Lakini glanced behind her and saw another of the brigands lying limp at the lip of the ditch, Lusk’s arrows bristling from his body. Lusk kneeled by his side, making sure he was dead.
Three of the brigands remained. Lakini saw that two of the mounted guards had recovered control of their horses and were attempting to box in one of the attackers, a female tall and bulky enough to be another half-orc. The fourth blue-clad guard, who had slid off his horse to check the body of the burly man, was now engaged in a desperate clashing of swords with another rogue. It was clear that the guard was formally trained and had the advantage of youth, and that the brigand was older and had the inferior weapon. But Lakini’s keen eye told her the brigand had years of fighting experience under his belt-street fighting and raids, fights where the goal was to overpower, to draw blood and kill, not to score points under an instructor’s eye in an exercise yard. If Lakini had the inclination to gamble, she’d bet the guard had never fought for his life before.
Lakini retrieved her dagger from her opponent’s throat with a deft twist, the big ruby on the hilt smooth to her palm. Wiping the blade clean on the brigand’s shoulder, she considered interfering but decided to let the boy fight it out. If he lived, he’d learn several valuable lessons. Never let one’s attention slide on the trail. Make sure all enemies are accounted for before succoring the wounded or attending the dead. Never give up the advantage of horseback before necessary.
That left one rogue unaccounted for. Quickly she sheathed her dagger and gripped the sword in both hands, scanning the scene before her. The caravan was in chaos. Horses and riders milled about, calling out in confusion, and the wagon was stopped aslant the road. One of the mounted rear guard had forced his horse through the shambles and joined his companions in trying to corner the half-orc, while the other stayed behind, frantically looking around in case of an attack to the rear.
Lakini spotted the seventh brigand. The girl in the garnet dress had lost her mare’s reins and, knee-deep in purple lupine and yellow flowers, stood by the side of the road, looking unsure whether to flee on foot or to pursue her mount. The rogue was charging straight for her, holding a long knife at his side. She stared at him wide-eyed, her mouth an “O,” frozen in shock.
One of the mounted travelers, a tallish woman perched sidesaddle on her gelding, saw what Lakini had seen.
“Kestrel!” she shouted, and, wheeling her horse away from the confusion in the center of the road, she urged her horse toward the girl and her attacker.
Behind her, Lakini heard Lusk mutter an oath. The mounted woman came between the deva and the rogue, and he was unable to release his arrow.
The girl in the red dress, Kestrel, backed away from the man with the knife. In her right hand she held a bunch of lupines, their purple blooms incongruously cheerful, and she raised them as if she were going to strike him down with her bouquet. He reached for her arm and raised his knife at the same time. Lakini raised her sword to her shoulder and ran at them. She couldn’t be sure of her aim with the dagger, not at this range and not with the mounted woman between them.
The man seized the girl by the wrist and jerked her forward. The mounted woman wheeled her horse about so violently, Lakini was surprised she didn’t fall off. The mounted woman uttered an oath and slashed at the man with her riding whip.
Startled, the man also swore in his turn and, without releasing Kestrel, turned and lashed at the woman with the long knife. He might have meant to slice at her leg, but he cut into the gelding’s side. The horse whinnied shrilly and shied away from him, while the woman fought to stay mounted.
He turned back to the terrified girl and raised his knife, streaked with the horse’s blood, once more. Two strides and Lakini would have him.
In that instant, the black-feathered shaft of an arrow sprouted from the man’s back. His head flung back and his spine arched, but he still held Kestrel by the wrist. The knife slipped from his fingers, and he flopped to the ground right at her feet. Kestrel wrenched her arm out of his grip as he fell. She looked ahead and flinched back, her eyes wide. Lakini turned to see Lusk before them, another arrow ready, pointed straight at the girl. He lowered his bow to cover the man sprawled before her, but seeing no movement, loosened the gut string.
A glance told Lakini the girl was unhurt. The other woman had subdued her horse and dismounted, her blue dress streaked with the gelding’s blood.
Lakini turned to survey the situation at the center of the road. The rear guard, armed with a pike, managed to knock the half-orc’s sword away, but she had drawn a wicked-looking dagger and was slashing at their horses’ heads. Lakini clucked her tongue in annoyance. It should not be such a task for three horsemen to take down someone on foot, even if it was a half-orc.
She cupped her left hand at her mouth. “You, with the crossbow! Yes, that thing slung on your back. It has a use.” The guard-like the others, little more than a boy-threw her a bewildered look.
“Don’t look so confused!” seconded the pikeman, who seemed to know what he was doing. “Shoot her in the leg, and get this over with.”
The young guard nodded, urged his horse back a few paces, and retrieved the crossbow, inserted a bolt, cocked it, and promptly sent it into the ground a man’s-length from the half-orc’s foot. Lakini stifled a groan and looked for the guard engaged one-on-one with the rogue.
He had managed to survive thus far. Blood streamed down his cheek, collar, and blue tunic from a cut beneath his eye, and he had a desperate look. The brigand was pressing him hard and Lakini was about to step in, when the guard’s stance shifted slightly and the panic vanished from his face, replaced by an expression of intense concentration.
Lakini paused, interested. Training and more, a fighter’s instinct, had taken over for the frightened boy, struggling for his life. Anyone who might make the warrior’s art his life’s work experienced this moment, being at once fully engaged with the opponent and detached from the battle, able to see it from all angles. The boy might make a fighter yet.
Behind them, she saw Lusk nock an arrow and look at her inquiringly. She gave him a slight shake of her head, and he nodded.
The guard let the brigand swing high and came, swift and deadly, under his opponent’s guard, slashing his sword across his midriff. With a piercing scream the man staggered back, clutching his belly. Without giving quarter, the guard swung at his foe’s shoulder, laying him down in the road.
Panting, with his sword raised, the guard stared down at the still body of the rogue. His face was once more that of a bewildered boy. As Lakini approached, he lifted his face to look at her, and he let the tip of his weapon fall.
In that moment the brigand, still gripping his sword, drew a last dying breath and with a convulsive movement lunged at the young guard’s leg. The blade was a handbreadth from his knee when Lakini kicked the rogue’s arm, deflecting the blow, which went wide. At the same time she plunged her greatsword into the base of the outlaw’s neck, delivering the coup de grace. Facedown in the dirt, the man convulsed, sighed, and was still.
There was a strangled cry from the cluster of horses as a crossbow bolt hamstrung the half-orc. She fell to the ground heavily, and the guard with the pike kicked the knife from her hand. Crouched on her hands and knees, she snarled ferociously, until the pikeman brought the butt of his weapon down hard on the small of her back, pinning her in the dust of the road while the other two bound her arms to her sides.
Lakini pulled her sword free and crouched, carefully wiping the blood from the blade with the dead man’s tattered sleeve and sheathing it only when it was clean. When she stood, she was a headspan taller than the young guard, who still held his sword as if expecting an attack.
“What’s your name?” asked Lakini as gently as she could.
The boy swallowed. “An … Ansel.” He looked up at her and frowned, trying to puzzle her out. “Ansel Chuit, ma’am.” He started to shake.
She made her voice stern. “Clean your blade, Ansel Chuit. Now. Never sheathe it soiled.”
He blinked at her, and his trembling ceased. Mechanically he pulled the edge of his shirt free from under his tunic and wiped the sword.
“Your first fight?”
He sheathed his weapon and straightened. “I was trained at the Three Fists Academy in Nonthal. First in my class at free combat.”
She cut him off. “Playing at swords. Your first kill, then.”
