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"Shit, it's better grazin' land than anything to home, just like the man said," he replied; the scar made his smile gruesome. "And we left to get away from our families, anyhow. If you're such a great fighter, girlie, why don't you come over here and make me leave? I'll give you a kiss if you do."
The men around him laughed and hee-hawed at her, calling comments they doubtless thought very fu
"If you're such a great warrior, why don't you come over here and make me fight you?" she called sweetly. "Or send your sister, if you're scared."
"Watch out!" Alleyne said, snapping his visor down and drawing his sword again.
One of the mercenaries had pulled a light, yard-long javelin out of the hide bucket slung over his back in place of a quiver. It was a long throw:
But the horseman didn't cast the weapon he brandished over his head. Instead he gave a high, warbling shriek like an Indian war cry and put his horse at the water, shrugging off the surprised snatch his leader made for the bridle. The horse hesitated for only an instant and then slid in; the gray-blue surge came to its chest, and then it was picking its way across just upstream and west of the fallen bridge.
Alleyne shouted furiously: "This violates the flag of truce!"
Hank Bauer shrugged, looked up at the white rag, then pulled it free and tossed it aside. He laughed and called through cupped hands: "Hell, you can kill the little fuck for all I care. The dumb bastard's always pulling shit like this! I'd have killed him myself weeks ago except he's my wife's cousin."
The man charging across the creekbed was young, younger than her, with only a fuzz of yellow beard on a face that also bore a set of black painted chevrons; long blond braids swung from under his steel cap as he howled and brandished the javelin. Alleyne began to wheel his destrier, but Astrid smiled and put out a hand.
"Bar melindo," she said: My beloved. "Better I do this."
"Why?" he said.
"Because: " She frowned, not quite certain of what her intuition told her. "I think it may be useful. These men aren't lieges of Portland. They're fighting for money and plunder. And I think that all they respect is success in battle. If they respect us more than the Association: something might come of that."
His mouth quirked. "And it'll be more spectacular if you do it. You've got a damnable habit of making sense, darling. By all means-he's yours."
She suppressed an impulse to kiss him-that would not go over-well with the target audience just now-and leaned down for an instant, ru
It seemed to float towards her. Javelins weren't much used here in the Valley: but there was a game she'd played for years:
Her backsword came free of the sheath and flicked from left to right in a long curve, the arc of its flight perfect as a song in the mind of the gods. With a hard crack the metal-tipped wooden rod flew by in two pieces, just as the dragonflies she usually practiced on did. A cheer went up from the Dunedain still watching and another from the mercenaries on the other bank of the creek. The young man's astonishment made his voice break in midshriek; he was goggling at her as they passed in a blur of speed, and she could have killed him with a single sweep of the steel. Instead she wheeled Asfaloth and waited while he drew the heavy blade at his saddlebow.
"'chete! Give her the 'chete!" voices called from across the river, among other things, including advice on where to put it.
The man was a wild chopper; he almost killed her in the first exchange because her swordswoman's reflexes couldn't believe someone would just barrel in like that. He also nicked Asfaloth on the neck, and she felt her lips go tight in genuine anger.
Their blades struck, slid down until guard locked with guard in a skirl of steel on steel; the horses shocked shoulder-to-shoulder in the same instant. The easterner rose in the stirrups, throwing the weight of his heavier shoulders against her arm. Astrid smiled sweetly as she twisted her foot, got her toe under his stirrup-iron and heaved her knee upward sharply. The young mercenary's eyes went wide in panic; he yelled as he pitched up and to one side. Then he did something sensible, kicking his feet free of the stirrups and rolling over the crupper of his horse, dropping to the earth on the other side in a back-somersault. He landed stumbling, and Asfaloth was on him before he could set himself; the Arab mare was trained to ride men down. He dodged enough that the impact wasn't bone-crushing, but that sent him tumbling over the ground. He was sensible again, letting the sword go; you could get a nasty cut that way, particularly if only your torso was protected.
When he rose again he was weeping with rage and mortification, tears cutting streaks through the dirt and paint on his face, and losing themselves in the blood that poured from his bruised nose. He drew a bowie knife and waited.
Astrid laughed, and held up her sword, looking from the yard-long blade to the knife. "Do you want to die of stupidity?" she said, and flourished the weapon towards the stream.
The youth screamed a curse at her and hurled the knife, turning and ru
"Here's your wife's cousin, Sheriff," she called as she sheathed her unblooded sword and caught the reins of the mercenary's mount when it looked like following him. "Tell him thank you for the horse. It's a fine one."
The scar-faced man was laughing as she turned; some of his companions toppled from the saddle, wheezing and holding their sides and drumming their heels on the ground in mirth. My-wife's-cousin would probably never live this down.
"He won't thank you for it, Lady," the mercenary leader said, confirming her guess, and then touched the hilt of his blade. "See you another time, without a creek in between."
"We'll let you get out of bowshot," Astrid replied.
The mercenary looked at the riverbank on her side; better than thirty archers lined it, and they could swamp his men even discounting the three who had swatches of burning oil-soaked tow tied to their arrows. He shrugged and neck-reined his horse about, calling to his men to take the Protector's crossbowmen up pillion. Then he shouted and leaned forward, and his horse leapt into a gallop southward. The others followed him around the curve in the road in a hooting, whooping mass, bent on only the Gods knew what deadly mischief.
Eilir raised her longbow-she was one of the few who could shoot the unwieldy weapon from horseback. Her shaft made a long curve in the air, trailing black smoke, and went thunk into a balk of timber on one of the wagons; more followed it, until the air over the river looked as if vanished fireworks had spa
Alleyne reined in next to her. "They're happy," he said.
"Good," Astrid replied. "We've stung the yrch, at least."