He became like that water, moving in a steady rhythm with the wind and his horse, steering the mare off the bridge and onto the dirt path that cut between the chest-high grasses. He rode a few feet down the road, and then stopped, making the horse circle in place, gazing out in all directions. All he saw was an endless sea of wavering vegetation. The billowing smoke was actually some distance to the southwest, rising in a triplet of plumes.
“Nessa!” he screamed, listening for a response that never came. At best, he caught what might have been a muffled cry, but the twirling horse kept him from honing in on it. He pulled up hard on the reins, stopping the horse in its tracks. “Nessa!” he yelled again, this time holding his breath afterward and cocking his head to listen.
And then, from behind him, a voice.
“’Ello there.”
Taken by surprise, Patrick yanked too hard on the reins, and the horse bucked. He lost his balance in the saddle and teetered until the clasp holding it in place broke, and he slipped off the side. He hit the ground with a thud and immediately covered his head with his arms. His headache had reawakened with a fury, assaulting his eyes with its blinding power. Fighting the pain, he lifted himself up on his elbows.
“Well, what we have here?” the voice said.
Patrick glanced over his shoulder while doing his best to keep nausea from overpowering him. Eight figures stood in the middle of the road. Seven were bandits, with broad chests and fearsome visages, who looked-and smelled-as if they hadn’t yet learned the art of bathing. They were all dressed in black and carrying swords and daggers. Patrick could only guess that they’d circled around him in the tall grasses, blocking any retreat across the bridge. The eighth was Nessa, and his sister gasped and screeched as one of the men brought his dagger to her throat. The man held her up by the hair so high that her feet barely touched the ground, and her yellow dress was ripped and dirtied.
One of the men stepped forward. His hair was a long, grease-streaked mess, and Patrick swore he could see fleas leaping about in the man’s ratty beard.
“What-you gots no tongue, freak?” he said.
Patrick grunted and shoved off the ground with his knuckles, bringing his short legs beneath him in a single motion. His horse maneuvered close to him again, its panic gone, and he placed a hand on its neck for support.
“Yes, I have a tongue,” Patrick replied, trying to keep his gaze locked on the men while searching for his fallen saddle-and Winterbone-at the same time. “But tongues don’t do much good for those who don’t know how to use them.”
The speaker’s face scrunched up. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”
“It means learn how to speak, you son of a three-tittied whore.”
The men behind the speaker laughed, but Patrick noticed that the one holding Nessa tightened his grip, bringing her closer to him.
“Candry,” one of them said, wheezing out a guffaw. “The freak…he done said your mama…”
“I heard ’im,” said the one named Candry. “The bastard thinks he’s a funny one, for sure.”
“On no, I don’t think I’m funny at all,” said Patrick. He stepped away from the horse and toward the men, catching a glimpse of something twinkling between the swaying blades of grass. “I know I am. Because I understand humor. And soap. And I know it isn’t funny when you smell like shit.”
More laughter from the men, only this time the one holding Nessa doubled over as she jammed her elbows into his stomach. She fell to the ground and tried to scurry away. Candry planted a foot on her back, keeping her from getting far. Nessa cried out in pain as the man ground his heel into her, which washed away all of Patrick’s false bravado. He felt his neck flush.
“Well, now,” said Candry. “Looks like the hunchback done got mad. He’s turnin’ red like a beet!”
The men laughed again. Patrick smiled back, letting his blood boil, his anger giving him newfound courage. Diving to the side, he let the tall grass swallow him and cushion his fall. Swiping his hands from side to side, he searched for what he knew had to be there. When his fingers touched the leather he let out a gasp of relief. It was the saddle, and Winterbone was still secured to it.
“He’s gettin’ away!” one of the men yelled.
No I’m not, thought Patrick as he grabbed Winterbone’s handle, undid the clasp, and slid the blade from its scabbard. The sound it made, the unnatural hiss that had fascinated him for so long, seemed to silence the bandits. Rising to his feet, a smile still on his face, he let them see the death in his eyes. His voice filled the sudden quiet, a beastly cry fueled by his pounding heart. He churned his short legs, emerging from the grass like a sea beast leaping from the ocean to nab its prey, the heavy broadsword raised high above his head.
The men were wide-eyed, stunned, but when Patrick swung the blade, Candry raised his own sword. The two met with a loud clang. A vibration shot up Patrick’s forearms, numbing his fingers, jarring his elbows, and making his shoulders strain. Candry used that opening to shove him away. Patrick stumbled, his uneven legs wobbly on the dirt-strewn road.
“Hunchy’s got a big sword,” one of the other men said. Candry didn’t answer. Nessa watched in quiet horror as the lead brigand narrowed his eyes and brought his sword to bear.
Patrick knew it was hopeless. He had no business taking on seven challengers. Though he’d owned Winterbone for years, he had never swung the sword in battle-not even the practice kind. Who in the west would he have practiced with? The most he had ever done was rehearse his balancing act and occasionally hack at a few dying trees in the garden behind the Homestead as a way of letting off steam. However strong he might be-and Patrick was indeed strong-he was comically overmatched in a swordfight. Hand to hand, sans weapons, he might have stood a chance. But with blades? He didn’t have the speed to block and counter, didn’t have a feel for the blade like the nasty ruffian before him did.
But none of that would stop him. Hopeless or not, that was Nessa they held captive. He’d often pined for death. At least now he’d have a chance to take it with some measure of dignity.
Candry grunted and rushed forward, holding his sword in one hand. The sword itself, with its pale blade and gnarled wooden pommel, was nothing compared to Winterbone, but its cutting edge was no less dangerous. Candry brought it down in a sideways arc, his feet balanced evenly, his opposite arm serving as a counterbalance. In a surprising feat of strength, Patrick hefted Winterbone with a single sore arm. The blades met, stopping the swipe before it beheaded him. Patrick ground his misshapen teeth and fought through the pain. Candry staggered back from the recoil, staring at his sword, which now had a rather large chip where the two blades had clashed.
A combined roar sounded as the rest of Candry’s men rushed Patrick, leaving Nessa where she lay. Patrick panicked, about to be overwhelmed with their killing blades and murderous eyes. His mind spun in confusion. He didn’t know what to do, how to defend himself. He acted on pure instinct, whipping Winterbone at the first attacker, then driving his stunted leg at the second. The sound of clashing steel rang through the air as his boot connected with the soft flesh of someone’s groin. Two screams filled his ears, screams he echoed when he felt a great white heat invade his body.
Patrick glanced down to see the tip of a sword protruding from the fleshy part of his side. The tip withdrew, and a shower of crimson squirted from the wound. Blood began drenching his tunic, and he heard someone exclaim, “I got ’im!”
Patrick whirled around, gripping Winterbone tightly with both hands, swinging it as he would a heavy sack of meal in with the childhood games he had played with Bardiya. Patrick had always won then, anyway. The tip of the blade clipped the man behind him, sending him backpedaling. Patrick kept up his spin, the long sword creating a wide, lethal circle around him. One of the men got too close, and Winterbone sheared through his belly. Patrick kept right on spinning, thinking maybe this method-crazy though it was-could work. The bandits still continued to rush him, and he heard another cry of pain as one of the men fell to his knees, his intestines spilling across the dusty road. Patrick was so dizzy he could barely register what he was seeing, nevermind understand the man’s dying moans.