Two were experienced and tossed their crossbows aside to draw swords. The last one — the one who’d laughed — tried to reload.
I roughly hacked the crossbow from his hands, then flicked my sword up across his neck. He seemed extremely surprised as he died.
The other two both seemed to know how to hold themselves in a fight, spreading out to either side of me. They both worepatchwork armor — they’d seen tough times, clearly — but their swords were well tended and sharp. It wouldn’t surprise me if these last two were veterans of the last war. Perhaps their mercenary company had disbanded and they’d drunk away their earnings? I didn’t really care. They’d made the poor decision to attack the people I protected. They’d pay for that.
Both tested me, lunges from either side, I deftly danced and blocked their tentative strikes. They could clearly see I was no one to be trifled with.
“It’s her,” the one said. “The woman from the Dragoons!”
That’s right.
“Yeah, so? I don’t care if she is as good as any man, she can’t take thetwoof us together.”
We’d see about that. I’d already killed three of their comrades.
“And she’s wounded,” the other said, considering.
That was true, and I was losing blood. I couldn’t afford to let this fight draw out… so, I charged one of them, turning my back on the other for an instant. Hopefully, I’d be fast enough to have one clean engagement with this one before they were both on me again.
My slash was wild, meant to keep him back as I got to the other side of him, but he was quick and managed to not only block my sword, but knock it down and away. I brought it back quickly, but not quickly enough. His sword came down on my sword arm and crunched against my chain mail. My arm gave even as I struck him as well, a blow to his left side. We both staggered away from the encounter with a grunt. My sword arm was half-numb and growing weaker. I didn’t see any blood welling up from under the chain links of the armor, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t done significant damage.
I retreated a bit farther into the woods and ducked behind a tree.
“Get her!” This a cry from the wounded one. “I got her sword arm!”
He had.
So, I put my dagger away and moved my sword to my left hand. It was a very good thing my father had trained me relentlessly in sword-work with both hands.
The man came crashing through the forest. I spun out from behind the tree and caught his sword on mine, flicking it out and away to one side. But what I hadn’t seen was the dagger he’d gotten out and held in his left hand.
I reached up with my weak arm and caught his arm as it descended, but I had little strength and only succeeded in slowing the blow, redirecting it a bit so the main force hit my pauldron, not my head. The narrow blade skittered over my shoulder and down the chain on my already wounded right arm. It caught on a link and bit into armor and flesh. A line of fire seared along my arm. It wouldn’t be deep, but it would weaken me all the quicker.
I brought my sword up, hacking into his right side, but he flung himself away at the same time with a cry.
Then the other one, wounded and staggering, came in again. I raised my sword to block his, but the blades met at an odd angle and my blade was knocked from my grip. Luckily, he was over extended, and his sword came down too hard sinking into the earth.
My right arm was next to useless, but I stepped in and punched him with it. It would only daze him, doing no real damage, but I used that time to pull out my dagger with my good arm, slashing it across his throat. He gurgled and fell back, lifeless.
The other man roared as he came at me, sword out. The blade hit the flare at the bottom of my breastplate and dented it thoroughly, but then slid off to one side.
Wounded as he was, he was quick and brought his sword up to block my slash with the dagger.
Then he tackled me, knocking us both to the ground. He was on top of me, but I kicked and rolled, turning the tables to straddle him. I’d lost my dagger, but my left fist would do well as a weapon. I hammered it down into his face three times before he tried to lift his sword. His attack was weak, his arm at a bad angle. I knocked the blade away with my bracer, then punched him again, harder. He groaned and went still, but he wasn’t dead, still breathing hard.
“Do you yield?” I asked, my voice raw and hissing.
“I do,” he said, though his nose was broken and he sounded like he was choking on his own blood.
I got up, slowly, unsteadily. “I see no need to kill you, but you’ll die soon if that wound in your side isn’t tended.
I found my sword and dagger, plucking them up. My right arm was bleeding and useless, my side throbbed with agony, and my gut — where my armor was dented — felt like someone had punched me. But overall — with five on one — I’d fared well.
As I staggered away, the man breathed, “By the gods, she’s a demoness!”
I grinned.
Damned right.
