Honor among thieves

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 like 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.