“Who are you, and what in the Bloodgod’s foulest name do you want?” the guard challenged. He brought his fork down and shifted his hands backward on the haft. That put his points close to Croy’s chest and kept the guard well outside of sword range.

The knight smiled. “I am Sir Croy, and I serve the Burgrave, the king, and the Lady. I want you to drop that thing and run away. But I don’t think you will.”

“I think you’re right. Get out of here, knight—we have our hands full already.”

Croy shook his head. “I can’t do that. I want you to know that I’m sorry about this. But you serve an evil master, and I have much work to do tonight. So I can’t offer you any quarter.”

The guard’s lips curled back and he started to laugh wickedly.

Gurrh screamed then. It was not a pretty noise—it sounded like a lion being brought down by archers. The guard looked over his shoulder to see what was happening.

Croy took the advantage. It wasn’t the most honorable thing he’d ever done, but he was hard-pressed. He jammed his shield forward onto the tines of the military fork, hard enough to embed them deep in the oak. Before the guard could respond and pull them free, Croy twisted his left arm around—it hurt, but he had the strength to do it—and wrested the haft of the polearm right out of the guard’s hands. Then he hurled himself forward, leading with his right shoulder, and let the shortsword whistle through the air.

Swords wanted to cut. They wanted to draw blood—it was what they were made to do. Like a horse that when given its head will follow a track rather than traipsing off into brambles and rough ground, the sword cut through the air with very little help from Croy’s strength. It connected with the guard’s shoulder and bit deep into the meat of his arm. The guard howled and dropped to his knees as blood darkened his sleeve.

It wasn’t a killing blow. The guard would heal in time and feel no lasting effects. But it was a painful wound, and it would render him unable to fight with a polearm for the rest of the night.

Croy had promised himself that he would kill these men if he had to. He had steeled himself against the necessity. But this man had barely been paying attention. A killing stroke would have just been unsporting.

A good shake of his left arm—which was starting to pain him—loosened the military fork from his shield. Croy let it clatter on the ground and then lifted his blooded sword high. “Who among you shall be next?” he shouted.

Suddenly all the guards were staring at him.

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Six