back. “Cousin! Behind us! They are intent on murder!”
A dozen marauders wearing masks tore into the clearing. Slicing blades cleaved through shelters, and bows littered the air with deadly arrows.
Asem broke free and barreled into the nest of intruders. Although Jacob called his dog’s name, he did not appear ready to sacrifice his life in pursuit. He edged closer to their little band and loaded his crossbow. Dryden’s cousin retrieved a dagger, determination replacing panic on his face. Leaner, shorter, he seemed a pale pretender to Dryden’s dark looks and muscular build.
Meg frowned. “They’re wearing mail. Are they soldiers?”
“She’s right,” said Dryden, pulling on his helmet. “I can hear the metal.”
Fear leaked from Dryden’s skin like sweat. What happened to the vengeful warrior Will had fought by the riverside?
Tattered homespun garments disguised full coats of mail. The attackers scattered before Asem’s charge, only to fan across the clearing with the precision of a trained army, surrounding everyone. These were no ordinary highwaymen.
But Will did not intend to make sense of the violence. “They’re trying hard to appear otherwise. Anything in that alms-bag, Meg?”
“I used the last of it yesterday.”
“We’ll have to fight our way free.”
“Lead the way.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Soldiers, danger, blind girl. These things don’t mix. And you cannot help your sister if you’re dead.” Without grace or care, he shoved her into a dense patch of shrubbery. “You stay hidden until we can get clear. Promise me.”
She smiled sweetly, said nothing, and burrowed deeper into the cover of foliage.
A man assaulted him from behind. He leapt aside to get clear of a broadsword’s downward arc, rushing away from Meg’s hiding place. His opponent followed. Will ducked and drew his own weapon. Catching each blow, he shambled toward where Dryden and the others confronted another pair of soldiers in disguise. He caught his foot on a gnarled tree root and landed awkwardly, his sword flying free.
When his opponent reared for a killing strike, Will swept his right leg, buckling the man’s knees and pulling him forward. The sword drove into the ground near Will’s head. He wrenched a dagger from the fallen man’s belt, driving it between his shoulder blades.
Retrieving his sword, he turned to see Jacob plant an arrow between the eyes of a man bearing down on them. “Gramercy,” he said.
The lad exchanged his empty crossbow for a pair of exotic curved knives. “If we can get north, the swamps will aid our escape.”
“Swamps? I think I prefer the trees.”
“Anything is preferable to this place.”
Will clambered to a nearby shelter and scooped up a dead woodman’s bow. Drawing three arrows from a quiver, he stabbed them into the yielding earth and took a knee. With more haste than precision, he fired each in quick succession. A blaze of pain in his shoulder ruined his accuracy, but he managed to clip two marauders. The first tumbled and rolled, clutching his upper thigh. The other arched and collapsed, an arrow protruding from his gut.
Looking across the picture of chaos, he searched for allies. Hugo, Fuller, and the other peasants stood their ground, armed and ready in little clumps around their shelters, but the peculiar highwaymen no longer paid them any mind. The trio of running men fighting alongside Jacob and Dryden seemed their only intent.
And then he found Meg.
Nearly concealed from the chaos, she knelt behind the largest structure in the glade, a makeshift waddle-and-daub shelter suitable for four people. She cut off a hank of her hair with a dagger and piled loose, dark locks atop a small stack of kindling.
His brain registered her intent even before she pulled a wedge of flint from her alms-bag. He tossed the bow and quiver and broke into a run, dodging skirmishes and jumping over bodies, but the first spark proved all she needed. Hair and kindling
A dozen marauders wearing masks tore into the clearing. Slicing blades cleaved through shelters, and bows littered the air with deadly arrows.
Asem broke free and barreled into the nest of intruders. Although Jacob called his dog’s name, he did not appear ready to sacrifice his life in pursuit. He edged closer to their little band and loaded his crossbow. Dryden’s cousin retrieved a dagger, determination replacing panic on his face. Leaner, shorter, he seemed a pale pretender to Dryden’s dark looks and muscular build.
Meg frowned. “They’re wearing mail. Are they soldiers?”
“She’s right,” said Dryden, pulling on his helmet. “I can hear the metal.”
Fear leaked from Dryden’s skin like sweat. What happened to the vengeful warrior Will had fought by the riverside?
Tattered homespun garments disguised full coats of mail. The attackers scattered before Asem’s charge, only to fan across the clearing with the precision of a trained army, surrounding everyone. These were no ordinary highwaymen.
But Will did not intend to make sense of the violence. “They’re trying hard to appear otherwise. Anything in that alms-bag, Meg?”
“I used the last of it yesterday.”
“We’ll have to fight our way free.”
“Lead the way.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “Soldiers, danger, blind girl. These things don’t mix. And you cannot help your sister if you’re dead.” Without grace or care, he shoved her into a dense patch of shrubbery. “You stay hidden until we can get clear. Promise me.”
She smiled sweetly, said nothing, and burrowed deeper into the cover of foliage.
A man assaulted him from behind. He leapt aside to get clear of a broadsword’s downward arc, rushing away from Meg’s hiding place. His opponent followed. Will ducked and drew his own weapon. Catching each blow, he shambled toward where Dryden and the others confronted another pair of soldiers in disguise. He caught his foot on a gnarled tree root and landed awkwardly, his sword flying free.
When his opponent reared for a killing strike, Will swept his right leg, buckling the man’s knees and pulling him forward. The sword drove into the ground near Will’s head. He wrenched a dagger from the fallen man’s belt, driving it between his shoulder blades.
Retrieving his sword, he turned to see Jacob plant an arrow between the eyes of a man bearing down on them. “Gramercy,” he said.
The lad exchanged his empty crossbow for a pair of exotic curved knives. “If we can get north, the swamps will aid our escape.”
“Swamps? I think I prefer the trees.”
“Anything is preferable to this place.”
Will clambered to a nearby shelter and scooped up a dead woodman’s bow. Drawing three arrows from a quiver, he stabbed them into the yielding earth and took a knee. With more haste than precision, he fired each in quick succession. A blaze of pain in his shoulder ruined his accuracy, but he managed to clip two marauders. The first tumbled and rolled, clutching his upper thigh. The other arched and collapsed, an arrow protruding from his gut.
Looking across the picture of chaos, he searched for allies. Hugo, Fuller, and the other peasants stood their ground, armed and ready in little clumps around their shelters, but the peculiar highwaymen no longer paid them any mind. The trio of running men fighting alongside Jacob and Dryden seemed their only intent.
And then he found Meg.
Nearly concealed from the chaos, she knelt behind the largest structure in the glade, a makeshift waddle-and-daub shelter suitable for four people. She cut off a hank of her hair with a dagger and piled loose, dark locks atop a small stack of kindling.
His brain registered her intent even before she pulled a wedge of flint from her alms-bag. He tossed the bow and quiver and broke into a run, dodging skirmishes and jumping over bodies, but the first spark proved all she needed. Hair and kindling
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