“Well,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “if you’re so determined to see to your death, I won’t be ungrateful.” Neither of them looked away from the line of sword-bearing soldiers as they continued their conference in low voices.
“Have you a weapon?” he asked.
“A rock.”
“A rock? Do you know how to throw one?”
“Know how to throw one? Perdition! You just…throw it.”
He grunted, and the men dropped off their horses. In the length of time it took her to inhale, her rescuer had dropped his bow, unsheathed his sword, and pushed her behind him, away from the circle of soldiers closing in on him.
All bore broadswords and some held falchions and wickedly sharp daggers. They came forward in a jagged arc. The forest hunkered on the other side.
Her liberator swung at legs and arms, desperately outnumbered, but did not appear desperate in the least. He crouched on slightly bent knees, his eyes flitting back and forth with an expert’s care, moving with the grace of years of practice.
One of the soldiers stabbed forward, slicing her saviour’s tunic open before he leapt back. His unmarked surcoat and tunic fell away, revealing the steel rings of a mailcoat. He wore armour. Expensive armour that was well-fitted, and carried a gleaming sword worth a small manor.
Who was this rich rogue who stalked deserted highways and rescued demoiselles in distress, at peril to his own obviously noble neck?
Another clash of steel rang out, more flashing sparks, and another de Louth minion went down, dead on the road. Everyone backed up a few wary steps, and all was quiet except for laboured breathing and the gritty sound of boots on dirt as the men circled one another.
Sheer numbers assured Marcus’s men of their vic
tory, although their eyes flicked occasionally to their slumped comrades with a wary glance. Neither party appeared willing to abandon the fight.
“I think we’ve got them now,” Gwyn observed between pants as she kept her body conspicuously behind her warrior’s rock hard, pounding-heat body.
“You do, eh?”
She gripped several rocks so tightly. “I do.”
He swept his gaze down for a second with a faint smile. Blue-grey eyes, a body packed so solid with muscle it was like a mountain, and that smile. She felt another wild spark of hope. Three against one were not favourable odds.
On the other hand, it used to be five against one.
Another surge of reckless hope. It forced a smile through her fear.
“You’re enjoying this?” he enquired, looking back at their assailants. “There’s a riot by the bridge I can take you to when we’re finished here.”
“This will do nicely, thank you.”
He suddenly pushed her, hard, away from the circle of soldiers closing in on him. De Louth and his minions advanced in a line this time, swords grasped with two hands and swinging before their bodies. They backed her saviour up against the edge of the forest. His boots slopped through the muck.
Gwyn started flinging rocks, trying to distract them, but no one noticed. Perhaps that was because she hadn’t hit anyone. Cursing herself, she scooped up another handful and pelted the men with the small, stinging missiles. One clanged against de Louth’s helm.
As if it mattered. She might be what they were hunting, but she mattered naught anymore. Blood-lust had overtaken their ‘rescue’ mission, and she could hear their soft grunts as they parried closer and closer to their prey, taking no notice that they shoved her out of range as they did so.
Her champion backed up and stumbled. One knee hit the earth.
“Over here!” she screamed.
Three pairs of eyes snapped to her. She started running.
One soldier stumbled to his horse and spurred towards her. De Louth and the other paused, momentarily distracted. In that pause, her saviour took his chance. Dropping to his other knee, he caught up his bow and launched two arrows in rapid succession.
The second hit its mark first, embedding itself deep in de Louth’s thigh. He dropped to the ground, screaming. The first hurtling arrow travelled further.
It punched through the boiled leather armour protecting the chest of the rider just as he leaned sideways to scoop up Gwyn. He jerked backwards, his hands a death grip on the reins. The horse flung its head madly, skidded to its knees, and collapsed. Gwyn tripped and fell.