Chapter 12 #2
The men laughed louder. One slipped behind her, disarming her easily. He grabbed her around the waist, pulling her against him. The other two crowded in, one displaying a dagger in front of her wide eyes, his companion fighting to take hold of her kicking feet.
“Come along now, missy.” The man with the dagger leaned closer, pressing the blade to her neck. “Play nice.”
Rage struck hot through Hawke’s core. In a single move, he drew his cutlass and spun, delivering a kick to the dagger--wielder’s side that threw him to the dirt.
The man pushed himself up, grinning. “Ye might want to put that sword away.” He flipped the dagger and caught it by the blade before flinging it toward Hawke with a flick of his wrist.
Hawke leaned back, and the dagger flew past, missing him by mere inches before it embedded into a scaffolding post with a thwack.
Hawke smirked. “I don’t think I shall.”
At the loss of his dagger, Hawke’s opponent drew a cutlass. His companions released Lady Annabelle and joined him. The three faced Hawke in a line, swords drawn.
Lady Annabelle hurried toward where her sword had landed. Hawke wished she would flee, but alone, she might find herself in the same situation, or perhaps worse.
The first opponent darted forward and slashed. His lack of balance and footwork marked him as untrained. Hawke blocked the move easily, parrying with a twist of his wrist and sending the man’s sword flying.
The man ran for his weapon, and Hawke jumped backward before the other two could reach him.
He grabbed onto a ladder and climbed up the scaffolding, all the years of scurrying up riggings and ratlines lending speed to his ascent.
He heard the others following behind as he stepped out onto the lower platform.
Luckily the platform above him was high enough that he could stand straight without hunching.
The restricted space, however, would impede anything other than a horizontal slash or lunge. Not optimal.
He glanced down, ensuring that Lady Annabelle was a safe distance from the men.
She’d retrieved her sword and held it as she watched, as if debating where to attack.
Luckily the men’s attention remained on Hawke. And for the moment, anyway, they seemed to have forgotten all about her.
Hawke prepared himself, shaking his arms to loosen the muscles as an enemy climbed the ladder. The man jumped onto the platform. He held his weapon loosely, knees slightly bent, his weight balanced. Hawke assessed the man’s stance. He would be more of a challenge than the first had been.
The enemy attacked. Hawke blocked his thrust, disengaging by twisting his blade around the other, and then drove the man back with a thrust of his own.
From the corner of his eye, Hawke saw the man’s companion on the ladder.
The second man’s head and shoulders rose above the platform, and from this lowered position, he slashed his blade toward Hawke’s legs.
Hawke dropped his sword and jumped, avoiding the slice and grabbing onto the bars supporting the platform above him. He used the momentum to swing himself forward. The man on the platform took a step back, but he wasn’t quick enough. Hawke’s feet hit his chest.
The man grunted, teetering on the edge.
Hawke swung back, then forward again, kicking the man’s sword from his hand. Hawke landed, catching it. One more push sent the man over. He picked up the fallen cutlass.
Hawke climbed up to the higher platform. The man still on the ladder on the other side of the scaffolding followed, and the two reached the higher level at the same time.
The man was quick. Hawke had barely risen to his feet before the enemy raised his sword and slashed downward.
With a sword in each hand, Hawke lifted his weapons, cross-blocking the strike, then pushed forward, throwing the man off balance.
The first opponent—the dagger wielder—climbed up behind Hawke, having retrieved his sword.
He swung himself onto the platform. The men struck from either side, and Hawke fought them simultaneously, deflecting and blocking strikes as he anticipated each move from both men.
Clanging metal sounded in his ears. It was fortunate that the one skilled swordsman in the group was disarmed and lying on the ground below.
Hawke could handle these two, but three men on a narrow platform twenty feet above the ground might present a challenge.
Hawke glanced over the edge and saw the man had apparently given up the fight and was making his way through the rubble toward Lady Annabelle.
She watched him approach, her sword raised.
Blast! Hawke feinted, striking hard with both swords and purposely leaving himself exposed to draw his opponents’ attack. The two men moved in, lifting their weapons to strike.
He tossed his swords and jumped, catching onto a rope hanging from the roof above.
The men’s swords behind him clashed together as he swung down, landing directly on the man below.
Hawke rolled to his feet, shaking his head and raising his fists, prepared to brawl.
But the man didn’t move. Apparently both falling and being fallen on within such a short amount of time had rendered him unconscious. That was a relief. Hawke wasn’t keen for bruised knuckles or another blackened eye.