Orphans - Kevin Killiany [19]
She dropped to one knee, bending all the energy of her fall to thrusting her sword upward and back. Her heavy belly threw her balance off, but she jammed the point of her shield into the dirt, bracing herself as the bandit threw himself on her. She felt her sword pierce his unoiled leather armor with a corn-husk crackle, the impact rocking her painfully forward against her shield and stomach. His weight fell across her back, one limp arm flailing across her shoulder to fling his sword into the dust before her as his face bounced against the crest of her helm.
Twisting her blade, she pulled and spun, rolling the corpse from her as she stood to face the third raider. Again her unaccustomed weight threw her off and her sure stance was flawed by a momentary stumble.
But the last of the border raiders was retreating, his back to her and his weapon undrawn as he labored the driver’s switch to hasten the laden packbeasts down the trail. If he hadn’t insisted on taking the plunder with him, she’d have been inclined to let him escape. As it was…
To her left her first opponent was struggling to gather up his sword, at least one arm clearly shattered, and scuttle to whatever cover the hillside provided. She left him to a lingering death and loped after his fleeing comrade. Her light shield swung from her forearm as her right arm cradled her belly.
Suddenly from behind her came the thud of riderbeast hooves galloping on the dirt trail. She turned, expecting to see Joac or even Lithal in the livery of Rowath Hold.
Instead a fourth raider, mounted on a rangy riderbeast of the lowlands, bore down upon her. Their rear guard. He had stayed concealed beyond the same out-crop of rock that had allowed her to catch the others unawares, waiting until she was exposed on the trail before charging. He wore not armor but peasant’s homespun—evidently a disguise, for the deadly steadiness of his leveled longsword marked him as a practiced warrior.
Part of her brain noted she was not the only left-handed fighter on the trail this day as she assessed her situation. Here the pass was too narrow to evade him and cover was too many steps behind. Her only choice was to meet his charge. She stood tall, feet planted wide with sword hand again braced behind her shield, the blade angled down and to her right, clearly prepared for his frontal assault.
The rider thundered straight toward her, bent low over the pommel of the saddle, his sword aimed like a lance. For a long breath the classic cavalry charge against the classic foot defense seemed to play itself out in the morning source light. In the last heartbeat the outlaw stood in his stirrups, swinging the sword above his head, ready to slash down from over and behind her shield.
Timed as though they had rehearsed this moment a hundred times, Ahrhi leaned right, left leg straight as right bent low, and raised her right arm above her head. Her sword was slashing low and wide even as his split her shield. A backhand swing in the direction of the horse’s charge did not carry as much force as a frontal blow, but it was a cut impossible for a rider in motion to block.
The riderbeast screamed as the sword tip sliced a shallow furrow along its ribs and the severed stirrup flew to clink metallically off the stone wall of the trail. The rider’s foot landed with a more meaty thump just beyond. Screaming his own agony, the rider was barely able to cling to his mount’s mane as the terrified animal plunged down the trail.
A wave of fatigue swept over her, and for a moment the narrow pass swam about her. She swayed, catching her fall by jamming the point of her sword into the dust of the trail, and stood for a moment, belly pressed to sword hilt, right arm hanging limp.
Chin to chest she saw her dangling shield was beyond repair. The bezel was bent, nearly broken, and the polished