The Warslayer(83)

Glory yanked the spear away, wincing at the weight in her hands and the pain as her cloth-wrapped palms closed over it. It was a footman's weapon, heavy as a pool cue from Hell.

The drunkard was turning toward her, staggering off-balance, mouth open to yell. Glory hit him in the side of the head with the spearshaft as hard as she could. Her bad shoulder made her pull the strike a little, but it was still hard enough. There was a sound like a cricket-bat hitting a ripe melon. He went down, and he didn't move.

She was looking down at him, trying to decide if he was still breathing, when a sound out of the farther darkness stopped her cold.

"You shouldn't a' hit Bakar like that."

Two more shadowy shapes came forward out of the night, moving with the ponderous unsteadiness of the far-from-sober. Bakar's mates, come to make sure he got back to his drink okay, and just her bad luck. She swung the spear around, grounding the butt with a thump. It had a wide leaf-shaped head, sharp and gleaming.

"I reckon you don't know who I am, mate. I'm Vixen the Slayer. I kill gods as a warm-up routine."

"You shouldn't a' hit him," repeated the one who'd spoken first, too drunk to take much notice of what she'd said. She doubted his friend was in much better shape, but it wouldn't take much competence for the two of them to kill her. All they really had to do was yell.

She heard a rasp as the one who'd spoken pulled his sword and started weaving toward her. It was a short sword; all three of them were wearing studded leather tunics and sandals, making Glory think of the Roman legions. His mate moved sideways, so that they'd be coming at her from two directions. It was a bar-brawl move as old as time, and no less effective for all of that.

She backed up, away from Bakar's body and the drainage ditch, moving to get the rock wall at her back. She had the longer weapon, and there were things you could do with a quarterstaff. It was too bad it was dark and she didn't know most of them.

The second one didn't have a sword. But he had a bottle. She heard it smash against a rock, and knew he'd be coming in close with a fistful of broken glass, and her armor didn't cover all that much. She swept the spear at them both, jabbing, driving both of them back, but it was only a matter of time before they found a way to get to her.

"Hey," said Broken Bottle, in tones of aggrieved and very drunk discovery. "It's a girl. D'you suppose she's one a' those— One a' those— You know. Those."

"She shouldn't a' hit Bakar," said Swordsman, who was apparently a man of few but very fixed ideas. "Let's kill her."

Broken Bottle lurched forward again, and Glory swung her spear toward him. Swordsman rushed in, trying to take advantage of her lapse, and Glory kept on swinging. The butt-end of the spear came up and poked him in the face, not hard enough to do any real damage, but it confused him at least. He reeled back and sat down hard, dropping his sword. It went sliding away up the road.

It would all have been funny, if it hadn't been so real. They were trained professionals out to kill her, and only the fact that they were drunk and it was dark had saved her from dying immediately.

Broken Bottle was still on his feet, the jagged neck of the wine bottle in his hand. Glory thrust at him with the spear, and discovered why spears were often impractical on the field of warfare. It went sliding in through a gap between the studs on his leather armor and sank into the flesh along his ribs—not a lethal wound, but bloody and painful—and then it stuck. The head twisted and the studs held it fast. She couldn't pull it free.

Broken Bottle screamed, a full-throated bellow of disappointment, pain, and surprise, dropping the bottle and clutching the shaft of the spear. Glory shook the spear furiously, but she couldn't pull it free. She gave up and shoved as hard as she could, knocking him sprawling. They'd have the whole camp here in moments.

She turned.

Ivradan was standing in the road, holding the other mercenary's dropped sword. The man was getting slowly to his feet, looking far more sober than he had a moment before.

"Give me that, little man, and I won't hurt you. Much," Swordsman said.

Glory stared for a frozen moment, unwilling to shout and distract Ivradan. What could she do? What would Vixen do?

She pulled one of her last remaining stakes from her boot, forcing her stiff clumsy fingers to fold themselves around it. Not long, but sharp, and his neck was bare. She could hurt him with it. Badly.

"Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?" she shouted to Swordsman, running toward him.

He was on his feet, advancing on Ivradan, but he stopped when he saw her. "Tadmar! Get up off your dead ass and be some use!" Swordsman bellowed, backing away.

Tadmar must be the one she'd stuck. She wished she could see what he was doing, knowing she didn't dare look. But over Swordsman's shoulder she could see the lights of the camp coming closer. Torches. And that meant people to carry them.