Morgain spat out a word Croy couldn’t make out. The barbarians stopped in mid-stride. They stopped as one, without a sound or wasted movement. Morgain’s eyes narrowed, making her face more skull-like than ever. She studied the army facing her but said nothing.
There was no need to state the terms of their meeting. Everyone knew why they were there, and that this would be a battle to destruction. No parley was necessary, for there was nothing to bargain for, or with.
Croy hesitated before he gave the order to charge, however. He had something he wanted to try first.
“I understand,” he shouted, “that among your people, there is a law of champions. That when two clans meet in battle, their leaders may agree to single combat. A duel, to the death, between the best warriors from either side.”
Morgain frowned and stroked the neck of her horse. “That is our way.”
“Also, that when a champion loses such a contest, his clan must lay down their arms and surrender. They are bound by the terms of the duel.”
“You know much of us.”
Croy shrugged. “I knew your brother, once, in another time. I called him brother myself then, and listened when he spoke of your land and your people. I came to respect some of your traditions. Only some. But this one appeals to me. Dismount, and face me, one on one.”
Morgain shook her head. “Both parties must agree. You cannot force my hand, Sir Croy.”
Croy’s heart sank. It had been his best chance. “In my land, only a churl would call a woman a coward,” he tried.
“In my land, no man would dare,” Morgain replied.
“You have much to gain, milady. There are three of us for every one of your men.”
“I came ready for more.”
Croy bit his lip. “Very well, then. If a lady wishes for battle, a gentleman must oblige her. Let us waste no more time… Princess Morgain.”
Morgain’s teeth gnashed under her painted lips and she tore Fangbreaker from its scabbard. She was half out of her saddle-and Croy was getting ready to charge her-when her eyes went wide and she began to laugh.
“Very clever, Sir Croy!” she called. “But you cannot goad me to-”
Croy snapped his fingers.
He had spent enough time with Malden to have learned a little deceit.
From either side of the road, hidden by the trees, a dozen archers let fly. Behind Morgain barbarians screamed and fell, their legs and arms and necks pierced by arrows. At that range, and with so many potential targets, even poorly trained archers couldn’t miss.
“Charge them!” Croy shouted, and behind him his men started to run.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Morgain’s barbarians were distracted by the archers and turned toward the trees to find and slaughter them. Croy rushed his own soldiers into the middle of the barbarians, racing his horse directly into Morgain’s teeth to keep her from countering the advance. His men struck fast and hard, as if they knew they would have only a moment’s grace before the barbarians recovered enough to counter them.
Bill hooks tore through stinking furs and the unwashed flesh beneath. Pikes impaled reavers whose backs were momentarily turned. For a moment the battle seemed already over, the men of Skrae making bloody inroads into the barbarian mass, striking down the bigger, better armed barbarians left and right.
It could not last, of course. The barbarians knew how to fight, and how to stay alive. They whirled about with axes and crudely forged iron swords, hewing arms and heads from civilized bodies, bellowing like bulls in their fury.
Croy’s serjeants screamed for his men to press the attack, to lose no momentum. Croy had no chance to see if they heeded the call. He was far too busy with Morgain.
He drove his horse shoulder-to-shoulder with her mount and launched into a frenzied attack, trying to catch her off guard.
Morgain just laughed.
She fought like no man he’d ever met. She was so fast she made him dizzy. She had no shield, but needed none-Fangbreaker flashed even in the dull light, spinning around to catch Ghostcutter every time Croy thought he saw an opportunity for an attack. Her massive sword possessed a fine balance no modern sword-maker could match, not even a dwarf-heavy as it was, it seemed to float in her hand like a wand.
Croy could barely lift his shield arm, but he had no choice but to use it to block as she recovered from his parry and took her own chances with sweeping strokes. Fangbreaker’s finely honed edge slashed deep cuts through his wooden shield, which was held together only by its iron rim.
He could almost hear Bikker, his former instructor in the arts of swordplay, speaking in his ear, pointing out all the chances he missed, all the openings she left. Yet he could not seem to take advantage of these lapses lest he leave himself open. One good cut from Fangbreaker would shear through even his steel armor and leave him bleeding.
Lift your shield arm, boy, Bikker shouted at him. Catch her point on your boss and swing-no, look out, parry- parry-parry!
He could not strike her without taking a cut himself. Her speed made it impossible. And he was already wounded. Yet if he didn’t strike soon, or at least break contact with Morgain, he would be unable to command his men-unable to even look over and see how the battle fared.
Fangbreaker crashed against his shield with a mighty blow that made the boards flex inside their rim. One more blow like that would shatter it, he knew, and leave him defenseless.
No more time, boy. No more time for playing games.
With his wounded arm, Croy thrust forward with the ruined shield. Normally one blocked at an angle, so one’s opponent’s blade would slide off the shield and off to the left. This time Croy shoved the shield straight into Morgain’s attack.
The point of Fangbreaker sank through the wood, barely slowed as it sent a blast of splinters to tumble across Croy’s breastplate. The sword kept coming straight at his heart, and clanged against his armor.
Croy slipped his feet from his stirrups and then twisted sideways, his wounded arm wracked with pain as he forced his shoulder down, between the two horses. The animals shied apart as he fell toward the road surface, swinging his leg up and over his saddle.
Morgain’s sword was trapped by the twisted iron rim of his shield. She had to either follow him down or let go of her blade. He prayed for the latter.
She chose the former.
Croy looked between the legs of the horses on his way down and saw something that revived much of his flagging strength. The men of Skrae were prevailing.
The barbarians must never have recovered from their initial surprise. They had moved fiercely to attack, but as individuals-each man choosing a foe from among the attackers and concentrating all his strength on a single enemy. The men of Skrae, on the other hand, seemed to actually remember the little training he’d given them and fought together as units, flanking and mobbing the barbarians. There were three of them for every one of Morgain’s soldiers, and though any given barbarian might cut down two opponents, the third could still strike in return. The road was a heap of bleeding bodies, and most of them were dressed in fur.
He started to call for his serjeants to press the attack, but the breath was knocked out of him as Morgain fell full on him, her death’s head face so close to his he could smell the paint she wore.
“Ha!” she gasped. “Is this what you wanted all along? To bed me? You should have just asked!”
He could not frame a proper reply. So instead he reared up and smashed his armored forehead into her nose. Bikker had taught him that move, too.
Morgain rolled off of him and sat in the dust, wiping blood away from her upper lip. She looked stunned. Croy changed his grip on Ghostcutter’s hilt and readied himself for a swing.
Before his arm could lift, however, Morgain’s eyes focused once more and with her free hand she punched
