around at each other, temptation writ large in their faces. Their disappointment was clear when the figure at their head said, “Nay. It’s a kind offer, to be sure, but we have urgent business at Strathearn and cannot tarry.”
“Strathearn?” Raven said, feigning surprise. “Why, we left there only this morning.”
“Aye?” That piqued the leader’s interest. “Any news from the city?”
“Nothing good. The duke’s heir lies gravely ill. When I saw him, it seemed that he was not long for this world.”
“Saw him?” the leader echoed, frowning. “You had business at the castle?”
Raven glanced at the road behind and then in front, before leaning forward conspiratorially. “The duke sent us to hunt down the witch that cursed his son.”
“Did he now?” A slow grin spread across the leader’s face. There was the flash of gold in the torchlight. He turned and glanced at the others. “Sounds like the old man’s getting desperate.” There was a chorus of low chuckles.
Turning back to Raven, he said, “In that case, I wish you luck. You’ll need it, as we’ve caught the last witch within twenty miles of this place.” On cue, the man holding the length of chain gave it a sharp pull. With a startled cry, the woman fell to her knees.
“You caught her?” Conall took a step forward into the torchlight, and made a show of peering at their captive. “If you intend to present that one to the duke, then I fear it is you who is in greater need of luck.”
The grin drained from the leader’s face, replaced by a look of naked hostility. “What are you talking about, boy? Explain yourself!”
“The castle’s gibbets are filled with the corpses of those who wasted the duke’s time,” Conall replied. “And that poor woman you captured looks nothing like the crone who appeared at his banquet.”
“One witch is as good as another,” Ragnar grumbled.
The leader raised a hand to silence his comrade. “What do you know about it, pup?”
A sly smile came to the young noble’s lips. “Well, for one thing, I was there.”
The leader’s scowled and stared harder at Conall, properly taking in his face and clothes for the first time. “I did see you at the castle,” he said at last. “Skulking around at the back of the hall when we were speaking to the duke.” He laughed, a short bark that contained more surprise than amusement. “The other son, I take it? Well I never. Bow your heads, lads,” he called to those behind. “We’re in the presence of nobility.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Conall said, though none had moved. “Now, if you value your lives, I suggest you release this woman and go off again in search of the crone my father seeks.”
Another round of laughter greeted this suggestion. “Very kind of your lordship, to be so concerned about the health of a bunch of scallywags like us,” the leader said, grinning once more. “But if it’s all the same to you, we’ll take our chances.”
He raised a hand, signalling the others to move off, but Conall barred their way and shook his head. “We can’t let you take her.”
The leader sighed resignedly. “Fair’s fair, boy, you’ve given us a laugh on a dark night, and we’re grateful for that. But this here is our bounty and she’s going to the duke. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I’d prefer the easy way, where you bugger off back to whatever hole you crawled out from and let us pass.”
Raven held the leader’s gaze. “And the hard way?”
There came the ominous whisper of steel on leather as weapons were drawn from their sheaths. Ragnar bared his teeth in a gruesome parody of a grin. “I like the hard way,” he said.
“Fair enough.” Raven’s hands dropped to her belt, drawing forth her blade, a black-handled sword a hand’s length shorter than those wielded by the witch-hunters, and the dagger that never left her side.
Despite the callous brutality of their trade, these were no dull-witted thugs. Well-accustomed to violence, witch-hunters (or at least the successful ones) were also possessed of a devious cunning, deceit coming as naturally to them as drawing breath. Even as Raven pulled her weapons free, they were already charging. Brandishing a fearsome double-bladed war-axe, Ragnar let out a blood-curdling roar as he came on.
Instinct took over Raven’s movements. She ducked easily underneath the leader’s sword, feeling the air move as the vicious swing passed through the point where her neck had been a heartbeat before. As she straightened, she barged her shoulder into his side. Despite the difference in their size and weight, the witch-hunter was off-balance and toppled to the ground with a despairing cry.
Before he could rise, Raven flexed the hand holding the dagger, then straightened it like she was cracking a whip. The blade flashed through the air, spinning end over end towards the two figures bearing down on her. With a grisly thump it buried itself nearly to the hilt in Ragnar’s leg, just above the knee. The burly northerner crumpled instantly, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, turning the air blue as he fell with a flood of shrieked obscenities.
Two left. No sooner had the thought arrived than the third witch-hunter did likewise. A longsword slashed at her face, and she was barely able to bring her own blade up in time to parry it. As she deflected her opponent’s sword to one side he swung a fist, catching her on the side of the head with a heavy blow.
Raven stumbled as the world around her juddered and shook, the ringing in her ear drowning out all other sound. Through her blurred vision she saw the witch-hunter raise his sword high, readying himself to bring it down on her head. In desperation she lashed out a foot. It was a savage kick, containing all her remaining strength, and connected with his knee-cap with a grisly crunch. His mouth flew open in pain, but his scream was muffled by the ringing filling her head. She felt, rather than heard, the dull thud as he landed in the dirt of the road.
Raven glanced up and saw the last witch-hunter standing stock-still, his mouth agape, apparently unable to decide between helping his fellows and keeping hold of their captive. At her feet, the two she’d struck down rolled on the ground, clutching their wounds and hurling vile insults in her direction.
A momentary respite.
The ringing noise faded at last, and a startled cry made her turn. She saw the lead witch-hunter, now back on his feet, dash Conall to the ground with a perfunctory backhand slap. The boy went sprawling, his sword flying from his hand. As the leader took a step toward him, his blade drawn back and ready to lunge forward, Conall scrambled away.
Their eyes met for just a moment. The young noble gave an ap
ologetic look, then jumped to his feet and hared away into the forest. Raven watched him go, a heavy weight in her chest. He’d stood at her side despite knowing it would likely end in violence, which is more than most of the wealthy folk she’d met would have done, let alone one as callow and inexperienced in the ways of the world. No doubt he’d trained with weapons at the castle, but the grizzled witch-hunters were a different proposition to the target dummies and sparring partners he’d faced before. Truly, she didn’t blame him.
But the timing was unfortunate.
The leader whirled around to face her, his face split by a triumphant grin. Again she caught the glitter of gold in the flickering light from the torches the witch-hunters had dropped as they charged into the fray.
“Should’ve picked your friends more carefully, sweetheart,” he said, unable to keep the gloating from his voice. “Can’t blame the lad, though. Smart head he’s got on those shoulders. Might even keep it there a while longer.”
Raven breathed heavily, her chest working like a blacksmith’s bellows. Truthfully she was barely winded, but it never hurt to lull your enemy into believing they had an advantage that didn’t, in fact, exist. “Last chance,” she panted. “Let her go, or I’ll make you regret it.”
The leader’s grin faltered, but only for a moment. His eyes flicked towards his comrades, two of which still lay on the ground, nursing their injuries. “Seems to me the odds of two against one are the same as two against four. What makes you think my answer will be any different?”
Raven shrugged. “Everyone deserves a second chance.”
The leader chuckled and brandished his sword once more. This time, though, he began to circle slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. He’s learned something, at least, she thought.
He tried a couple of experimental lunges, darting quickly forward with blade outstretched, before retreating just as fast. Each time she brought her own weapon up to parry. The sound of steel striking steel rang urgently through the night air.
“You’re good,” he said. “How come I’ve not heard of you?”
“I-” Raven began. But it was a ruse. Even as she opened her mouth to speak, the leader darted forward once more. She deflected the tip of his sword away as it licked out towards her, but this time he’d been expecting it, using the momentum to pirouette and swing his weapon around at head-height.
Raven ducked under the blow, this time landing a fist in the leader’s midriff as she did so. She was rewarded with a gratifying oof as the air was expelled from his lungs, but her victory was short-lived. He staggered back beyond the range of her sword, then flew at her again.
Their battle began in earnest. She was disappointed, but not surprised, to discover the witch-hunter’s leader was an adept swordsman. Those of his profession were bullies and pragmatic to the point of amorality, but they were also accustomed to violence. While defenceless women were their favoured quarry, in leaner times any bounty would do and they’d just as happily take on a camp of brigands if there was a pouch of coins on offer.
But for all his bluster and bravado, he’d been right about one thing. She was good. If you spent your life on the road and shunned the company of others, then you got good, fast, or you died. And in achieving the former she’d staved off the latter, for six years now and counting.
But was she good enough?
Their weapons were a blur as they swung and parried, lashing out high and low as they sought to find a gap in the other’s defences. So far, neither had been successful. The air was filled with their grunts and the clash of steel, and rather than tiring they seemed to be building to a dizzying crescendo. Raven, so used to being underestimated by dint of her small build, youth and sex, grew worried that perhaps she’d been guilty of doing the same. To look at, the witch-hunter’s leader was a coarse brute, with straggled, greasy hair, thick features and unkempt beard, but he fought with more finesse than his bulky frame suggested.
Just then, her eyes fixed onto something beyond his shoulder and she smiled with relief. The leader’s head turned; just a fraction, but it was enough. Seizing the chance, Raven swung her sword down at his arm in a savage chop, slicing through his vambrace and burying the blade deep in his wrist. He let out a piercing shriek and dropped his sword like a burning coal.
Had Raven not hesitated then, faced with an unarmed foe glaring at her with murderous rage, it might have ended there.
But rather than strike the leader down, she levelled her sword at him and said, “Now let her-”
Before she could finish, she was grabbed roughly from behind. A pair of strong arms fastened across her chest, picked her up and hurled her to the ground.
She looked up and saw the fourth witch-hunter. He’d managed to drag the struggling woman along the road far enough to reach them. He still held the end of the chain in one hand, and an angry red welt blooming on the woman’s cheek revealed how he’d secured her cooperation.
Before she could rise, the leader stooped to retrieve his sword with his uninjured hand and levelled it at her throat. In the guttering torchlight, she saw his comrades, Ragnar and other whose knee she’d probably broken, clamber painfully to their feet and rejoin their leader.
“Now, what to do with you,” the leader mused.
Ragnar, who by now had pulled the dagger from his leg, hefted his axe meaningfully. “I’ve a few ideas,” he said.
“Now now, Ragnar,” the leader replied. “Let us think on it a moment. It strikes me that two bounties is twice as good as one.”
“The duke will never take her for a witch, said the one holding the chain. “He’s already met her. She’s travelled with his son.”
“Cast an enchantment on him, you mean?” The leader winced and grabbed at his wounded arm. “She fights like an enraged crag-cat as well, if there’s no black magic at work here then I’m the emperor’s shrivelled ballsack.”
The others nodded, seeing the sense in his words. “She said they’ve a camp near here. I say we go and see if they brought any rope to bind her with.” He leaned closer and leered. His breath was warm and reeked of rotting meat. “And mayhap we’ll let Ragnar try out a couple of those ideas of his before we get back on our way, eh lass? The less messy ones, leastways.”
Raven’s grip tightened on the grip of her sword. I can maybe take one of them, she thought, readying herself to strike. Just then another sound came echoing from the trees.
The pounding of hooves.
Raven watched, wide-eyed, as a dark-brown horse burst out from the wood, clearing the ridge in a single leap. Conall, clutching the reins in one hand and waving his sword around his head with the other, shouted a battle-cry and charged.
The four men had barely enough time to turn before Conall and his mount were upon them. The horse slammed into the leader without slowing, sending him flying into the darkness beyond the torchlight. The beast reared, its nostrils flared and the whites of its eyes showing. Conall swung the sword around, slashing Ragnar across the neck. A jet of crimson spurted from the wound, spraying both horse and rider, and the northerner went down a second time, gurgling incoherently and clutching at his throat.
This time, Raven didn’t hesitate. She lurched forward and slammed her sword’s pommel into the same knee she’d kicked earlier. The witch-hunter’s scream was deafening. As he fell she was already rising. Seeing her jump up to meet him, the fourth witch-hunter appeared to reach a sudden decision, dropped the chain he was holding and hared back down the road in the direction from which they’d come.
Conall dismounted and kicked the figure lying groaning in the road. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll follow him,” he said. The man nodded and climbed ponderously to his feet. Raven held her sword ready, but it was instantly clear he’d lost all appetite for battle. He limped away after his fleeing comrade and was soon swallowed by the darkness.
Raven glanced down at the other fallen figure. A large red puddle had pooled around Ragnar, whose face was pale and unmoving. Absently, she
kicked the axe away from his hand, but she already knew it was unnecessary.
Conall stared at him without pity. “What about the other one?” he asked.
Raven stared towards the thicket into which the leader had been catapulted. “Fled, I think.” She turned back to Conall. “Thanks for coming back.”
The young noble smiled. “Of course,” he said. “I couldn’t let you take on those swine alone. I just had to even up the odds a bit.” He looked up and took in her face for the first time since the fight had ended. Concern filled his eyes, and she wondered how bad it was. “Are you all right?” he said. “Did they-”
“I’m fine,” she said curtly, turning away. She pressed a hand to her face where the pain had receded to a dull throb, and it came away bloody. But not too much, a few nicks and scratches perhaps. Her ear still ached, though, from the punch she’d taken. I’ve had worse.
He looked as if he would say something further, but then the jangling of chains made them both turn. The woman the witch-hunters had captured was kneeling in the middle of the road, struggling to free herself from the shackles binding her wrists.
Raven went to her, Conall following close behind, and crouched down before her. There was no lock securing the chain, only a crude knot, and in only a few moments she’d worked it loose.
As the chain fell to the ground, the woman rubbed at her wrists and regarded them warily. “I’d thank you,” she said, speaking with the lilting accent of the lowlands. “But I heard what you said. You’re like them.” She spat the last word. “Witch-hunters. I take it I’m to be your bounty ‘stead of theirs?”
“No.” Raven stood and offered the woman her hand. Grudgingly, she took it and Raven hauled her to her feet. “We’re on the trail of one in particular, and we know it’s not you.” She regarded the woman silently for a moment. It was clear from the marks on her face her captors had not been kind. She stood shivering, her arms crossed over the front of a plain brown woollen dress, laced across the chest, of the type favoured by the common-folk. It was torn in several places. “Those men,” Raven said, frowning, “did they...”
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