The Sterkarm Handshake by Susan Price Page A

cudgel blow, hot and bruising, when it hit his thigh above the top of his boot. He yelled out in sheer surprise, though a sharper cry was pulled from him when the sword blade was dragged free of his flesh.
    Sweet Milk heard the cries, saw the sword dragged back and raised for another blow. Then Ecky’s lance skewered the Grannam low in the back, below his jakke’s edge, and took him to the ground. Shouting approval, coming up hard and turning his horse aside from the slope only at the last moment, Sweet Milk drove his own lance home, the blow jarring through him.
    The dizziness of fright and pain cleared from Per’s head, and he realized that he was still alive and still in the saddle, and so couldn’t be badly hurt, despite the blood. The slightest cuts bled most anyway. Looking up, he saw the Grannam above him, struggling on the slope. He could still be captured. Per’s own heart was racing, pounding, urging him on. He whacked Fowl’s rump and kicked him. The kick hurt his leg, but not much. “On!”
    Sweet Milk left his lance in the Grannam and jumped from his horse to run up the slope toward Per, scrambling with his hands where it was steep. He knew from his own experience that deep wounds often felt like nothing more than a hard blow, especially if taken in hot blood. The lad might hardly know he’d been hurt yet. Reaching the narrow path where Fowl was shaking his head and refusing to move, Sweet Milk caught at the bridle.
    Fowl had seen Sweet Milk coming, and smelled him, and knew him. Of the two, Per was the more startled by Sweet Milk’s sudden springing up, and raised his lance.
    â€œSterkarm! Sweet Milk!”
    The lance was lowered. “Out my way!” Per kicked Fowl again, ignoring the pain in his leg. Fowl jumped on the path, rattling his bit. Sweet Milk, buffeted by Fowl’s head, staggered and almost fell down the slope. He clambered onto the path above the horse, shouting, “Thou’rt hurt!”
    Per’s own yells deafened him to Sweet Milk. He knew only that Sweet Milk was in his way. He swung his lance around and threatened Sweet Milk with the butt end.
    From up the valley came an echoing shout of “Sterkarm!” as Gobby called them back. Hearing it, Per gave Fowl another kick. It was Ecky, scrambling up the slope, who got Per’s attention by slapping at his wounded leg and then holding up his hand, black with blood. Per looked down and saw the leg of his breeches, wet and black, and the moonlight catching the lips of the wide wound. He looked up and saw the Grannam disappearing over the slope above, and tried yet again to urge Fowl on, but now he knew the pain in his leg was from something more than a slight cut. Sweet Milk grasped Fowl’s bridle and firmly turned the horse off the path and down the slope. Fowl nimbly and gratefully found his own way down.
    Per wiped tears from his eyes, pushing up his helmet and smearing blood across his face. The tears weren’t of pain—he felt little—but of anger. He’d been bested, cut, and he’d lost his prisoner. Sweet Milk’s fault! Sweet Milk and Ecky, getting in his way … He knew, though anger wouldn’t yet allow him to admit it, that his own carelessness had been the fault. He’d assumed the unhorsed man was no further danger and hadn’t been enough on guard. The other riders came circling closer and their anxious faces, peering at him, made him wish them all a hundred miles away and himself alone. But he was glad they were there.
    Gobby yelled again. Sweet Milk, down at Fowl’s side, said, “Shut tha gob, Gobby.”
    Per surprised himself by laughing, and Sweet Milk looked up, grinning. “Let’s look at this.” He shoved Fowl around until Per’s wounded leg was in the best of the moonlight. Even so, it was hard to see—and Fowl kept turning his head, nudging at Per’s foot and Sweet Milk’s arms. Fowl knew