bellows, but Emerald realized that they were actually winding up crossbows, the bows standing upright in front of them, each steadied by a stirrup. Another man in the background held the horses. The seventh was obviously the leader, standing on the verge with folded arms.
About the same distance to the north—back the way they had come—a large coach was approaching. The trap was closed.
The bowmen finished spanning their bows and lifted them to the horizontal. On the leader’s command, each one pulled a steel-tipped quarrel from his quiver and laid it in the firing groove. The sight of loaded weapons pointed at her made Emerald’s skin try to crawl right off her.
“What’s the range of those things?”
“Farther than us, but they’re only accurate close up.” Wart’s voice sounded very thin. His blush had totally gone now. He was pale to the lips.
Another command and the men raised their bows, laying the stocks against their cheeks, ready to shoot. They wore swords, steel breastplates, helmets shaped like hats with wide brims. They began to advance in line abreast, and Emerald could not help but imagine one of them stumbling in a rut and accidentally pulling the trigger of his bow. Their leader swaggered close behind, staying out of their line of fire. His red cloak was bright and grand; his helmet was more elaborate than theirs, with cheek pieces and a flange covering the back of his neck. He was a very large man, bushily bearded, armed with only a sword and dagger.
“Thrusk,” Wart said hoarsely. He turned and reached under the bench.
“Oh, no!” Emerald muttered. Then she saw that Wart had found the sword and repeated, much louder, “ No !”
He was staring at the advancing enemy with hate in his eyes and teeth bared like a dog. At least he had enough sense to hold the sword out of sight behind him—so far.
“Wart, you’re crazy! Throw it away right now! Now , before they get here. You show that thing and they’ll put five bolts through you in an instant.” Her protest produced no result at all, as if he had become completely deaf. Men! Why did men always think violence could solve anything ? “Wart, please! They’re in armor—you’re not! Even if they didn’t have bows, they’re trained men-at-arms! You wouldn’t have a hope against one of them, let alone six!” She could hear the coach in the distance behind her, coming slowly. Thrusk and his bowmen were going to arrive first.
“Run, Wart! Leave me and the wagon. Just run! See those bushes up—”
“ Run ? Run from bowmen? Run from horsemen?” He did not add, Run through a swamp ? as he might have done.
“At least throw that wretched old sword away. Be polite, don’t annoy them, then maybe Thrusk won’t remember you, maybe they’ll just leave you here and take me. And I’ll be all right—you said so yourself. Then you can go and…and…”
It wasn’t working. Wart still snarled, never taking his eyes off his old enemy approaching. “ Now do you see why I didn’t want to tell you? Now do you understand why I was strictly ordered not to tell you anything at all ? If you breathe one word, one hint that you were staked out for them to find, then we’re both cold meat.”
“Yes, Wart. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
“At least you have a chance.”
“So do you, if you’ll just throw away that sword. Now, please let go of it and get down from the wagon. Don’t make them see you as a threat, Wart! Be humble, Wart, please.” She had a sudden clear image of him sitting there nailed to the garlic barrel by a bolt through his head. And the shot might hit her by mistake.
“As far as Thrusk is concerned, I’m already under sentence of death.” His voice had dropped to a growl.
She had never seen real hate on a man’s face before—she could no longer think of Wart as a boy when he looked like that. Yet his only hope of survival lay in seeming harmless to the brigands.
The shrill wailing of that awful sorcery
About the same distance to the north—back the way they had come—a large coach was approaching. The trap was closed.
The bowmen finished spanning their bows and lifted them to the horizontal. On the leader’s command, each one pulled a steel-tipped quarrel from his quiver and laid it in the firing groove. The sight of loaded weapons pointed at her made Emerald’s skin try to crawl right off her.
“What’s the range of those things?”
“Farther than us, but they’re only accurate close up.” Wart’s voice sounded very thin. His blush had totally gone now. He was pale to the lips.
Another command and the men raised their bows, laying the stocks against their cheeks, ready to shoot. They wore swords, steel breastplates, helmets shaped like hats with wide brims. They began to advance in line abreast, and Emerald could not help but imagine one of them stumbling in a rut and accidentally pulling the trigger of his bow. Their leader swaggered close behind, staying out of their line of fire. His red cloak was bright and grand; his helmet was more elaborate than theirs, with cheek pieces and a flange covering the back of his neck. He was a very large man, bushily bearded, armed with only a sword and dagger.
“Thrusk,” Wart said hoarsely. He turned and reached under the bench.
“Oh, no!” Emerald muttered. Then she saw that Wart had found the sword and repeated, much louder, “ No !”
He was staring at the advancing enemy with hate in his eyes and teeth bared like a dog. At least he had enough sense to hold the sword out of sight behind him—so far.
“Wart, you’re crazy! Throw it away right now! Now , before they get here. You show that thing and they’ll put five bolts through you in an instant.” Her protest produced no result at all, as if he had become completely deaf. Men! Why did men always think violence could solve anything ? “Wart, please! They’re in armor—you’re not! Even if they didn’t have bows, they’re trained men-at-arms! You wouldn’t have a hope against one of them, let alone six!” She could hear the coach in the distance behind her, coming slowly. Thrusk and his bowmen were going to arrive first.
“Run, Wart! Leave me and the wagon. Just run! See those bushes up—”
“ Run ? Run from bowmen? Run from horsemen?” He did not add, Run through a swamp ? as he might have done.
“At least throw that wretched old sword away. Be polite, don’t annoy them, then maybe Thrusk won’t remember you, maybe they’ll just leave you here and take me. And I’ll be all right—you said so yourself. Then you can go and…and…”
It wasn’t working. Wart still snarled, never taking his eyes off his old enemy approaching. “ Now do you see why I didn’t want to tell you? Now do you understand why I was strictly ordered not to tell you anything at all ? If you breathe one word, one hint that you were staked out for them to find, then we’re both cold meat.”
“Yes, Wart. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”
“At least you have a chance.”
“So do you, if you’ll just throw away that sword. Now, please let go of it and get down from the wagon. Don’t make them see you as a threat, Wart! Be humble, Wart, please.” She had a sudden clear image of him sitting there nailed to the garlic barrel by a bolt through his head. And the shot might hit her by mistake.
“As far as Thrusk is concerned, I’m already under sentence of death.” His voice had dropped to a growl.
She had never seen real hate on a man’s face before—she could no longer think of Wart as a boy when he looked like that. Yet his only hope of survival lay in seeming harmless to the brigands.
The shrill wailing of that awful sorcery
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