Chapter Eight #3
Bram grimaced as a boot connected with his ribs and managed to catch the man by the arm, wrenching him from the saddle.
The soldier hit the ground with a dull thud and Bram was upon him before he could recover and turn from all fours.
Planting one knee between his shoulder blades, Bram pushed him flat and swept the chain around his throat.
Gripping it in both hands, Bram hauled the iron links back toward himself while the Englishman clawed at his neck and thrashed beneath him.
It would take too long, he realized almost immediately, hauling the thrashing soldier up, using the man’s body as a shield as he circled to keep the other two riders in his sight.
Bram released the chain just long enough to seize the man’s jaw with both hands and give one violent wrench, which was followed by a faint but sickening crack before the body went limp.
He thrust the body away and circled quickly, refusing to give the sergeant an easy target.
They parried—Bram on foot against the mounted man.
The sergeant sliced wildly with his sword, his swings wide and predictable.
Each time the sergeant tried to wheel his horse for another charge, Bram stepped toward him instead, forcing horse and rider into a tight, awkward turn.
Barefoot and unencumbered, Bram was able to change direction faster than the horse could pivot, which meant the sergeant was never allowed a clean swing.
The third rider hung back, uncertain now, watching the fight unravel far differently than any of them had expected.
The sergeant, meanwhile, grew impatient.
With a curse, he dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and urged the animal straight at Bram once more, this time leaning low over its neck as he slashed downward with all the reach his sword afforded him.
Bram understood at once that he could not avoid the blade and reach the rider.
He stepped into the attack, twisting just enough to spare his neck as the sword glanced across the top of his left shoulder.
Fire ripped through the flesh as the blade sliced tunic and skin alike, but because Bram seized the man’s wrist as it fell, the blow lacked its full force.
This one, too, he dragged from the saddle, easily done since the man had overcommitted in his strike.
The sergeant toppled heavily to the ground, his sword flying when his hand hit the ground, disappearing into the grass.
Bram made quick work of him, bringing the iron cuff down, where bone gave way beneath the crushing blow. Another blow shattered the man’s nose, and the next struck his temple, rendering him immobile.
His chest heaving, Bram snatched up the fallen sword and turned toward the remaining rider.
The youngest scout had gone pale. For a heartbeat he stared at Bram, the barefoot prisoner standing over two dead Englishmen, an iron shackle still hanging from one wrist and a sword now in the other, both weapons bloody.
Whatever courage the lad might have wished for was denied to him, and he hauled violently on the reins, wheeled his horse about, and fled the way he’d come.
Bram took one instinctive step after him before stopping, his nostrils flaring with the certainty that the lad would return with every English soldier within riding distance.
Already moving, Bram stooped to wrench the sword belt from the sergeant’s waist before relieving the second man of his dagger.
He searched each body quickly, claiming a purse of coins, two waterskins, and a small leather pouch that hopefully contained some victuals.
The spoils were meager, but worth confiscating.
He crossed to the horses, fastening the waterskins and food pouch securely behind one saddle before thrusting the captured sword through its scabbard and tying the dagger beside it. Only when everything was secured did he catch the nearer horse by the reins and turn toward Anastasia.
“Take him.”
Receiving no answer, he glanced around the horse’s head, and saw that she remained rooted where she’d been, where he’d tucked her behind him, her face devoid of all color as she stared at the nearest body.
The Englishman lay crumpled in the grass, his neck bent at an ungodly angle, his lifeless eyes open to the morning sky while blood seeped from his open mouth.
“Anastasia,” he said, stepping around the horse.
She didn’t respond. Her gaze was fixed upon the dead soldier with the awful stillness of someone witnessing violent death for the first time.
His patience, already frayed thin, threatened to snap. “Lass,” he said more sharply, standing directly before her. “We must go. Now. They’ll be upon us at any moment.” When she still did not stir, his voice dropped. “Look at me.”
Her eyes found his, wide and glistening, unblinking.
“?Twas us or them,” he said simply. “That’s all there is to it.”
She swallowed but still did not move, her stricken gaze searching his as if seeing him for the very first time.
She was clearly in shock, and while Bram felt a pang of regret, he couldn’t stand and wait for her to work through it.
He directed her back a few steps and, with a sharp grunt of effort that sent a protest through his shoulder, lifted her into the saddle.
She gave only a small gasp of surprise, but he paid her no mind.
He gathered the reins of the second horse in his shackled hand, vaulted up behind Anastasia, and wrapped one arm firmly around her before digging his heels into the gelding’s sides.
“Hold fast,” he commanded. The gelding leapt forward, and the meadow dissolved into a blur of green and gold, the drumming of hooves drowning out everything but the wind.