his neck that he was lost.
Saint-Germain caught this exchange out of the corner of his eye and felt an odd touch of pride. Warlord T’en deserved her title, he thought as he brought his gray onto his hind legs so that he could hack down the fourth man, who had just freed himself from the thorns. He was pulling his sword out of the highwayman’s shoulder when he heard another shout—a loud, harsh sound—and saw that there were more men running in from the trees.
“There!” Chih-Yü cried out, pointing with her blade. “I make it seven men.”
“Seven,” he agreed, wheeling the gray. He assessed the weapons quickly, and was more concerned for the two long-handled spiked clubs, not unlike Crusader’s mauls, than for the swords. A well-aimed blow from those clubs would smash bones as easily as a mallet crushed eggs. With this grim thought to spur him on, he rode toward the nearest man armed with a club.
Chih-Yü brought her arm down as she rushed two of the men, and her sword descended with inexorable deadliness. One man fell, blood fountaining from an enormous wound; the second tripped and was given a painful but relatively harmless nick on the ribs.
“Kill them! Kill them!” one of the oldest highwaymen shrieked. “Bring them down!”
One of the highwaymen, much younger than the rest, made a rush at Saint-Germain, his long cavalry sword raised over his head. Saint-Germain swung his horse away from the blow, and kicked out sharply as the youth started to turn. His booted foot caught the highwayman on the chin and snapped his head back with a crunch. The young man fell, legs splaying, and was still.
One of the highwaymen had caught hold of Chih-Yü’s mount’s reins and was trying to drag the horse down. Chih-Yü hacked at him, once on the face and once at the thigh, and the man collapsed, but not before his companion with a club had broken her horse’s hind leg. The bay screamed and tottered.
Saint-Germain had cut down another highwayman when he heard the agonized sound of Chih-Yü’s horse. He turned to see the man with the club strike again at the bay’s other hind leg just as the oldest of the outlaws reached to pull Chih-Yü from the saddle. He reached into his boot scabbard and in one quick, fluid motion sent the dagger sailing to lodge high in the old man’s back.
The highwayman did not even scream. His arms lifted higher; then he toppled backward just as Chih-Yü’s horse fell.
Though pinned to the ground by her bay, Chih-Yü still fought. Her sword laid open the nearest man’s belly while she struggled to get free of the weight of her feebly thrashing mount.
One of the highwaymen broke and fled, and at that, the others faltered. Knowing that the skirmish was almost won, Saint-Germain singled out the man with the club and rode at him. This time he did not use his sword, but in a feat of amazing strength carried the man from the ground as he passed and flung him bodily into the berry vines.
Chih-Yü had just worked her way free of her fallen horse when Saint-Germain reached her side and came out of the saddle. She gave him a long, appraising look. “Who cut you?”
Until she spoke, Saint-Germain was unaware that there was a wound on his forehead that was oozing blood. “I don’t know,” he said honestly as he blotted the wound with his sleeve. “It isn’t serious.”
“Apparently,” she said, then looked down at her horse. “It’s a pity,” she said, before she brought her blade down to end the animal’s suffering. She stood staring down at the bay as she wiped her weapon and fitted it into the scabbard.
“And you?” Saint-Germain asked when the distant look was gone from her eyes.
She shrugged. “It’s senseless. There are Mongols coming to destroy us, and we must lose a good war horse to highwaymen.” She glanced toward the man in the thicket, who was moaning low in his throat. “Impressive.”
Saint-Germain said nothing. Her suspicion now could be fatal to him.
Saint-Germain caught this exchange out of the corner of his eye and felt an odd touch of pride. Warlord T’en deserved her title, he thought as he brought his gray onto his hind legs so that he could hack down the fourth man, who had just freed himself from the thorns. He was pulling his sword out of the highwayman’s shoulder when he heard another shout—a loud, harsh sound—and saw that there were more men running in from the trees.
“There!” Chih-Yü cried out, pointing with her blade. “I make it seven men.”
“Seven,” he agreed, wheeling the gray. He assessed the weapons quickly, and was more concerned for the two long-handled spiked clubs, not unlike Crusader’s mauls, than for the swords. A well-aimed blow from those clubs would smash bones as easily as a mallet crushed eggs. With this grim thought to spur him on, he rode toward the nearest man armed with a club.
Chih-Yü brought her arm down as she rushed two of the men, and her sword descended with inexorable deadliness. One man fell, blood fountaining from an enormous wound; the second tripped and was given a painful but relatively harmless nick on the ribs.
“Kill them! Kill them!” one of the oldest highwaymen shrieked. “Bring them down!”
One of the highwaymen, much younger than the rest, made a rush at Saint-Germain, his long cavalry sword raised over his head. Saint-Germain swung his horse away from the blow, and kicked out sharply as the youth started to turn. His booted foot caught the highwayman on the chin and snapped his head back with a crunch. The young man fell, legs splaying, and was still.
One of the highwaymen had caught hold of Chih-Yü’s mount’s reins and was trying to drag the horse down. Chih-Yü hacked at him, once on the face and once at the thigh, and the man collapsed, but not before his companion with a club had broken her horse’s hind leg. The bay screamed and tottered.
Saint-Germain had cut down another highwayman when he heard the agonized sound of Chih-Yü’s horse. He turned to see the man with the club strike again at the bay’s other hind leg just as the oldest of the outlaws reached to pull Chih-Yü from the saddle. He reached into his boot scabbard and in one quick, fluid motion sent the dagger sailing to lodge high in the old man’s back.
The highwayman did not even scream. His arms lifted higher; then he toppled backward just as Chih-Yü’s horse fell.
Though pinned to the ground by her bay, Chih-Yü still fought. Her sword laid open the nearest man’s belly while she struggled to get free of the weight of her feebly thrashing mount.
One of the highwaymen broke and fled, and at that, the others faltered. Knowing that the skirmish was almost won, Saint-Germain singled out the man with the club and rode at him. This time he did not use his sword, but in a feat of amazing strength carried the man from the ground as he passed and flung him bodily into the berry vines.
Chih-Yü had just worked her way free of her fallen horse when Saint-Germain reached her side and came out of the saddle. She gave him a long, appraising look. “Who cut you?”
Until she spoke, Saint-Germain was unaware that there was a wound on his forehead that was oozing blood. “I don’t know,” he said honestly as he blotted the wound with his sleeve. “It isn’t serious.”
“Apparently,” she said, then looked down at her horse. “It’s a pity,” she said, before she brought her blade down to end the animal’s suffering. She stood staring down at the bay as she wiped her weapon and fitted it into the scabbard.
“And you?” Saint-Germain asked when the distant look was gone from her eyes.
She shrugged. “It’s senseless. There are Mongols coming to destroy us, and we must lose a good war horse to highwaymen.” She glanced toward the man in the thicket, who was moaning low in his throat. “Impressive.”
Saint-Germain said nothing. Her suspicion now could be fatal to him.
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