foot would have trouble getting through that prickering, scratching wall to the glade beyond. “He won’t like them, but he’ll go where I tell him-to.”
“Excellent.” There was a flush of excitement in her face and she sat straighter in the saddle. “I think the four are nearer.”
“Keeping to the shadows, but nearer,” Saint-Germain concurred, his penetrating eyes seeking out the forms of three of the men in the underbrush. “One of them is trying to get behind us.”
“Ah?” She pulled up her reins. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you say, Warlord.” Some of her exhilaration was communicating itself to him. He gathered the reins and set his boots more firmly in the stirrups.
She gave one nod. “Now!” she cried, setting her bay sprinting up the bank of the gully. Mud and stones flew from the horse’s feet as he gathered himself for the last surge upward. Then he bounded forward, crashing through the underbrush toward the thicket of berry vines as Chih-Yü drew her sword and gave an incoherent yell of challenge.
Saint-Germain was not far behind her. His gray, a deep-chested, long-legged mixture of Turkish and Russian breeds, had been carefully taught and responded quickly to the pressure of his master’s knees. Branches whipped around them, and as they raced after Chih-Yü the thorns gouged them, but the pace did not slacken.
Behind them, the four men burst from their cover with baffled, enraged cries, and one of them ran up the track, shouting orders in a guttural tone. Now that the men were in the open, it was seen that they were highwaymen, probably former soldiers or militiamen who had deserted their companies and had taken to banditry. Two of the men had long, well-cared-for swords and a third had a pike with the handle broken off short for close combat.
“Turn!” Chih-Yü shouted as she burst through the berry vines into the glade. She had already tugged her bay around, and he was crouching low on his hind legs, his forelegs pawing the air with the strain of this sudden reversal.
The gray whinnied in dismay as Saint-Germain dragged on the rein. The horse reared, almost overbalanced, then came to stand as he had been trained to do. There was a darkening of his withers, but he had great stamina and did not pant too deeply.
“They’re coming,” Chih-Yü said as she brought her sword up. “When they break through the vines, charge them.”
Saint-Germain nodded and drew his short sword from the scabbard on his saddle, cursing mentally the law that prohibited foreigners carrying long weapons. He touched his dagger again, to be sure he could reach it quickly.
There were cries and thrashings and the thicket of berry vines whipped in its private gale. There were loud protestations, and in a moment, legs were visible.
“Ready.” Chih-Yü did not look at Saint-Germain as she gave the order: her attention was completely on the men in the berry vines.
Though it was hazardous, Saint-Germain glanced away to assure himself that the other highwaymen were not coming up on their flank, and was disquieted to see a number of crouched figures running forward.
The men broke throgh the berry vines and rushed forward with a shout. Chih-Yü answered this with one of her own as she dug in her heels and set her horse for the men.
Beside her, Saint-Germain did the same, raising up his sword to strike at the man carrying the long-handled pike. The curved blade sliced the air and Saint-Germain brought his sword down behind it, and had the momentary satisfaction of feeling the wooden handle crack under his blade.
Chih-Yü rode down the nearer of the highwaymen, ignoring his scream as her horse’s hooves crushed his hips. She swung her sword low, taking a long swipe at the second man.
He ducked, but did not entirely avoid the cut. A red smear appeared on his shoulder and he howled with the pain of it. He could not bring his’ weapon up again, and knew in that instant before Chih-Yü’s sword bit into
“Excellent.” There was a flush of excitement in her face and she sat straighter in the saddle. “I think the four are nearer.”
“Keeping to the shadows, but nearer,” Saint-Germain concurred, his penetrating eyes seeking out the forms of three of the men in the underbrush. “One of them is trying to get behind us.”
“Ah?” She pulled up her reins. “Are you ready?”
“Whenever you say, Warlord.” Some of her exhilaration was communicating itself to him. He gathered the reins and set his boots more firmly in the stirrups.
She gave one nod. “Now!” she cried, setting her bay sprinting up the bank of the gully. Mud and stones flew from the horse’s feet as he gathered himself for the last surge upward. Then he bounded forward, crashing through the underbrush toward the thicket of berry vines as Chih-Yü drew her sword and gave an incoherent yell of challenge.
Saint-Germain was not far behind her. His gray, a deep-chested, long-legged mixture of Turkish and Russian breeds, had been carefully taught and responded quickly to the pressure of his master’s knees. Branches whipped around them, and as they raced after Chih-Yü the thorns gouged them, but the pace did not slacken.
Behind them, the four men burst from their cover with baffled, enraged cries, and one of them ran up the track, shouting orders in a guttural tone. Now that the men were in the open, it was seen that they were highwaymen, probably former soldiers or militiamen who had deserted their companies and had taken to banditry. Two of the men had long, well-cared-for swords and a third had a pike with the handle broken off short for close combat.
“Turn!” Chih-Yü shouted as she burst through the berry vines into the glade. She had already tugged her bay around, and he was crouching low on his hind legs, his forelegs pawing the air with the strain of this sudden reversal.
The gray whinnied in dismay as Saint-Germain dragged on the rein. The horse reared, almost overbalanced, then came to stand as he had been trained to do. There was a darkening of his withers, but he had great stamina and did not pant too deeply.
“They’re coming,” Chih-Yü said as she brought her sword up. “When they break through the vines, charge them.”
Saint-Germain nodded and drew his short sword from the scabbard on his saddle, cursing mentally the law that prohibited foreigners carrying long weapons. He touched his dagger again, to be sure he could reach it quickly.
There were cries and thrashings and the thicket of berry vines whipped in its private gale. There were loud protestations, and in a moment, legs were visible.
“Ready.” Chih-Yü did not look at Saint-Germain as she gave the order: her attention was completely on the men in the berry vines.
Though it was hazardous, Saint-Germain glanced away to assure himself that the other highwaymen were not coming up on their flank, and was disquieted to see a number of crouched figures running forward.
The men broke throgh the berry vines and rushed forward with a shout. Chih-Yü answered this with one of her own as she dug in her heels and set her horse for the men.
Beside her, Saint-Germain did the same, raising up his sword to strike at the man carrying the long-handled pike. The curved blade sliced the air and Saint-Germain brought his sword down behind it, and had the momentary satisfaction of feeling the wooden handle crack under his blade.
Chih-Yü rode down the nearer of the highwaymen, ignoring his scream as her horse’s hooves crushed his hips. She swung her sword low, taking a long swipe at the second man.
He ducked, but did not entirely avoid the cut. A red smear appeared on his shoulder and he howled with the pain of it. He could not bring his’ weapon up again, and knew in that instant before Chih-Yü’s sword bit into
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