dog yipped once then leapt at the rib, trying to wrench it out of the fence while the patrolman tried to pull him away.
Lowa tiptoe ran to them. The guard turned at the last moment and Lowa cracked him across the temple with her bow staff. He collapsed. She took the tailbone of a calf from her pouch, gave it to the dog then gagged and bound the Haxmite. She crouched for twenty heartbeats next to the guzzling dog, stroking it. Well, it had worked. If Lowa hadn’t believed that the gods were human inventions for teaching morals to children, keeping the masses in line and giving succour to the dying, she would have thanked them.
There was no sign of other guards, so Lowa left the happily gnawing hound, jogged back to where she’d leapt the palisade and coughed twice. Some splintering wrenches and a couple of snaps, and three poles were dislodged while Lowa kept guard, arrow ready. No more Haxmites came and Mal, Adler and four more of the Two Hundred crept in.
Lowa led them through the sleeping fort to Jocanta’s longhouse. Mal had thought it wouldn’t be guarded at night; Lowa had been sure it would be. She was right. Torches burnt either side of the entranceway, lighting up Jocanta’s floral throne and shining dully on the iron helmet of her champion, Yilgarn Craton. He stood peering out into the darkness, war axe in one hand.
He was big, thought Lowa, but not bright. Any useful guard would have been in the shadow, looking out into the light. Lowa waited and watched until she was sure that Yilgarn was the only sentry then gestured to the others to stay put, handed her bow to Mal and strode towards him.
“What the—?” said Yilgarn, but Lowa put her finger to her lips, unsheathed her blade then beckoned him to approach. He smiled and came. She dropped her sword onto the grass, put her right hand behind her back and tucked her fingers into the waistband of her leather trousers.
Yilgarn’s brow knitted, his lips pursed, but then he seemed to understand that she intended to take him on unarmed and one-handed. He grinned and nodded. “If that’s what you want…” he said. He danced on his toes, hair bouncing from shoulder to shoulder, flashed the axe around in a series of complicated arcs, then charged.
Lowa leant back. A decapitation blow swished through empty air and Yilgarn stumbled. He regained his footing and lifted his axe high. Lowa darted in and drove the straightened fingers of her left hand into his armpit. The Haxmite champion’s eyes flew open and he dropped the axe onto his helmet with a clang. His right arm fell to his side, useless. One hand still behind her back, Lowa chopped his windpipe with the edge of her left, then balled her fist and jabbed him on the nose, one, two, three times. He flailed at her with his remaining good arm. She grabbed it, used his momentum to bring it across his body, leapt, and powered her knee into the dead arm spot between bicep and tricep.
He stood, both arms useless, blinking at her in pain, disbelief and rage, trying to cry out, but unable to make a sound through his damaged throat.
She jabbed him twice more with her left. He staggered, blinking as she wound up a mighty uppercut then powered a fist into his jaw. He went down, out cold.
Rubbing her sore left hand, Lowa walked into the candle-lit longhouse and found Jocanta Fairtresses on a large, fur-covered bed with an older woman and a younger man. All were naked, all were asleep.
Adler and the Warriors from the Two Hundred bound and gagged them before they were fully awake. They tied the chief’s friends to the bed and the chief herself to a chair. She struggled and glared hatred.
Lowa gripped her by her lovely locks and rested the sword blade on her throat. “Jocanta, you promised me two hundred and fifty men and women, armed and armoured. Tomorrow we leave. If three hundred – yes, three hundred – good Haxmite men and women have not reported to me at Maidun by the next full moon, fully equipped, then I
Lowa tiptoe ran to them. The guard turned at the last moment and Lowa cracked him across the temple with her bow staff. He collapsed. She took the tailbone of a calf from her pouch, gave it to the dog then gagged and bound the Haxmite. She crouched for twenty heartbeats next to the guzzling dog, stroking it. Well, it had worked. If Lowa hadn’t believed that the gods were human inventions for teaching morals to children, keeping the masses in line and giving succour to the dying, she would have thanked them.
There was no sign of other guards, so Lowa left the happily gnawing hound, jogged back to where she’d leapt the palisade and coughed twice. Some splintering wrenches and a couple of snaps, and three poles were dislodged while Lowa kept guard, arrow ready. No more Haxmites came and Mal, Adler and four more of the Two Hundred crept in.
Lowa led them through the sleeping fort to Jocanta’s longhouse. Mal had thought it wouldn’t be guarded at night; Lowa had been sure it would be. She was right. Torches burnt either side of the entranceway, lighting up Jocanta’s floral throne and shining dully on the iron helmet of her champion, Yilgarn Craton. He stood peering out into the darkness, war axe in one hand.
He was big, thought Lowa, but not bright. Any useful guard would have been in the shadow, looking out into the light. Lowa waited and watched until she was sure that Yilgarn was the only sentry then gestured to the others to stay put, handed her bow to Mal and strode towards him.
“What the—?” said Yilgarn, but Lowa put her finger to her lips, unsheathed her blade then beckoned him to approach. He smiled and came. She dropped her sword onto the grass, put her right hand behind her back and tucked her fingers into the waistband of her leather trousers.
Yilgarn’s brow knitted, his lips pursed, but then he seemed to understand that she intended to take him on unarmed and one-handed. He grinned and nodded. “If that’s what you want…” he said. He danced on his toes, hair bouncing from shoulder to shoulder, flashed the axe around in a series of complicated arcs, then charged.
Lowa leant back. A decapitation blow swished through empty air and Yilgarn stumbled. He regained his footing and lifted his axe high. Lowa darted in and drove the straightened fingers of her left hand into his armpit. The Haxmite champion’s eyes flew open and he dropped the axe onto his helmet with a clang. His right arm fell to his side, useless. One hand still behind her back, Lowa chopped his windpipe with the edge of her left, then balled her fist and jabbed him on the nose, one, two, three times. He flailed at her with his remaining good arm. She grabbed it, used his momentum to bring it across his body, leapt, and powered her knee into the dead arm spot between bicep and tricep.
He stood, both arms useless, blinking at her in pain, disbelief and rage, trying to cry out, but unable to make a sound through his damaged throat.
She jabbed him twice more with her left. He staggered, blinking as she wound up a mighty uppercut then powered a fist into his jaw. He went down, out cold.
Rubbing her sore left hand, Lowa walked into the candle-lit longhouse and found Jocanta Fairtresses on a large, fur-covered bed with an older woman and a younger man. All were naked, all were asleep.
Adler and the Warriors from the Two Hundred bound and gagged them before they were fully awake. They tied the chief’s friends to the bed and the chief herself to a chair. She struggled and glared hatred.
Lowa gripped her by her lovely locks and rested the sword blade on her throat. “Jocanta, you promised me two hundred and fifty men and women, armed and armoured. Tomorrow we leave. If three hundred – yes, three hundred – good Haxmite men and women have not reported to me at Maidun by the next full moon, fully equipped, then I
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