The Tournament at Gorlan by John A. Flanagan Page A

unmistakable note of warning in it.
    The corporal stopped. He was armed with a sword. But he was facing a Ranger. Not one of the dilettantes like Willet, who had been appointed to the Corps in recent months, but a real Ranger, trained and ready to fight. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
    â€œMen!” he ordered and the other three soldiers stepped forward to join him, their swords hissing clear of their scabbards. Now Berrigan was in a dangerous situation. He was outnumbered and he was yet to draw his own weapon. Slowly, the corporal unsheathed his sword and turned an ugly smile on the former Ranger.
    â€œStep aside, singer,” he said. “I’ll give you two instruments for the price of one.”
    He drew back the heavy short sword, his eyes on the polished wood instrument on the table behind Berrigan. But beforethe corporal could act, Berrigan had drawn his saxe and stood ready to parry any blow the other man might attempt—either at the gitarra or at himself.
    There was a deep-throated thrum! from the back of the room and an arrow flashed across the bar. It caught the flared cuff of the corporal’s gauntlet, jerking his arm forward as it slammed into one of the heavy timber uprights supporting the ceiling of the tavern.
    The sword fell from the man’s grip as he struggled to free his hand, pinned by the arrow to the tough timber of the upright. His companions turned to see where the attack had come from. Three cloaked figures were advancing across the room toward them. One still held the massive longbow that had sent the arrow streaking across the room. The other two had saxes in their hands.
    As the three soldiers started to move to meet the obvious threat, Berrigan acted. He drew his own saxe and brought the hilt thudding down on the shoulder of the nearest man-at-arms, between neck and shoulder bone. The man screamed in agony and dropped his sword, clutching at his shoulder. His companions, now thoroughly confused as to where their greatest danger lay, hesitated and turned back to the singer. One of them aimed a diagonal cut with his sword—the low ceiling precluded a vertical stroke.
    Berrigan parried the blow easily with his saxe, and the sound of steel ringing against steel filled the room. Then he stepped forward and drove his left fist into the man’s solar plexus. The soldier was wearing chain mail beneath his vest. But the force of the blow crashing into his ribs forced the air out of his lungs and he doubled over, falling to his knees with a weak grunt.
    By now, Halt and Crowley were upon the remaining two soldiers. Crowley quickly slipped his throwing knife from its scabbard and parried a sword stroke with the two knives crossed in the classic defense. Then, as the other man’s blade was trapped in the V formed by his saxe and throwing knife, Crowley jerked his knives to his right and twisted the sword out of the soldier’s grip. It fell clattering to the floor. As the man stooped to try to retrieve it, Crowley hit him with a left hook to the jaw. The soldier, already bending toward the floor, continued the movement and fell to the rough boards, where he lay, moaning quietly.
    The remaining soldier, realizing that he was now facing odds of four to one against him—instead of the original four to one in his favor—dropped his sword and held his hands high in surrender.
    â€œMercy!” he cried, seeing his doom in the dark, deep-set eyes of the man facing him. There was no sign of pity there and the saxe in the man’s hand gleamed in the lamplight of the tavern. The soldier fell to his knees, his hands still raised in supplication.
    Halt glared at him in disgust. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said.
    For a second or two, he was unsure about what to do with this unarmed former bullyboy. Crowley solved the problem for him. He brought his saxe around in a backhanded blow, slamming the brass-bound hilt into the back of the man’s helmet.