“Go along with you now!” Coll shooed the mother and children off the road and into the trees. They turned and ran, still holding their mugs. Once behind the screen of leaves, Coll called, “Finish your broth, leave the mugs, then go as quickly and quietly as you may.”
The woman nodded, wide-eyed; the children drank off the rest of their ration, and the mother brought their cups to Coll. He gave her a curt nod, never taking his eyes from the roadway, never turning to watch them lose themselves in the woods. He was far too concerned with watching the knight ride up to Coll’s new masters, gesturing to his men to surround them, saying curtly to Gar and Dirk, “I hereby impress you into His Majesty’s service!”
Coll felt as though something were breaking inside him, felt as though the scrap of hope the two men had offered were being snatched away—then felt fear mount in its place as Dirk said, loudly and dryly, “We are not impressed.”
3
Say you so, bumpkin? Then have at you!” the knight is cried, and couched his lance.
“My meat,” Gar told Dirk. “You keep the riffraff off my back.”
Dirk only nodded and spurred his horse wide to the side.
The knight gave a shout and spurred his mount. The huge animal lumbered into motion, then shifted up quickly from trot through canter and into full-fledged gallop. The footmen gave an enthusiastic shout and loped after their master.
Dirk cut across them, swinging a sword that certainly shouldn’t have been sharp enough to cut through their pike shafts—but it did, clipping them off like a scythe through wheat.
Gar sat his horse calmly, waiting as the knight bore down on him, lance point centered directly on Gar’s chest, shouting, “Yield, you fool! Yield, or try to run!”
“I would almost think you didn’t like taking people’s lives,” Gar called back—then suddenly made his horse leap aside to the left. He caught the shaft of the lance as it went by and pulled. By rights, the knight’s momentum should have yanked Gar off of his mount, but horse and rider both set their heels, and the knight whipped about in his saddle as the leverage of the long lance twisted him to his right. He clung to it like a bulldog until pain wrenched his midriff, then dropped the lance with a howl and turned back to his horse just in time to slew it around in a great curve. Gar waited until he had turned and was on his way back before he held up the lance in both hands and, with a sudden heave, broke off the first two yards.
The knight shouted in anger and spurred his charger. It thundered down on Gar as its master lugged out a broadsword and swung it two-handed at Gar’s head—which made it possible for the the giant to duck under the blow, then come up to throw his arms around the knight. With a crash and a clatter, they both shot out of their saddles and hit the ground.
The footmen slewed to a halt and stared, amazed, at their headless weapons. They looked up at Dirk, an almost superstitious fear coming into their eyes.
It certainly rose into Coll’s heart. What kind of steel was his employer’s sword made of, anyway?
Then one of the soldiers plucked up a bit more courage than the rest and came at Dirk with a shout, swinging his headless shaft like a baseball bat. Dirk grinned, made his horse sidestep at the last second, and chopped another foot off the staff as the soldier blundered by.
But he had put some heart back into the rest of the men-at-arms, who must have realized Dirk couldn’t dance away from them all, for they charged the lone horseman with a shout.
But Dirk had changed weapons—he was spinning a loop of rope over his head. Seeing him without a blade, the soldiers decided he was easy meat, and charged with a gloating cry.
Dirk rode a dozen feet in front of them, crossing their path; his lasso spun through the air and fell around the shoulders of the soldier in the center. He yanked it tight, and the man slammed into the soldier next to him—who slammed into the man next to him, then back against the one behind as Dirk rode in a circle around the whole dozen of them. They shouted in surprise and dismay as the rope yanked them all together like a sheaf of wheat, staffs knocking one another on the head, jumbled together so tightly they could scarcely breathe. The horse pivoted and threw its weight back, digging its hooves in to keep the rope taut.
Gar helped the knight to his feet, then picked up his sword and handed it to him. “Fool!” the knight snarled, and swung the blade high, two-handed. Gar retreated, drawing his own weapon.
But Coll saw a lone soldier rise up from the grass and run to catch up the cutoff end of the knight’s lance. It was six feet long, and he leveled it as a spear, charging at Dirk’s back in silence.
“Behind you!” Coll shouted, then ran to catch the fellow even as Dirk turned to look. He saw the lance coming just in time and leaned to the side; it skimmed past his ribs, tearing cloth. Then Dirk caught the shaft and pulled. The soldiers stumbled, off balance, and Coll swung his staff, knocking a very solid blow into the man’s skull.
“Well struck!” Dirk said with a grin. The knot of soldiers cried out, protesting; even through the attack, Dirk and his pony had kept the tension on the rope. One soldier fumbled his belt knife out and tried to reach up to saw at the cordage, but it held his forearm pinned, and he could only curse as the knife slipped from his fingers.
Coll glanced at Gar, and saw him dancing in and out, avoiding the knight’s sword chops, while the man of metal lumbered after him, panting like his own horse. Coll could hear the harsh rasping of breath even through the visor—Gar was breathing hard, too, but certainly not with any pain; he was even grinning! Striped here and there with blood where he had moved almost quickly enough, but grinning nonetheless …
The knight blundered forward with one more slash that had all the deftness and skill of a Clydesdale hauling a broken beer wagon. Gar sidestepped, then pivoted in close, his dagger flashing. The knight shouted and stepped back, stumbled, wavered, but kept his footing—and his breastplate swung open, the straps on the left side cut! Gar lunged across the man’s body, then riposted before that huge cleaver of a sword could catch him—and the right shoulder of the breastplate fell down, leaving the knight’s torso exposed, but with the armor shell still hanging at his hip to foul his movements. He shouted in rage, lunging at Gar and swinging down hard. The giant gave a shout of glee, sidestepped and parried the blade down so that it struck into the ground, then thrust with his own sword. It came away with blood on the tip, and crimson stained the knight’s gambeson. He stared down at it in disbelief.
“Only a flesh wound,” Gar said, “unless there is less meat on your chest than I think.”
The knight threw himself at Gar with a roar. The big man sidestepped; the knight blundered past, stumbled, and fell. Gar reached down, caught a shoulder, and turned him over. He didn’t even have to raise his sword; the knight held up both hands, crying, “I yield me! I yield me!”
“Why, then, there shall be peace between us,” Gar said slowly, though he did not sheathe his sword. He did lean down, though, to catch one of the knight’s arms and haul him to his feet.
“If that’s how you fight without armor,” the knight asked, “what could you do if you wore a proper harness!”
“A good deal less,” Gar replied frankly, “for it would slow me down and restrict my movements greatly. I must admit, though, that I do favor a chain-mail shirt in battle.” Coll watched with bitterness. It was all a sort of game to them, these knights safe in their iron shells—and if that game went wrong, they could end it by surrender. Not so for a poor serf hounded into lawlessness—or even a serf pressed into an army for battle. For him, the fight went on and on to the death.