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One of the men cried a warning, and the two with shields stepped up. Surprisingly they did not draw, but thrusting their heavy shields at him attempted to knock him to the ground, while the others sought to lay hands on him from behind. At last Holt understood what they were after. “Hold, Brandysnap!” he cried. He hooked his thighs even more firmly beneath the front horns of his saddle, and clung like a burr to the horse’s back, defending with his own shield and alert for any opening to use his sword.
But despite his brave efforts, and the Skarmuch skills which did, after all, count for something, it could not last; they were too many for him. Though perhaps less soon than his assailants had expected, he plunged to the ground. But the first thing a Skarmuch trooper learns is how to fall. Holt landed, kicked, and in the split second before they fell upon him was up on one knee, shield lost, but in its place he had drawn his dagger, feeling the hilt, with its curious inset gem, settle with sweet assurance into his palm.
He swept a circle round him with the two blades, feeling an instant’s satisfaction as his enemies gave back before the glinting steel; but probably the last he would ever know. Snarling they drew their own weapons and three, at a shout from the leader, engaged him. Still it seemed they did not fight to kill, but it made no difference; if he held against these, defeated them even, the others would take him when he tired, finish him perhaps if he had angered them enough. And they were angry, for not only did he defy them, but Brandysnap, free from the need to keep his rider on his back and sensing that Holt was in danger, reared and fought with teeth and hoofs beside him. It helped, yet was not enough. The leader, nursing a bitten arm, spat an order that brought the rest to circle their victim; two drove off the horse with blades that threatened his belly. Brandysnap pranced out of reach and stood, snorting, watching his young master’s desperate stand. Even as Holt resisted with all his strength, the grim certainty of defeat loomed ever closer.
Suddenly, a white-feathered arrow came singing down the wind, and struck one of Holt’s assailants full between the shoulders. Two more shafts swiftly followed, and two more men dropped to the ground. The others cried out, renewing their attack, and Holt now felt the full brunt of their savage ferocity. There were no more arrows— presumably the battle was now joined too closely for sure aim. But a moment later a green-clad figure appeared behind Holt’s foes, and casting aside his bow, drew his blade and sprang into the fray.
Two of the men turned immediately to engage him. In a few seconds it was over; one collapsed with a single adroit thrust, while the other groaned and turned tail, clutching his severed wrist. Holt, left with only one antagonist, contrived to gain the advantage and slashed the man’s shoulder, whereupon he, too, staggered off. Holt did not pursue him, but stood a few moments to catch his breath and steady the slight shakiness he felt, now that danger and action were over.
He turned toward his rescuer, who was cleaning off his weapon with a handful of grass. This was not a broadsword like the Shean’s, but a curved hanger, made of some silver-coloured metal brighter than common steel. The stranger sheathed it and looked down at Holt, scanning him from head to foot with a pair of pale, piercing eyes. Giloran’s scrutiny suddenly seemed mild by comparison, and Holt felt acutely aware of his rustic appearance, the incongruity of finely-wrought orichalc mail glinting moongold beneath the coarse-grained hide of his buffcoat. Nevertheless, he kept his countenance and stared back. The stranger was tall, his long, dishevelled dark hair at odd discordance with very light skin. Though slender, he was plainly no weakling; he looked strong and supple as his finely-tempered blade, and quite as dangerous.
“Well for you that I chanced by,” he said. “I think you were over-matched.” His speech was brusque and his voice slightly hoarse, as if, Holt thought, he did not get to use either much.
“Yes,” acknowledged Holt. “I suppose I should have shot them first, like you. But I didn’t know who they were.”
“Courtesy is wasted on their like!” the other asserted. “They are Driuwain, ruffians whose only business here is robbery and the capture of slaves.”
“I see I’ve had a very lucky escape.”
“Lucky, ay, more than you know. But I could scarcely leave you to be taken by such vermin.”
“Thank you. I won’t get caught like that again.”
“See you do not. Lone travellers like ourselves cannot afford mistakes.”
“I was advised to wait for company,” Holt said.
“Then it seems you have found it.” The words might have been gracious, but for their tone.
“Are you going my way?” Holt ventured.
“Why not? Two together are more secure than one. If such is your wish.”
“It certainly is. I’m Holtworth Goodfellow, Yeoman of Westergarth, bound for Gwendirion. I can’t thank you enough for what you did, Bowman” he paused, expecting a similar introduction.
“A Fear She’an!” exclaimed the stranger, in a tone of complete astonishment. “If any had ever told me— I thought Earthmen had grown merely fat since they ploughed up this land, but not all, it seems. Let us go!” He went to the three bodies he had shot and wrenched his arrows from them. One gave a groan as his bane came free. “Let their friends tend them, if they will,” he added. “Or other scavengers, their natural kin. Come!”
He turned and made off along the road. Holt stared after him. Brandysnap had come to him as soon as their assailants were gone, and Holt had been gentling him absently while the stranger spoke. Holt’s sword was still in his hand; he wiped it quickly on the grass, sheathed it, vaulted up and wheeled Brandysnap to follow. His rescuer might not stand on ceremony, but he plainly knew what he was about, and Holt reckoned he could trust him. Holt shook the reins, and trotted swiftly after the receding figure of his new companion.
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