The boy beside him yelled and fell backward as Hall’s opponent’s horse swung his head in Mathew’s direction. Hall turned in his saddle to see that Mathew was unharmed and, momentarily distracted, very nearly missed blocking the next attack.
The blow caught him high, driving his blade back toward his head and knocking him from his saddle. He landed in a squat and surged to his feet, collecting his wits as the two closest riders circled, one coming at him from either direction.
They might be poorly trained, but they were quick learners, having changed their tactic after seeing their companion’s demise.
“Surrender the thief to us,” one of them ordered, his voice mechanical and without emotion. “Or die with him.”
“I think not,” Hall countered, and reached out to grasp the leather thong securing his shield. One quick twist and the lashing gave way, dropping the shield into his grasp.
Let them come now. Two puny men, even on horseback, were hardly a match for Hall O’Donar.
He roared his challenge as they descended upon him and, lifting his shield high for cover, he slashed up at the closest man. His weapon struck home, slicing into muscle and sinew as the rider screamed and fell from his mount. One downward thrust and only two opponents remained, one headed toward him, one hanging back.
Once again, based on what they’d seen, they’d changed their battle tactic.
Hall waited until the last possible second to evade his attacker’s charge, bringing his weapon down in a mighty arc as he twirled out of the warrior’s path. His sword severed flesh and bone below the man’s knee. In response to the mercenary’s screams, his mount reared and unseated him, throwing him to the ground at Hall’s feet. Even wounded as he was, the soldier swung his sword toward Hall like a man possessed, driving Hall backward a step before he lunged in. From the corner of his eye, he noted the last man starting toward him as he made quick work of the soldier on the ground.
Beside him, Mathew rushed forward, roaring in a pale imitation of Hall’s challenge, his voice cracking, as is the bane of many a young man.
Before Hall could order the boy back, he felt the air around him thicken and heard an unusual sound he knew to be metal slicing through the solid air.
The sword in Mathew’s hands, so precariously held, swiped against Hall’s arm, slicing through the cloth of his shirt to graze along the skin of his shoulder.
Only a scratch and yet it took him to his knees as the pain of a thousand fires consumed his shoulder and a great roaring filled his ears.
Only a scratch.
Unable to believe his own eyes, Hall looked up from the thin red line of the wound to the boy.
Mathew clasped the sword to his chest and clamped one hand over his ears, a look of horror distorting his features. When the boy turned to run, Hall realized the world around him had slowed, stretching out, as if time itself had turned to deep water.
“Not so brave now, are you, big man?”
Hall swung his head back around to find the last of Torquil’s men walking toward him.
“You should have left when we warned you. But, no, you had to involve yerself where you had no business being. And now what do you have to show for yer mischief, eh?”
Like the rest of his body, Hall’s lips refused to work. He could produce no sound other than a weak grunt.
“I’ll tell you what you’ve got. You’ve got yerself killed, that’s what. Perhaps in yer next life, you’ll have learned to mind yer own business and do as yer told.”
Unable to move, Hall prepared himself for what was to come as the warrior drew back his sword, waiting for the sound of metal striking bone to send him to his reward in Valhalla.
Instead, a whiningzingfilled his ears, like some giant summer midge headed in his direction. When he managed to lift his gaze, his attacker teetered over him, eyes vacant. A single trail of blood trickled down between his eyes from a spot on his forehead where a large metal point protruded.
The lifeless body toppled over backward, leaving Hall a clear view of the trail beyond. What he saw set his heart wildly pounding.
The beautiful Valkyrie charging toward him could mean only one of two things: Either the sword that struck him had been tipped with poison and he was hallucinating or, more likely, he was already dead and the Valkyrie rode to carry him to his just reward in Valhalla.
Nine
BOLLOCKS!”
Brie had spent the better part of the last week fantasizing about how events might play out when she finally caught up with Halldor O’Donar.
Thislittle scene had been nowhere in any of those fantasies. Halldor on his knees like some helpless puppy, waiting for that great grinning bastard who loomed over him to lop his head off.
Not on her watch.
