by Billy Wong
He rushed the man on the right, knowing it was all or nothing. If he couldn't get past within a few seconds, the circle would close and he would be dead. He clutched his one-handed sword with both hands and swung with all the force he could muster. The man blocked the telegraphed blow with ease, but reeled slightly from the impact. Mark kept going, his body pressed against his enemy's for a split second while their swords locked between them. Then he bit the bandit.
The man stumbled aside, yelping in surprise while blood flowed from the tip of his nose. Mark broke into a sprint, praying he wouldn't recover quickly enough to cut him down as he passed. Seconds later, he looked back. He had put a couple yards between himself and the man he'd bitten, but many others seemed to be chasing him. Why did he have to be so unlucky? He had already seen eight bandits, and guessed there might be more. Just run, he told himself. As long as he outlasted the best of them... An arrow flew past his head from the side. He ducked instinctively, and another passed over his neck.
That made ten, for the arrows had been shot too close to one another to have come from the same person. But why were they so intent on catching him? He had a fair amount of coin on him, but wasn't dressed like the nobleman he was. Don't think, just run.
Unfortunately, though he was fairly fit, he doubted he could stay ahead of these experienced outdoorsmen for long. His fear grew, and so did a bitter sense of guilt. He realized how worried his family, especially his mother, must be for him, and how justified that fear turned out to be. It had been selfish of him to leave so hastily for the sake of his restless mind, and now he would pay the price.
Chapter 5
The sound of a heavy body crashing through the underbrush swept aside thoughts of tomorrow's race, and Ann turned just in time to face the man who burst from the bushes. He slammed into her, crushing the bundle of flowers she held against her chest, and they fell together in a tangle of limbs. Rolling clear, Ann saw he was in his early twenties, with a soft face and short brown hair. His build was unremarkable, if healthy enough.
He stumbled to his feet and tried to run past. She reached out, grabbing the back of his cloak, and turned him around. "Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, pulling his head down to bring them nose to nose. "You think you're just going to get away with ruining my wreath-to-be?"
"Let me go," he pleaded, "and get out of here! You don't know the danger you're in—they're coming!"
"Who's coming?"
He looked past her. "The bandits!"
Ann felt a rush of excitement. She hated robbers, and eagerly looked forward to crushing a band of the evil fiends. "Bandits, hmm? Can you fight?"
"Fight? There are far too many of them for us to take."
"So you say. Stay here then, if you're such a coward. I'll take care of this."
He stared at her, eyes wide and bewildered. "What do you plan to do, lady?"
She let go of him and smiled. "Let me worry about that. You just pick me some new flowers while you wait."
#
Ann walked into the forest in the direction from which the young man had come, and soon heard a large group approaching. She looked around, then dashed behind a rocky mound about twelve feet in height. The brigands came into view, varied in age and build but all with hard, dirty faces. Ann counted thirteen. A familiar joy rose in her at the prospect of such a challenge. Others might have thought her crazy for not being afraid, but so what if she was?
She picked two fist-sized stones off the ground and waited until most of the men had passed, then threw one at the last of them. The missile cracked against his skull and he flopped limply to the ground, bleeding from the ears. The man just in front of him turned, only to catch Ann's second stone in the eye. He too fell, conscious and screaming as he tried to hold together his crushed eye socket. Now the bandits knew they were under attack.
Ann drew her great two-handed sword, scooped up one more rock, and stepped out from behind the mound. "Run away," she said, "and you'll escape with your lives. Otherwise..." She raised her sword meaningfully.
The broad-shouldered, hooded man at the front of the pack turned towards her. "You and what army? Kill her." His voice sounded somewhat familiar, but she couldn't place it.
A tall brigand set an arrow to his longbow and aimed at Ann, who stood still, waiting. The arrow flew straight and true—and her sword flashed up, batting it aside. Three more men raised bows, but Ann's stone laid one out before he could draw back the string. Arrows flew, and this time Ann ducked behind the mound.
"After her!" the hooded brigand said.
The first man passed the mound, only to run into a horizontal cut and fall with his entrails spilling over his hands. A second man fared better, managing to block Ann's first downward slash. She kicked him in the side of the knee, dislocating the joint, and stabbed down through his body. A man appeared behind her, circling around the rock formation to flank her. She cut two fingers from a third attacker from the front, ducked a slash at the back of her head and drove her sword backwards into a large belly.
Ann felt something like a punch to the back of her right shoulder, where a sharp pain blossomed. She looked back and up to see an arrow high in her shoulder and an archer on top of the mound. Damn, she hadn't expected that. Taking a closer look, she realized it wouldn't have been a hard climb. The archer nocked another arrow, but Ann pulled a dagger from the sheath at her thigh and threw. The knife severed the bowstring and went on to bury itself in the man's throat.
The bandits swarmed around her now, four men in a semicircle trapping her against the mound. She rushed, lashing out in a great arc with her sword. One man fell, the top of his skull sheared away, and another staggered back clutching a scalp wound. As the dead man fell, Ann turned towards the mound and jumped to grab hold of a stone ledge eight feet up. With a colossal burst of strength she yanked herself up, blades clanging against the stone where her body had just hung.
Ann scrambled to the top of the mound, only to see three men aiming bows at her from the other side. One was the last archer she had knocked down with a stone. Behind her, the other three brigands still in fighting shape began to climb up after her. The hooded man was the first one up. Ann parried his longsword and shoved him away, knocking him back into his allies. She heard arrows whistle through the air and tried to spin aside, but one shaft caught her in the left buttock.
With a scowl, she turned towards the archers and leapt off the mound. Their arrows passed harmlessly above her as she fell into their ranks, sword cleaving down through one bow while its wielder backpedaled away. She rolled after him and came up slashing low, then high. He fell, gushing blood. The other two archers were farther away, and managed to shoot again as she charged them. She sliced one arrow out of the air; the other grazed a furrow along her side. As she ran one man through, lifting him off his feet, the other dropped his bow and ran.
By now the remaining bandits had gained the top of the mound, and Ann looked to see them staring in shock at their dead friends. One man threw a handaxe. She leaned back so that it passed over her shoulder. "Who are you?" he asked, voice small.
"Call me Lady Ann. Now, can I accept your surrender?"
The brigands shrank back, except for their hooded leader. "No one leave!" he roared. "I'll kill this bitch myself."
Ann waited for him to climb down. He strode forward calmly, gripping his slender longsword in both hands. Though plainly adorned, it looked exceptionally well-made. She wondered who he'd killed for it. He lunged, feinting at her face. She pretended to be fooled, flinching back only to parry his low thrust with such force that he stumbled to the side. Before he could bring his sword up again, Ann stepped in and kicked him in the stomach. He fell, but rolled away and came up fighting.
They exchanged slashes and thrusts, counters and parries, and Ann's surprise at his skill grew. He cut her on the upper arm, then over the ribs. What irritating speed, especially coupled with the blood loss slowing her down. But she managed to slash him on a hand and he hu
gged it close to his body, switching to a one-handed grip on his sword. Suddenly, he reached up and pulled back his hood.
It took a second for recognition to set in. Ann gaped in shock. "Sir Crawford?"
The gaunt-faced man smiled. The dueling champion of Arrith, Crawford was also a well-known associate of the duke and a respected officer in the army. And Ann had sparred with him before. "Looks like you'll be in some trouble soon."
For a moment, Ann frowned worriedly. Then a knowing smirk brightened her face. "Right. If you were on legitimate business here, why didn't you say anything? You recognized me."
"You've got some sense, for a girl who attacked thirteen men. But I always won our matches."
"Yeah, well... this isn't fucking sparring, and you won't win on touches."
Ann stepped forward, and they went at it again. Holding his sword in one hand, Crawford could barely keep his grip as he parried her heavier blade. Soon he was panting, his movements clumsy and desperate. He began to retreat and, mocking his lack of endurance, Ann followed him.
Something grabbed her legs. One of the archers, bleeding profusely from a gut wound but not quite dead. She stabbed down, piercing the base of his neck. But before she could free her blade, Crawford lunged and rammed his sword into her side. A triumphant grin stretched across his face.
"You never could beat me."
He tried to pull his sword out, but Ann grabbed it, trapping the blade inside her body. "Like I said, a touch won't win this." Her sword came up, shearing through Crawford's raised arm and into his neck. Spurting blood from both wounds, he fell away with hardly a sound.
Ann pulled the sword from her body and pressed a hand against the gushing wound. Bent with pain, she looked around. Of her opponents, only the dead and unconscious remained in sight. She considered killing the living men, but chose not to while they were helpless. If they really were bandits, they probably wouldn't try their luck against her again. And if they were hired men, well... killing a few more wouldn't make much difference.
Taking a deep breath, Ann ripped away a piece of her dress and stuffed it into her wound. She did not taste blood in her mouth, which was a good sign. But the pain was great, and as she tried to walk away her strength gave out and she fell to her hands and knees. Her head spun, and she felt the urge to lie down and rest. She considered calling for help, but decided against it. That stupid boy had probably run away, anyway. Setting her sword against the ground and gripping the crossguard, she pulled herself up and limped towards where she had left him.
#
Mark shook where he crouched behind the great fallen tree, listening for his pursuers. He had waited on the road as the round-faced blonde with the sugary voice and big sword instructed for a while, but fled for his life when he heard her scream. From the male cries which had preceded hers, he gathered she had taken quite a few of her opponents with her. He felt a pang of guilt that he had not been there to help, but it was a foolish thought. One more blade would hardly have mattered against thirteen. Why had she gone? He wanted to turn back and help her, but knew it was too late.
He had run as long as he could, but now his body needed a breather. His legs almost felt up to running again, but such fatigue assailed him... He promised himself he would get up once he heard something. Fallen branches cracked nearby, and Mark sucked in a deep breath. He got his feet under himself and stood, but when he tried to break into a run a cramp seized his leg. He stumbled on, knowing he would never make it.
A few steps later, he heard the energetic female voice say, "Slow down. They're gone."
The warrior girl walked unhurriedly into view, covered in blood. The left side of her shredded dress was practically soaked with it. She was even younger than Mark had realized, perhaps seventeen. He felt a sudden surge of rage at the evil men who had injured her, but concern soon displaced it.
"What happened?" he asked. "Are you badly hurt?"
Despite her obvious wounds, she carried herself with an effortless confidence that made it easy to believe her. "Nothing you should worry about."
"What about the bandits?"
"Most of them are dead; the rest ran. But I've got to ask you, were they really bandits?"
He frowned. "Why do you ask?"
"I knew one of them."
"They were thieves."
Their eyes met, and the girl nodded. "All right. I never liked him anyway. Where are you going?"
"Perfia City."
"I'll walk with you. I live there."
"Thank you for helping me. But why'd you do it?"
"No big deal. I hate the thought of murderous thugs roaming freely on my road. That, and I wanted to see if I could take them."
"You were amazing."
"Eh? How can you say that?" She gave him a dubious look. "You weren't even there to see me fight."
"Well, you beat thirteen men. I thought that only happened in legends."
"Thirteen unskilled thugs?" She grinned. "An unlucky number for them. I'd disgrace my heritage if I couldn't even handle that... By the way, you failed the test. You were supposed to come running back to help me."
"What? I thought you said-"
"I'm kidding! I told you I'd take care of it, and I did."
Mark stared. The girl had saved his life and offered him further help with no complaint at the wounds she'd received, but she seemed just a bit crazy. Still, she was more than a runaway like him could have hoped for.
"Okay, let's go to the city. Name's Mark, by the way."
"Ann."
A few minutes later, she fell behind and Mark heard a thump behind him. He turned to see Ann on the ground, struggling to pull open a tear in her dress to inspect her side. As he walked closer, he noticed that her hands were covered in blood.
"I'm all right," she said weakly, her face pale. "The plug came loose, that's all. I just need a moment to fix it."
He knelt beside her to examine the wound. The slit was wide and deep, clearly made by a sword. She had lost a great deal of blood, and still bled. With shaking hands, Ann retrieved a damp wad of cloth from somewhere inside her dress and stuffed it back into the wound. The guilt Mark had felt when he thought she'd died for him came rushing back.
"That looks really nasty..." He began to shudder with panic.
She grabbed his shoulder and shook him, fingertips digging into him like steel claws. "Relax, fuck it. I'm not hurt that bad." She started effortfully to rise, grimacing in pain.
Mark tucked his arms beneath her and lifted, scooping her up. Though well-built, Ann was short and thus surprisingly light for such a mighty warrioress. "Hey!" she protected. "I told you, I'm fine!"
He looked down at her and smiled. "I know. But let me help you, in return for saving my life."
"If I was to demand repayment for saving you, I would ask for a lot more than just to carry me. But I didn't."
"Then just let me help you because I want to."
"Humph. Fine. But you better put me down before we reach the castle. I'm not going to be disgraced by needing a man to carry me, just because of a little pinprick like this."
"All right."
"I don't suppose you remembered to pick new flowers for me either, did you?"
"No. Sorry."
"Ah, well. I'll just buy some flowers from the market. I doubt he'll know the difference."
#
Mark walked on, fearing that Ann would die in his arms, but she continued to chat as if her deep wound were truly nothing. She was a very animate talker, constantly moving her hands even in his arms.
"So you're a soldier?" he asked in response to a story she told about tricking a comrade into latrine duty. "What rank?"
"No rank. I'm just fodder."
He laughed. "Fodder? I would have thought you a general, from your fighting ability."
"Being an officer isn't about skill in personal combat." Her voice grew low and dramatic. "I hear I'm too reckless to hold down a command, and lacking the necessary patience and foresight."
"I'm a soldier too, sort of. I haven't fought in any wars, but I'm a member of the local militia where I live."
"And that's where?"
"The port of Julpy, west of here."
Ann's eyes turned curious. "You're a foreigner, huh? That's pretty far away. What are you doing here?"
"I'm looking for my mother—following her, really."
"What, did your father send you to chase her down?"
"No. My birth father's dead, and my adoptive one didn't want me to leave. What about you?"
"I live with my father and brother. My mother died giving birth to me. My father married my aunt soon after—she gives me fits trying to convince me to give up my swordsmanship!"
"I don't think you should. You're good at it, and it's a waste to neglect a talent."
"That, and it's fun to beat on thugs. Here," Ann said as the forest around the road was replaced by fields of wheat and rye. "Put me down."
"Are you sure?" Mark asked. "You got stabbed, for heaven's sake." But she glared at him, and he set her on her feet.
She stood swaying for a moment, steadied herself and began walking stiffly forward. "See? I'm fine."
It was evening by the time they came into view of the main town, and Mark felt surprised by the humble appearance of even the capital of the highland kingdom. The buildings were all squat and low to the ground, and most built of wood. The largest he could see besides the castle was a long cabin with the holy branch of Ledina painted above the door; he assumed this to be a temple. There was more grandeur to be found in the average city of Mark's homeland.
What would the ruling class of Perfia be like? Mark imagined that they too might be more down-to-earth than most of Widalia's nobility.
The town sat on a slope, and at the top the castle loomed. Though relatively massive, it looked dull and weathered, with little in the way of fancy architecture. But its walls were high, its battlements strong and well manned, and its moat wide. If nothing else, it made a formidable fortress.
