“Draw your sword when they jump us, and spur your horse so we jump forward past that limb as they drop from it. Then we’ll turn and cut them down. Remember, we need one for questioning.”
“Kill, not stun?” Dirk frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you. How many of them are there?”
“Eight.”
“Can’t you put them to sleep?”
“Too much adrenaline. Yes, by all means, wound if you can, but don’t pull your strokes—there’s too great a chance you’ll wind up dead. Ready, now?” He forced a laugh. Dirk joined in. They rode under the bough, laughing; then Dirk said, “Remember the one about…”
Gar drew his sword, Dirk was only a split second behind him. Then the Hawk squad burst from the trees, screaming like birds of prey.
Dirk and Gar yelled and spurred their horses. Dirk’s beast stumbled as a heavy weight struck its rump; two bodies thumped onto the ground behind. Dirk and Gar pulled back on the reins, and their mounts reared, screaming and turning. The Hawks scrambled to their feet and jumped out of the way, but not quickly enough; the horses landed, striking glancing blows to two heads. Soldiers came riding; Dirk caught a sword thrust on his buckler, chopped through a lance shaft on his right, kicked the swordsman in the jaw, then stabbed down at the lancer. The Hawk swerved his horse out of the way, though, and another thrust his spear, scoring Dirk’s arm and stabbing deep into his saddle. Dirk shouted in anger as pain flared, but struck down. The saddle held the lance a second too long, and his sword chopped the shaft. The lancer went stumbling backward, tripped over a fallen comrade, and fell.
The comrade had fallen because Gar had seen him coming. The big man had leaned aside from the sword thrust and clouted the man in the jaw with the knuckle-guard of his own weapon. The man dropped in satisfactory style, and Gar decided he rather liked the effect. He turned, swinging his buckler arm to knock a lance aside, then brought his sword over to stab. The lancer danced away from it, then darted in, lance thrusting. Gar leaned back to let the lancehead pass, then leaned in to swing the buckler, clouting the man on the side of the head. He dropped like a stone, too, off his horse and stretched out.
Dirk whirled to take a sword thrust on his buckler, then stabbed overhand into the man’s shoulder. The soldier fell back with a howl of pain.
A bellow of anger erupted, and Dirk turned to see that the lancer had caught up his fallen comrade’s weapon and scrambled to his feet. He charged, lance leveled at the chest of Dirk’s horse.
A lance came stabbing at Gar, too, and he chopped off its head. The resourceful lancer turned and jabbed the shaft under Gar’s bottom, then heaved. Gar bellowed in anger as he went over. He fell, but rolled quickly, and two lances stabbed the ground where he’d been. He leaped up and thrust at the nearest man’s thigh; the rider fell off his horse with a howl, and Gar dove out of the way of thundering hooves, rolling again, then shoved himself up just in time to meet the second lancer’s charge. He caught the weapon on his buckler, then sprang high, slamming his knuckleguard into the man’s jaw. The lancer’s eyes rolled up; he fell.
Dirk pivoted his mount aside and swung a light, bouncing stroke as the charging lancer thundered past. The man screamed as a bright line of blood streaked the backs of his shoulders.
But Dirk had turned his horse completely in the maneuver, and saw two more troopers charging from the trees beside the road. He danced his mount aside and thrust, stabbing one in the thigh. The man fell, bellowing in pain. His mate reared his horse, turning with a snarl, and struck.
Dirk had leaned too low, was too slow rising. He chopped frantically; the lancehead flew, but the shaft struck his ribs, knocking the breath out of him. He ground his teeth and counterthrust. The lancer screamed, reeling in his saddle and clutching his shoulder; scarlet spread over his fingers.
Gar spun on general principles, and saw, the principal soldier, or at least the sergeant, swinging his sword up for a slash. Gar stepped in, parrying, and exchanged a mad few strokes before he caught the man’s belt, yanked him off his horse, and swung the buckler cracking into the side of the man’s head. The sergeant blundered forward a step or two; Gar obligingly stepped aside to let him fall.
Dirk shoved himself upright, trying to ignore the ache in his side, looking about in quick glances—but all the Hawk horses were galloping away down the forest road, and the only one standing was Gar’s horse, who stood trembling at the side of the road. The giant himself stood on the ground, feet spread wide, two rivulets of blood running down his face and his arm, dripping sword in hand, grinning like a gargoyle.
Well, there was also one last, poor lancer who took one appalled look at his seven fallen comrades, then took off galloping for the trees.
Without an instant’s hesitation, Gar threw his sword after the man. It went spinning through the air until the hilt cracked down on the trooper’s head. His horse kept going another pace or two before he fell. The sword landed quivering in the ground.
“Nice throw.” Dirk rode over, yanked the sword out of the ground, and brought it back to Gar. “How did you know it wasn’t going to hit him point first?”
“Practice,” Gar assured him.
Dirk nodded, wondering exactly what kind of practice his big friend had in mind. He had a brief mental vision of Gar standing perfectly still, with various swords, daggers, poniards, and broken bottles leaping from the ground in front of him and sailing toward a target fifty feet away, each striking the bull’s eye, then leaping back out just in time for the next one to land. He shook his head to clear the image and turned to look around him instead. “Eleven men down and groaning. Why don’t I feel guilty?”
“Well,” Gar said thoughtfully, “it could be because they were trying to kill you—or it could be because they tried to kill our whole platoon.”
“Yeah, that might have something to do with it,” Dirk conceded. “Anyone dying?”
Gar shook his head. “Careless of us, that. While we were calling our shots to keep from killing them, they might have skewered us.”
“There wasn’t really time to be merciful,” Dirk admitted. “Getting to be too much of a habit, I suppose.”
“You’ll have to work on that,” Gar agreed.
“So what do we do with them?” Dirk demanded. “Just leave them here?”
“Have you a better place in mind?” Gar returned. “I do want a souvenir, though. Watch them and make sure none of them does anything foolish, like trying to throw a lance, will you?”
“Sure.” Dirk began a routine of scanning, turning his head slowly, but with quick glances at Gar. The big man walked over to the sergeant, checked to make sure he was unconscious, then heaved him up on one shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He brought the burden back to his own horse, slung him over the rump, tied hands and feet to keep him from slipping off, then mounted up. “All right. Back to the platoon, or what’s left of it.”
The sentry called, and Cort came hurrying over to see Gar and Dirk riding in. “At last! We thought the Hawks had ambushed you.”
“They did.” Gar nodded at his horse’s burden, awake and cursing now. “We brought one of them back for you. Don’t worry, the rest of his squad are hurt too badly to fight. Besides, their horses ran away.”
Cort stared at the sergeant, then nodded slowly. “All that from just the two of you, eh? Well, well!” He turned and started back toward the campfire. “Bring him over here.”
Gar followed, dismounted, and untied the man. As soon as one hand was free, the sergeant swung at him. Gar dodged easily. “That’s stupid. Your muscles are stiff from being bound. You couldn’t hit hard enough to do any damage, anyway.” But when he untied a foot, the man lashed out a kick that caught Gar in the jaw and sent him stumbling. When he came striding back, fighting down his temper, he saw Dirk and Sergeant Otto hauling the limp body down between them. “I decided he needed another nap,” Dirk explained.