Two-Edged Blade

waited just inside the kitchen door for a moment, making sure the kitchen yard outside was clear.

There wasn’t so much as a cat moving out there. She closed the door behind her and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. They felt gritty and sore from all the smoke, and she wondered just how long it was going to be before Rudi closed up.

Dear gods, I’m tired. Even though her stomach was full, she felt empty, without any energy. That guardsman—I hope he leaves. I don’t want to have to take him on. I don’t think Rudi could protect me from the town law if I had to hit him. I’m not sure the Guild could, and I’m not sure they’d be willing to, either.

She walked slowly across the uneven kitchen yard, treacherous where snow had melted and refrozen in ruts. The moon was in its last quarter, and cast thin light that did little to help her in seeing her way. Might as well check on the stable. Maybe by the time I get back, that drunk will have gotten tired of looking for me. Or maybe he’ll get so drunk he’ll pass out. Either will do.

There were only two horses in the stable tonight, and both were asleep. One of the stableboys dozed beside the door, but leapt to his feet when she passed him. She patted his shoulder, suppressing a tired smile. “Good lad,” she said calmly and with reassurance, as she would to a dog. “Just checking on things.” He stared at her with wide, half-frightened eyes, and she felt the sting of rejection. She turned away without saying anything more. She knew there were several other animals in the paddock with Hellsbane, but she seldom bothered to check them; the mare herself was more than enough guard. She stopped by the fence, suddenly lonely for any kind of a friendly face, even a horse’s. But Hellsbane was asleep, and Kero decided on reflection not to wake her. What would be the use, after all? The warsteed was only a horse, not an intelligent creature like a Companion. Hellsbane couldn’t talk to her, and probably wouldn’t even know how unhappy her mistress was.

She turned her back on the paddock and began the long walk back to the inn.

Just as she passed the stable, something jumped out of the shadows of the stable door. Her reactions, numbed by weariness and inadequate food, were not what they had been. Before she could turn to meet her attacker, he was on top of her, and hit her in the back with a scab-barded blade.

She saw stars of pain and went down, breath driven out of her. The unknown grabbed her arm before she had a chance to recover, and hauled her to her feet.

She tried to make her arms and legs move, but they wouldn’t obey her. She was hauled around to face her attacker, and he seized a handful of her tunic and pulled her nose-to-nose with him. His ale-sour breath made her cough; and even in the dim light she had no trouble recognizing him or his uniform. It was the guardsman; still drunk, and obviously ale-crazed.

“Thought ye’d slip out on me, she-man?” he snarled. “Couldn’ face a real man? ‘M minded t’ gi’ ye a lesson i’ th’ way a wench should mind ‘erself.”

A hand as massive as the business end of a club holding a sword hilt connected with the side of her face so hard her teeth rattled. That was a mistake, for the blow managed to knock her out of the stunned daze she had been in. She brought up her knee—not into his crotch, which he was expecting, but in order to stamp down hard on his instep.

She was wearing riding boots with a hard heel—they were the only foot-covering she had; he was wearing soft town-shoes. Something cracked under her heel. He screeched, and let go of her.

But only for a moment. He’d taken in so much ale—or possibly other things—that the pain was only temporary. While she was still trying to get her breath and to clear her eyes of the tears of pain, he swung out and bashed her in the side of the head with his still-sheathed blade.

She cried out, and grabbed automatically for the hilt of her own sword as she went down to one knee—

And Need took over.

Even while her mind was still reeling, her body jumped to its feet, unsheathed blade in hands, driving straight for the guardsman. He parried clumsily with his weapon; Need came in over the top of his blade and only by slipping and falling on an ice patch did he escape a heart-thrust. He scrambled back up to his feet (if anything, more enraged than before), while Kero slipped on another bit of ice. The blade’s control faltered for a moment; still half- stunned, she tried to get control of her own body back, as Need reasserted control and forced her to attack again and again while the guardsman scrambled backward. After the second attack, he seemed to have gotten the idea that he was in imminent danger of being killed; now he was only trying to get away from her.

Finally, the guardsman fetched up against the wall of the stable. There were lights and shouts behind Kero now, but she paid no attention to them; she was far too busy trying to get the upper hand before the blade killed the man.

Need caught the man’s blade in a bind and disarmed him. Kero thought for a moment that the sword would release her then, but it held her as tightly as ever. Evidently the man’s crimes against women were such that the blade had no intention of letting him get away. The guardsman’s eyes were wide with fear, reflecting the torchlight behind her, and he flung up both his hands in a futile attempt to ward her off, as Need drove toward his throat.

And at the last moment. Kero got just enough control back to reverse the blade and punch the man in the chin with the pommel.

As he slumped to the ground, and the blade’s control over her vanished, hands seized her from behind.