With a sinking heart, Coll knew his end had come—but with a vast relief, too, that his lonely hiding was over, and a savage joy that he could take one last revenge on the knights and their lackeys. He sent up one quick prayer of contrition, begging to be forgiven for the men he was about to kill in a vain attempt to save his own life, then swung his sling twice around his head and loosed. The pebble struck the nearest soldier in the forehead, knocking him down even as the blood began to flow; then Coll dropped the weapon and blocked a slash from the next soldier, blocked it and returned it, slicing the man’s arm open. The soldier howled and fell back, but that left more room for the other eight, and they fell on Coll in a shouting mass. He blocked and slashed with his spear until it was wrenched from his hand, saw the sword coming up to thrust through his bowels even as four hands seized his arms and shoulders from behind …
The yell echoed all about him, the staves knocked the soldiers away, the tough shaggy ponies struck out with hoof and tooth—and suddenly, Coll stood alone, half the soldiers fallen and the other four backing away in fear of the two knights who rose over him on their horses. Incredibly, the smaller was saying, “Hang in there—and pick up your spear again. They won’t try anything against the three of us.”
The bigger man—not big, huge!—was answering the outraged challenge from the knight in the monk’s robe. “Who are you who dare to seize this outlaw from us!”
“Outlaws ourselves, though well-dressed ones.” The tall man dismounted. “I am an outlaw who was knighted once, though, so there’s no shame in fighting me. However, a horse against a donkey is unfair and unworthy, so we’ll fight on foot, shall we?”
The disguised knight took in the size of him, seven feet tall and broad as a wall, and took a few steps back. “You’re much bigger than I am!”
“Yes, but you’re wearing armor, and I’m not.” The huge knight leveled his sword. “En garde!”
2
The knight shouted with anger and spurred his donkey. His men yelled with him and charged the giant’s companion.
Coll shouted in anger of his own and leaped in beside the shorter stranger. He whirled his spear like a quarterstaff, striking aside one sword after another. The donkey took one look at the man wall wielding a sword and sat down where he was. The knight gave a yelp of surprise and half-fell, half climbed off the beast. The giant laughed and stepped in, slashing. It was a halfhearted cut, but enough to make the armored knight scramble to guard and swing his sword to parry. Then the two of them set to in earnest.
Coll parried two more blades, not quite far enough—one of them grazed his arm, but he ignored it, not caring which stroke killed him, for he had known he was dead from the moment the false monk drew his sword. He saw a half-second’s opening and struck with the butt of his spear. It jabbed into the belly of the man to his left; he fell back with a grunt of pain—but another soldier stepped over him and struck. Coll barely had time to parry the thrust from his right before he had to turn the jab from his left, then snap his shaft up to block a blow from the front. He kept the movement going, though, bringing it down hard to his right, stabbing into the shoulder of his attacker just as the man was starting a strike of his own. The soldier dropped his spear with a yell of pain, and Coll fell to one knee, ducking under the stroke from his right, feeling the blade graze his cheek, waking pain, but he came up to stab from below at the man in front. His spearhead found blood; then his shoulder struck the man’s midriff, carrying the soldier into the spear of the one behind him.
Now Coll was free, leaping and turning at a fourth soldier. Another slammed into him from his side; agony streaked the back of his shoulders, but he drove his spear butt into the man’s belly, then yanked it back and cut with his spearhead as though it were a sword, slashing the arm of the soldier who had been on his right. The man staggered back, howling and clutching his wound, then tripped over one of his companions and fell.
And, suddenly, it was over, except for the two knights. The shorter stranger stood in the midst of three fallen soldiers, blood staining his sleeve and running down the side of his face, but the grin he gave Coll was sure and strong. Coll found himself grinning back. Then they turned together to watch the duel, both ready to leap in and help.
There was no need; it was clear the bigger man would already have won if his opponent hadn’t been wearing armor. As it was, blood was seeping through the chain mail between breastplate and hip guard, and the giant’s doublet was streaked with crimson. But the big man fought only with a rapier and dagger, where the knight hewed at him with a two-handed broadsword.
The giant leaped back from a particularly vicious slash, grunting, “Save it for an oak!” The knight stumbled after his sword, off balance, and the stranger stepped in with an extra push! The knight cried out and fell, but he rolled onto his back quickly, slashing as he rolled. The giant swung hard, knocking the sword on down to the earth, where he set one big foot on the blade. The knight cursed, trying to tug it free—then froze, seeing the sword tip poised over the eye-slit in his visor.
“Surrender,” the big stranger said softly, “or I strike.” The knight cursed him again and shouted, “Strike, coward!”
The stranger’s eyes narrowed, but he held the blade poised and said, without looking, “Dirk, shell this lobster for me, will you?”
“Come on,” Dirk said to Coll, and stepped forward to begin unbuckling the knight’s armor. The man cursed him furiously, but didn’t dare move for fear of the sword aimed at his eyes. Coll grinned and stepped in to help.
They threw the plate aside, revealing a heavily muscled man in a sweat-stained gambeson.
“Now the helmet,” the big man instructed, and pulled the sword tip back just long enough for Dirk to yank the helmet off the man. The knight was yellow haired and hard-faced, with cold grey eyes, a scar on his lip, and murder in his eyes.
“Back,” the big man instructed.
“Anything you say, Gar.” Dirk stepped back.
So did Gar. “Get up,” he said to the knight, “and take your sword.” He cast his own aside.
The knight stared in disbelief, then gave a gloating laugh as he scrambled to his feet, caught up his sword, and struck.
Gar danced back; the blade hissed by an inch from his chest. Before the knight could recover, Gar leaped in, caught his wrist on the backswing, and jammed the man’s elbow against his own. The knight cried out in surprise and pain; Gar twitched his arm, and the sword fell from nerveless fingers. Then the big man leaped back, letting the knight stumble free. He rubbed his arm, glaring up at Gar, and spat, “Son of a chancred whore!”
“Pleased to meet you.” Gar bowed. “Myself, I am a son of a lord.”
The knight’s face went purple at having his own insult turned back on him; he shouted with inarticulate rage, starting toward Gar—then pivoting and leaping at Dirk.
Coll stood frozen, taken by surprise, then shouted—but even as he did, Dirk swung his arms up, breaking the knight’s hold, then cracked a fist into his jaw. The knight stood poised for a moment, then fell and lay still.
“Sorry about that,” Gar said.
Dirk shrugged. “Accidents will happen. Next time, forget the stunts and just take out the competition, okay?”