Daggers whipped up; the professionals caught the slashing swords on their knives, then slammed punches to the stomachs. Two of the citizens folded, but the staff-men waded in over them, and the third swordsman swung at Cort.
“Truce!” he shouted, even as he caught the man’s blade on his own. “I’ve called them off! Truce!”
The swordsman grinned, and Cort realized the man thought he had the soldiers on the run. “Footpad!” the civilian shouted, and swung again.
Cort parried with his own blade, suddenly afraid of these amateurs, even more afraid of the captain’s rage if he found they’d slain even one civilian, but most afraid of all that he might have to tell his hard-boiled fighting men to let themselves go.
“Put down your swords, and we’ll sheathe our daggers!” he cried. “We don’t want to hurt you!”
“Don’t want us to hurt you, you mean!” the swordsman called back, and thrust at him. Cort whirled aside, struck the blade down with his own, then kicked the man in the belly. He folded, but the girl’s escort had recovered, and leaped for Cort with his own sword out, shouting, “Bastard!”
Cort just barely caught the blade on his dagger, then lifted his sword to parry, ready to thrust if he had to, the command to unleash his human hounds on the tip of his tongue.
But a quarterstaff struck downward, knocking both blades aside, and a strongly accented voice rang in Cort’s ears, crying, “Put up your weapons! Soldiers and townsfolk both! Put up your weapons, or I’ll break them all, and you into the bargain!”
Whoever he was, he was already behind Cort. The officer spun and saw that quarterstaff whirling, then lashing out to crack against one of. the civilian’s staves and leaping back into its whirl. Another civilian reached up his staff with a shout; the stranger struck it out of his hands. The third townsman dropped his staff, holding his hands high.
“Stand!” Cort roared, and the three soldiers froze.
The civilian swordsman thrust at the stranger, who leaped aside, his staff whirling. It cracked down on the blade near the hilt, and the sword flew clattering along the street. Its owner yelped with pain and nursed his hand.
One of the soldiers started for the sword. He barely leaned toward it before Cort snapped, “Hold!” and the man froze, tilting to the side.
Cort turned to the young woman’s escort.
“Sheathe your sword, and I will, too. If we don’t, that madman will break both our blades.”
“Oh, you’d better believe it!” the stranger assured them.
Watching them warily, the escort sheathed his weapon slowly. Cort matched him movement for movement, then turned to the stranger, making sure he could still see the escort out of the corner of his eye.
One look at the stranger, even by guttering torchlight, and Cort knew why he’d been able to fight them all to a standstill. The staff was sheathed with a foot of iron on its tips, which made it both harder and heavier—and when something like that spun so fast as to be a blur, as the stranger had done, it was equal to a sword indeed. “I’ve never seen your style of fighting before,” he said.
The man smiled, showing a lot of teeth. “Want to see it again?”
Cort shuddered, more at his look than at the thought of the danger. “Thank you, no. Who are you, anyway?”
“Dirk Dulaine, at your service.” The stranger turned to the civilians. “I’m from out of town, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“From far away, by your accent.” The leader glowered, still nursing his hand.
“Far away indeed,” Dirk agreed, “so I don’t particularly care about you or these soldiers—but I don’t like seeing a young woman in danger, either. If you’ll all put up your weapons and let her go home with her escort now, I won’t need to swing again.”
“We could make mincemeat of him,” one of the soldiers blustered.
“Be still, you fool!” his mate snapped, and the man fell silent, glancing at the other soldiers in surprise and fright.
“Let the young couple walk out of sight, and we’ll go,” the citizen growled.
“Officer, bid your men step aside,” the stranger advised.
“Back, two steps!” Cort barked, and his men retreated. Cort bowed. “Gentleman, lady—again, my apologies.”
“Taken, with thanks.” The escort finally remembered his manners, then led his lady out of the torchlight, still gasping in little, sobbing breaths. They passed down the alley, and the two groups stood stiffly, watching each other warily.
“Out of sight, I said,” the stranger reminded them.
The couple reached the end of the lane and turned into the alley that led to the main street. Dirk stepped back, lowering his staff. “Okay. You guys can kill each other now, for all I care.” The civilian leader darted to pick up his sword.
CHAPTER 4
The swordsman reached for the hilt and shouted with pain. “Here, let me see.” Dirk went over to him and felt the civilian’s hand with his left. The man yelped, and Dirk growled, “I was being gentle, damn it! Don’t worry, it’ll heal. I just sprained your wrist for you, that’s all. You!” he called to one of the soldiers. “Stick his sword in his scabbard for him!”
The trooper glanced at Cort’ who nodded, realizing what a stroke of diplomacy it was. The trooper didn’t—he eyed both the civilian and Dirk’s staff with great wariness as he picked up the sword. The other civilians tensed as he did, but when he slid the blade into its scabbard and stepped back, they relaxed a little.
“That’s very nice,” the stranger said with sarcasm. “Back to your own lines, thank you.” Again, the soldier glanced at Cort; again, Cort nodded, and the soldier stepped back beside his comrades.
“Now!” Dirk slammed one end of his staff against the cobbles and leaned on it. Soldiers and civilians both tensed, leaning in, ready to jump, realizing that it would take the stranger time to lift that staff again, and if they were quick enough …
Dirk favored the soldiers with a wolfish grin, then flashed it at the civilians. Both sides leaned back with a grumble of disappointment—the stranger was ready for just such an attack, even inviting it.
“That’s better.” Dirk leaned on his staff so completely that it was a virtual insult. “Okay—somebody want to tell me what this was all about?”
The soldiers glanced at one another uncertainly, and Cort gave them the tiniest shake of his head—if any of them were to speak, it would be him.
The civilian’s leader said, “We heard a woman scream, so we came running. We saw one of our own men on the ground with his lady beside him, cowering before four soldiers. Oh, we knew what was happening, all right!”
“Meaning you assumed the worst,” Dirk corrected. He turned to the soldiers. “Were they right?”
“My men were drunk and a bit overeager,” Cort admitted, “but by the time these … gentlemen … came, I had heard the scream myself, come at the run, and already shouted my men back. I had the situation in hand.”
The civilians muttered at that, and their leader frowned, suddenly doubting his own righteousness.
“You were so eager to protect your own that you almost started a bloodbath when the crisis was over,” Dirk told them. He raised a palm to forestall the civilians’ protests. “Oh, you were right to worry, sure enough, but when you saw an officer, you should at least have asked before you started swinging. I’ll gladly admit that when soldiers are out on liberty, civilians should travel in packs, but you were a little too late this time, and a little too eager.” He turned back to Cort. “Though truth to tell, I’d say your men were spoiling for a fight, too.”
“They’ll be spoiled enough, you maybe sure,” Cort said, with a glare at his men. They paled a little, and stiffened to attention again.