Den of thieves

Chapter Eighty

Croy took a step forward and nearly collapsed. The wound in his side was deep and bleeding freely. The wound in his back had reopened, and though it was only oozing blood, the muscles there were painfully stiff and the wound sent jolts of agony through his body every time he moved.

He took another step. It cost him.

The five remaining guards watched him with awe. Two of them had dropped their polearms and looked ready to run away. The rest weren’t moving. Their captain kept glancing back at the villa, as if he expected reinforcements to arrive at any moment.

If they rushed him now, Croy knew he was doomed. He could not fend them all off, and Gurrh couldn’t help him. The ogre was wounded himself and kept blinking blood out of his eyes.

Croy took another step. Sometimes courage was what mattered, not the strength of your arm. He’d learned that lesson countless times. Courage.

Even if it was empty bravado.

There was an element of showmanship in swordfighting. Bikker had taught him that. A battle of arms was often really a battle of wills, and sometimes brag counted more than bravery. A man with a savage grin on his face could look more dangerous than one with a sword in his hand. He was wounded, exhausted, and ready to slump to his knees. If he showed any sign of weakness at this point-and Lady, how he wanted to just wipe his brow or take a deep breath-he would be finished, and the guards would fall on him in a pile. But if he could just put on a brave face and keep standing, just maybe he still had a chance.

He lifted his shortsword, which was clotted with gore. Brought it up as far as his arm could reach and clanged it against the side of his shield.

“Which of you is next?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse with fatigue but he could still shout.

The two guards who had already divested themselves of their weapons ran off across the grassy common, into the night. Another started shouting for the barrier to be lowered. He ran toward the gate of the villa, but when he passed through was caught up by the magical barrier and lifted into the air. He struggled in vain as his polearm was ripped out of his hands by invisible claws and thrown away.

“He’s bleeding,” the captain said, then wiped at his mouth with one hand. “He’s injured. Look at him! He can barely walk!”

The two remaining guards looked to each other. Then they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees. One of them started praying to the Lady for deliverance. The captain clouted him across the ear, and he fell over on his side.

“What’s wrong with you curs?” the captain demanded. “He’s just one man! I don’t care if he’s the king’s own champion, one man can’t stand against us all. Not if we fight together!” He grabbed at the arms of his charges, trying to drag them forward through sheer willpower.

Croy felt a burgeoning respect for the man grow in his breast. Had things been otherwise, if he had fought beside the captain on some battlefield, he might have called the fellow a hero. If he could avoid it, he very much wanted to keep this man alive, if only for the sake of honor.

But that meant convincing him to shirk his duty, now.

“They don’t want to die,” Croy said. He pointed his sword at the captain. “Do you? Do you feel such loyalty to the sorcerer that you’ll die for him?”

The captain tried to sneer. He failed. “I think I’m more than a match for one bleeding fool,” he said. But even he didn’t sound convinced.

Gurrh reached down and helped one of the kneeling guards to his feet. The man screamed and ran off. Apparently that didn’t violate the terms of the ogre’s curse. The other guard, the devout one, crawled away as if too terrified to run.

“Come no further, Sir Croy,” the captain said. He looked toward the villa, where the trapped guard still writhed in the grip of the magical barrier. “Bikker!” the captain shouted. “Bikker! You are needed!”

“Bikker’s a faithless coward,” Croy said. He took another step toward the captain. He lifted his sword and made his shield ring. “If he was going to help you, he would be here already.”

The captain brought his halberd up. Swung it around so the point faced Croy.

Croy stepped closer. Close enough. He brought the shortsword around in a wide arc. The forte of the blade caught the point of the halberd and knocked it away. The captain had no strength in his arms and couldn’t hold his weapon still. Its iron fittings rattled as it shook in his hands. That happened to men in the extremes of fear, Croy knew. Their muscles turned to water.

“Hold that thing properly,” Croy said to him. “There’s no honor in slaying a man who can’t fight back.”

The captain bit his lip and closed his eyes for a moment. “If you kill me, what do you gain? The barrier is still up. Even your fancy sword won’t bring it down.”

“No,” Croy said, “that’s true. But you can lower it with a gesture, can’t you?”

The captain stared.

“Lower the barrier,” Croy said, “and then walk away from here.”

“My lord and master has tasked me to stop you,” the captain said.

“I serve your true lord, the Burgrave. I do the Lady’s work here. In every man’s life a moment comes when he must choose to serve good, or to do evil. What choice will you make? What profit will evil bring you?”

The captain closed his eyes again. It would be effortless to step forward and strike him down, Croy thought. It would be the easiest thing in the world.

The captain raised his hands in the air. He made a complicated gesture with one hand bent in half, the fingers of the others splayed.

The night air on the common fluttered, as if a great flock of birds had all lifted into the air at the same time. The barrier was down. The guard who’d been trapped by it fell to the gravel with a thud and lay still.

“Thank you,” Croy said, turning to look the captain in the eye. But the man was already gone. His halberd lay abandoned on the grass.

Croy breathed deeply. He was badly hurt, and he knew it. But now the barrier was down. His path was clear.

“Hold,” Gurrh said. Croy whirled to face the ogre. It was a bad idea, as it aggravated his wounds. For a moment he could see only blood, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Into that place, goest thou must. But not yet,” Gurrh told him. The ogre had torn the tunic off one of the fallen guards. He ripped it into bandages and stanched Croy’s wounds. “Now, thou art ready.”

Croy grinned. There was less humor in his smile than he would have liked, but at least it didn’t hurt to move his mouth. “Thank you, Gurrh. You know what you must do now, don’t you?”

“I do,” the ogre said. He walked over to a point about twenty yards before the gate of the villa and sat down once more in the grass, to wait.

Croy strode up to the gate and hesitated only a moment before walking through. On the far side the gravel crunched under his boots. The main door of the villa stood before him. He started toward it, walking as fast as he could.

But of course he would not be allowed to enter the house, not yet.

Bikker was leaning against the side of the building. His arms were folded across his massive chest. Croy could see the cowl of a chain-mail hauberk emerging from inside his tunic. The big swordsman’s face glowed with ruddy health.

“Croy,” Bikker said, and stepped away from the wall. “Might I have a moment of your time?”