He started to reach for the dwarf’s shoulder.
He was stopped because there was a knock on the door. Before Malden could answer it, the door flew open and he saw Velmont standing there. The Helstrovian thief looked like he’d run all the way from the wall-he was gasping for breath and sweat slicked his face. “The thief-takers’re at it again,” he announced.
“Who did they get this time?” Malden asked.
Velmont wiped at his mouth. “Loophole,” he said.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Croy knelt low in the brambles by the side of the road. He could see very little by the thin sliver of the moon, but every time a weed stirred in a night breeze or an owl swept down from the trees on some vicious errand, his whole body tensed and his hand tightened on Ghostcutter’s hilt.
He had only a few troops at his disposal that he could count on not turning around and running at the first sign of danger. He was making a terrible mistake, and he knew it.
He had his orders.
From the trees well south of his position, he heard the cawing of a crow, and knew the time was coming soon. Crows flew by day, and slept at night, like reasonable creatures. That call was the signal that riders were approaching from the direction of Redweir.
There would be four of them, he knew. Four quick scouts, headed back to Helstrow with the news of Redweir’s capture. They would not be Morget’s best warriors, nor would they be berserkers. He was relatively sure of that.
Before long he heard the sound of their hooves chewing up the half-frozen road. He did not see them until they were nearly at the trap. “Now,” he whispered, and behind him there was a sudden, violent motion.
A stout rope leapt out of the road, trailing dust, and snapped taut at neck height. It ran all the way across the road, and if you didn’t know it was there, it was almost impossible to see. It caught the first rider and yanked him backward out of his stirrups to crash on the ground. His horse kept going. The second rider reacted in time not to be throttled, but did foul himself in the line. The barbarian grabbed for a knife to cut himself free.
Behind him two more riders slowed their mounts to a stop.
That had gone far better than Croy had dared hope. Of course, it wasn’t over yet.
What if the message they carried was in the saddlebags of the first horse? he wondered. He would never be able to catch the animal in the dark. If it was smart enough to run all the way back to Helstrow But there were more pressing concerns. “To arms!” he bellowed, and all around him torches flared to life. “Soldiers of Skrae, to arms!”
Croy’s company swept out of the trees, pikestaffs and bill hooks jabbing at the mounted men. Croy unsheathed Ghostcutter and ran toward the man who had fallen. He could see well enough now to count the crosses on the man’s neck, one for each time he’d gone reaving. How many villages had this barbarian put to the torch? How many women had he defiled, how many innocent throats had he cut? He was struggling to get up, to even roll onto his arms. His legs weren’t moving at all-perhaps his back was broken.
Croy had his orders. Ghostcutter flashed down and cut through the man’s throat, almost deep enough to behead him.
The snagged rider wheeled his horse and drew an axe with a long haft. Moonlight shone through quatrefoils piercing the blade. Ghostcutter rang as it parried the first stroke. The rider hauled backward on his weapon to recover and Croy moved in, stabbing upward. The rider fended off his blow, but only by blocking it with his forearm. The sword bit deep into the man’s flesh and blood spattered Croy’s face.
The axe came around a second time, whistling in the air. Croy parried again-Ghostcutter was faster than any axe, no matter how well made. The rider tried to grab at the knight with his injured arm, but his fingers wouldn’t close on Croy’s tabard. Croy stepped in even closer, well within range of the horse’s hooves. He had to finish this quickly. One good jab up into the barbarian’s chest did it, and he rolled away before the half-mad horse could trample him. The rider swayed over in his saddle and was dragged as the animal broke for the fields at the side of the road.
His men had the other two riders pinned but not wounded. The peasant soldiers had no idea how to use their weapons properly. Many of them were probably afraid to actually stab another human being. In another world, in a world the Lady ruled, Croy would have admired their gentility.
This was not that world. He grabbed at his own men and sent them sprawling in the dirt to make his way through their iron ring. The third rider smashed away bill blades with a boar spear and caught pike points on a buckler. He barely had time to notice Croy before Ghostcutter opened the long artery in his thigh. In a minute he would be dead from blood loss-Croy spun around and left him.
One more.
The fourth rider had managed to smash his way through a cordon of polearms. Two of Croy’s men lay in the dust, one with his chest crushed in by a horse’s kick, the other missing half his face from a sword cut. Croy could hear others behind him, wounded and moaning but alive, as the rider broke for the fields and escape.
“Don’t let him get away!” Croy shouted, but he knew he was talking to himself. His men rushed backward, away from the rider’s swinging weapon. In a moment the rider had spurred his horse and dashed off into the fields.
Croy saw the horse of the third rider nearby. The rider was dead in his saddle but hadn’t fallen off yet. He sprang up onto the horse’s back, knocking the rider out of the way with his elbow. The horse bucked and reared but Croy grabbed up the reins in his free hand and viciously kicked the frightened animal in the ribs.
He had his orders. He had to give chase.
Away from the road and the torches, the ground was a gray blur, the rider a smudge in the darkness. Croy could make out only his cloak fluttering behind him and the merest glint of light off his horse shoes as they flashed up again and again. Croy tried to stay hot on the heels of this last rider-as long as he stayed in the barbarian’s trail, his horse wouldn’t break a leg in some unseen mole hill or trip on a half-buried rock. He could hear the booming breath of both horses, hear his own heart beating, but that was all. Up ahead he saw an old barn, stars showing through a hole in its roof. The rider was headed straight for its open door. In the Lady’s name, why? Croy couldn’t guess.
He followed the rider right into the barn, however, and then jumped off the horse because he couldn’t see a thing inside-all was darkness. Was this the rider’s plan, to trap him in this shadowy place and escape while he flailed in the dark?
Apparently not. Croy felt wind on his face and just had time to stagger back as a sword came rushing past him. Maybe the barbarian could see better in the dark, though Croy doubted it. Maybe he thought his only chance was this invisible combat, deadly for both of them-the rider must have watched him dispatching his fellows and wanted to even the odds.
Croy held his breath. Ghostcutter bobbed slightly in his hand, with the rhythm of his heart.
The barbarian’s sword crashed into the armor covering his arm. A lucky blow-it cleaved through the leather joint between the steel plates of his rerebrace and his vambrace and sliced through the rough skin of Croy’s elbow. Had the barbarian been able to see better, and judge the blow more shrewdly, he could have taken half of his arm off with that strike. There was one thing the barbarian hadn’t counted on, though.
It was Croy’s left arm.
Pain seared through him, threatened to extinguish his senses, but he simply clamped his eyes tight shut and held his breath as he listened for the sound of his enemy’s feet moving on the floorboards. There.
Eyes closed, Croy visualized the barbarian’s sword, saw the arm that held it, the chest, the heart of the barbarian Ghostcutter lanced out point first and impaled the man, cleaving through the tight knot of muscle just to the left of the center of the chest.
The barbarian howled in agony, but not for long.
Croy pulled Ghostcutter free of the death wound. He dropped the Ancient Blade on the straw-covered floor of the barn. Dropped to his knees and grasped his wounded elbow.
He did not open his eyes until his men came to find him with their torches, and he saw, for the first time, the
