Honor among thieves abt-3

by David Chandler

  Croy walked his horse back and forth across the line. Serjeants with green and yellow ribbons on their helmets struck at their men and bellowed curses at them to make them form up properly. He pretended not to hear the complaints and protests. He nodded at each man who met his eye. Then he rode back to the head of the column and stood up in his stirrups. The serjeants bellowed for silence.

  Time to say something. Anything to give these men courage.

  “You are men of Skrae,” Croy told them, standing upright in his stirrups. “You fight under the Lady’s watchful gaze. She will not desert you now, when you need Her the most.”

  He expected a cheer, but received none. Frowning, he watched their faces, looking for any sign of enthusiasm. If only Malden were here, he thought. Malden had always been good with words. He’d probably know a few sneaky tricks to even the odds. And having a second Ancient Blade would make a big difference.

  Croy shook his head. “All right. You know what to do. Hold your lines. Stand your ground. If you get any chance to hurt a barbarian-any chance-hurt him grievously.”

  That actually got a faint chuckle out of the men. Croy wasn’t sure why-he hadn’t been trying to be funny.

  “Keep yourselves alive. Do not forget to parry and block their blows. I’m sure you’ll all do fine.”

  He sat back down in his saddle. Some of the serjeants turned to stare at him, as if to ask if he was really finished. If that was it.

  Croy raised a hand and dropped it. His one trumpeter blew an off-key fanfare, and then his handful of drummers started the march.

  Once on the road they made good time, though Croy did not push the pace. No need to tire his men when the enemy was coming straight at them. He led them north, following the dusty ribbon of the road as it wound through a series of small bogs. Trees lined the road on either side, their dead leaves fluttering down in front of Croy like a grim echo of rose petals strewn before a conquering hero. He brushed them away from his eye slits as they flapped against his helmet.

  The marching army made enough noise that he did not hear Morgain and her company until they were nearly face-to-face. He lifted his sword hand, fingers spread, and the drummers ceased their beating. His little army took their time stopping behind him, men colliding with each other and grumbling about it. In time they formed up and brought their weapons around.

  Morgain sat her horse wearing no armor, but a fur cloak. The paint on her face was freshly done and shockingly white. Behind her, scores of barbarians jogged on foot. According to the scouts, they had been running all morning, and would already be tired, ready to take a rest. That was something, at least.

  Morgain spat out a word Croy couldn’t make out. The barbarians stopped in mid-stride. They stopped as one, without a sound or wasted movement. Morgain’s eyes narrowed, making her face more skull-like than ever. She studied the army facing her but said nothing.

  There was no need to state the terms of their meeting. Everyone knew why they were there, and that this would be a battle to destruction. No parley was necessary, for there was nothing to bargain for, or with.

  Croy hesitated before he gave the order to charge, however. He had something he wanted to try first.

  “I understand,” he shouted, “that among your people, there is a law of champions. That when two clans meet in battle, their leaders may agree to single combat. A duel, to the death, between the best warriors from either side.”

  Morgain frowned and stroked the neck of her horse. “That is our way.”

  “Also, that when a champion loses such a contest, his clan must lay down their arms and surrender. They are bound by the terms of the duel.”

  “You know much of us.”

  Croy shrugged. “I knew your brother, once, in another time. I called him brother myself then, and listened when he spoke of your land and your people. I came to respect some of your traditions. Only some. But this one appeals to me. Dismount, and face me, one on one.”

  Morgain shook her head. “Both parties must agree. You cannot force my hand, Sir Croy.”

  Croy’s heart sank. It had been his best chance. “In my land, only a churl would call a woman a coward,” he tried.

  “In my land, no man would dare,” Morgain replied.

  “You have much to gain, milady. There are three of us for every one of your men.”

  “I came ready for more.”

  Croy bit his lip. “Very well, then. If a lady wishes for battle, a gentleman must oblige her. Let us waste no more time… Princess Morgain.”

  Morgain’s teeth gnashed under her painted lips and she tore Fangbreaker from its scabbard. She was half out of her saddle-and Croy was getting ready to charge her-when her eyes went wide and she began to laugh.

  “Very clever, Sir Croy!” she called. “But you cannot goad me to-”

  Croy snapped his fingers.

  He had spent enough time with Malden to have learned a little deceit.

  From either side of the road, hidden by the trees, a dozen archers let fly. Behind Morgain barbarians screamed and fell, their legs and arms and necks pierced by arrows. At that range, and with so many potential targets, even poorly trained archers couldn’t miss.

  “Charge them!” Croy shouted, and behind him his men started to run.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Morgain’s barbarians were distracted by the archers and turned toward the trees to find and slaughter them. Croy rushed his own soldiers into the middle of the barbarians, racing his horse directly into Morgain’s teeth to keep her from countering the advance. His men struck fast and hard, as if they knew they would have only a moment’s grace before the barbarians recovered enough to counter them.

  Bill hooks tore through stinking furs and the unwashed flesh beneath. Pikes impaled reavers whose backs were momentarily turned. For a moment the battle seemed already over, the men of Skrae making bloody inroads into the barbarian mass, striking down the bigger, better armed barbarians left and right.

  It could not last, of course. The barbarians knew how to fight, and how to stay alive. They whirled about with axes and crudely forged iron swords, hewing arms and heads from civilized bodies, bellowing like bulls in their fury.

  Croy’s serjeants screamed for his men to press the attack, to lose no momentum. Croy had no chance to see if they heeded the call. He was far too busy with Morgain.

  He drove his horse shoulder-to-shoulder with her mount and launched into a frenzied attack, trying to catch her off guard.

  Morgain just laughed.

  She fought like no man he’d ever met. She was so fast she made him dizzy. She had no shield, but needed none-Fangbreaker flashed even in the dull light, spinning around to catch Ghostcutter every time Croy thought he saw an opportunity for an attack. Her massive sword possessed a fine balance no modern sword-maker could match, not even a dwarf-heavy as it was, it seemed to float in her hand like a wand.

  Croy could barely lift his shield arm, but he had no choice but to use it to block as she recovered from his parry and took her own chances with sweeping strokes. Fangbreaker’s finely honed edge slashed deep cuts through his wooden shield, which was held together only by its iron rim.

  He could almost hear Bikker, his former instructor in the arts of swordplay, speaking in his ear, pointing out all the chances he missed, all the openings she left. Yet he could not seem to take advantage of these lapses lest he leave himself open. One good cut from Fangbreaker would shear through even his steel armor and leave him bleeding.

  Lift your shield arm, boy, Bikker shouted at him. Catch her point on your boss and swing-no, look out, parry-parry-parry!

  He could not strike her without taking a cut himself. Her speed made it impossible. And he was already wounded. Yet if he didn’t strike soon, or at least break contact with Morgain, he would be unable to command his men-unable to even look over and see how the battle fared.

  Fangbreaker crashed against his shield with a mighty blow that made the boards flex inside their rim. One more blow li
ke that would shatter it, he knew, and leave him defenseless.

  No more time, boy. No more time for playing games.

  With his wounded arm, Croy thrust forward with the ruined shield. Normally one blocked at an angle, so one’s opponent’s blade would slide off the shield and off to the left. This time Croy shoved the shield straight into Morgain’s attack.

  The point of Fangbreaker sank through the wood, barely slowed as it sent a blast of splinters to tumble across Croy’s breastplate. The sword kept coming straight at his heart, and clanged against his armor.

  Croy slipped his feet from his stirrups and then twisted sideways, his wounded arm wracked with pain as he forced his shoulder down, between the two horses. The animals shied apart as he fell toward the road surface, swinging his leg up and over his saddle.

  Morgain’s sword was trapped by the twisted iron rim of his shield. She had to either follow him down or let go of her blade. He prayed for the latter.

  She chose the former.

  Croy looked between the legs of the horses on his way down and saw something that revived much of his flagging strength. The men of Skrae were prevailing.

  The barbarians must never have recovered from their initial surprise. They had moved fiercely to attack, but as individuals-each man choosing a foe from among the attackers and concentrating all his strength on a single enemy. The men of Skrae, on the other hand, seemed to actually remember the little training he’d given them and fought together as units, flanking and mobbing the barbarians. There were three of them for every one of Morgain’s soldiers, and though any given barbarian might cut down two opponents, the third could still strike in return. The road was a heap of bleeding bodies, and most of them were dressed in fur.

  He started to call for his serjeants to press the attack, but the breath was knocked out of him as Morgain fell full on him, her death’s head face so close to his he could smell the paint she wore.

  “Ha!” she gasped. “Is this what you wanted all along? To bed me? You should have just asked!”

  He could not frame a proper reply. So instead he reared up and smashed his armored forehead into her nose. Bikker had taught him that move, too.

  Morgain rolled off of him and sat in the dust, wiping blood away from her upper lip. She looked stunned. Croy changed his grip on Ghostcutter’s hilt and readied himself for a swing.

  Before his arm could lift, however, Morgain’s eyes focused once more and with her free hand she punched him on the side of his head. His helmet rang like a bell and his head bounced around inside it. He felt like he’d been struck with a battering ram. His face flew sideways and for a moment he could see nothing but bursting light.

  Bikker shouted in his head. Get up, damn you. A man lying down is a dead man. The words sounded like they were being shouted through a pipe, but Croy forced himself to get one foot down on the ground and lever himself up onto one knee, using Ghostcutter as a crutch.

  When he could see again, Morgain had Fangbreaker free of his ruined shield and was lifting it high over her head for a killing stroke. Croy wasn’t sure he had the strength to block that cut-not against a sword so heavy.

  He never got to find out. As Morgain howled for his blood, an arrow pierced the bicep of her sword arm. The thin shaft seemed to appear out of nothingness, but it hit with enough force to knock her sideways. Her blow came down and cut deep into the road surface, missing Croy by a good foot.

  She hadn’t expected the swing to carry so far. She was off balance. Croy kicked her legs out from underneath her and scrambled to his own feet.

  “Serjeants! Form your men-let no barbarian live!” he shouted.

  The battle was nearly won. Only a few knots of reavers remained, fighting back-to-back now and holding the men of Skrae off as best they could. They could not hope to prevail for long against massed pikes. They might have been better fighters in every possible way, but they lacked the better weapons and better tactics of Skrae.

  Had Easthull been right? Croy wondered. Maybe this was exactly what the Baron had planned. A humiliating victory over one of Morg’s chief lieutenants, the very daughter of the Great Chieftain. If they carried this day, perhaps the clans would have no choice but to sue for peace “You will die!” Morgain shouted, jumping up behind him. “Even if my men perish here, you will not live to see it, Sir Croy!”

  Croy whirled around in a flawless arc, Ghostcutter’s point whistling through the air. Bikker would have been proud of his form, of his speed.

  It didn’t hurt that Morgain was bleeding copiously, or that the muscles of her sword arm had been injured. When Ghostcutter’s flat smacked against Fangbreaker with a resounding ring, Morgain’s sword jumped from her hand and spun in the air. She tried to dive for it, to catch it before it hit the ground.

  Croy could not allow that. He danced in through the follow-through of his strike and shoved Ghostcutter’s point into the hollow of Morgain’s throat. Just short of piercing her skin.

  “Ask for quarter now,” he told her, “and observe my mercy. You may have your life, if you surrender.”

  Morgain’s lips split in a defiant grin. Then she shoved two fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle so loud it made Croy wince backward and shut his eyes.

  When he could open them again, she had grabbed Fangbreaker and scuttled away from him. “You think I fear death?” she mocked. “Death is my mother!”

  Croy’s ears were still numb from her whistle. Yet he could distinctly hear something, a rumbling noise like an earthquake beginning. Soon he could make out individual voices in that roar-gibbering and wailing, and the chattering of teeth.

  Out of the trees a horde of berserkers came for him.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Spittle flecked their red-painted lips. They came running with blood in their eyes, flourishing axes high over their heads and biting their shields. Croy had seen them before, at the gate of Helstrow, but then he’d had a wall at his back and a gate to retreat behind. Now they surrounded him on all sides.

  The few of Morgain’s barbarians left on the road broke off from the combat and moved out of the road, making room for their reinforcements. The men of Skrae, perhaps heartened by their near victory, fell back into ragged formations, making tight squares bristling with pikestaffs. Not even a cavalry charge could break a properly formed pike square.

  The berserkers were beyond awareness of the danger. They threw themselves on the points of the pikes, impaling themselves even as they slashed at the long hafts with their axes. Pikes exploded in bursts of splinters and the squares began to fall apart. The berserkers, jabbed in a dozen places, their wounds running bright red, did not even slow down. When a pike square broke, the berserkers leapt into the gap, hewing left and right with no concern for their own safety.

  “Break and run!” Croy shouted. There was no cowardice in fleeing this madness. “Serjeants, disperse your men!”

  It made no difference. Croy’s men could not hear him over the roaring of the berserkers.

  He turned to see Morgain leaping onto the back of her horse.

  “They’ll slaughter friend and foe alike. Their fury can’t be quenched but by blood,” Morgain told him. “If you’re wise, you’ll do as I do.”

  Croy frowned at her. “You expect me to leave my men here to die?”

  “I hope you will,” she told him. A strange wistful look came into her eyes. “I’d like to see you again. At the point of my sword or-otherwise.” Then she laughed and kicked her horse into a gallop. In a moment she was gone around a bend of the road.

  Croy cursed in frustration and ran toward the fray. Ghostcutter tore through the spine of the first berserker he found, cutting the man’s back to ribbons. The berserker fell but his legs kept kicking at the dust as he tried to get up.

  Another man with a red-painted face howled at Croy and swung at him with his axe. The blow could have chopped down a tree, but it was ill-timed. Croy ducked underneath it and ran the easterner through the heart.

&
nbsp; The berserkers died like anyone else. They just took longer to realize what had happened. Croy laid low two more before he’d reached the first pike square. “You, men, get out of here,” he screamed at his own soldiers. “You only have one chance!”

  As the serjeant smote and bellowed at his men to obey their orders, one by one the men of Skrae broke for the trees. Many of them were caught by berserkers but a few escaped. Unfortunately that left Croy alone with a pair of berserkers who had no other target for their wrath.

  They moved fast, though not nearly with the speed of Morgain. Croy turned their headlong recklessness against them, tripping one as he stepped inside the reach of another. Ghostcutter rose and fell as he slew them. They made no attempt to parry. Croy paused only a moment to make sure they were dead and would not come biting at his ankles.

  Suddenly another berserker was right next to him. A wicked axe blade came down on the side of Croy’s helmet. It bounced off but it left his head ringing, and his helmet slid to the side so he could no longer see out of the eyeslits. Blind and deaf, Croy jabbed straight out with Ghostcutter and tore the helmet off with his free hand.

  Two more berserkers faced him. They were still ten yards away. More than enough time to think of how to dispatch them. Or just enough time to try to break up another doomed pike square. Croy sought the nearest group of his own soldiers — and found none.

  Maybe they’d been smart enough to break and run without waiting for his command. He saw mounds of bodies, though, and this time he recognized most of the dead faces. Nowhere on the road could he see men of Skrae still standing. What he did see was red-painted faces and rolling, bloodshot eyes.