A Thief in the Night by David Chandler Read Free Book Online

a good strike, timed perfectly. The barbarian brought up one massive forearm and took the cut on the back of his wrist. Blood ran down toward his elbow. Before the bravo could finish his swing, the axe came around in a powerful arc that carved right through the bravo’s leather pauldron and sheared off half his bicep. The bravo howled and spun away from the melee.
    One of his fellows tried to duck low under the axe and get a knife point into the barbarian’s ribs, but the barbarian stepped aside at the perfect moment and the knife missed him entirely. The axe swung back and the end of its haft came down hard enough to crack the attacker’s skull. As the bravo fell, the barbarian kicked his insensate body away, so as not to tangle his footing.
    The man was fast, and exceeding strong, Croy saw. He would make short work of his six assailants if he wasn’t stopped. Rushing forward with his hands held high, Croy called, “Fellows, good men all, stop this now, let us converse and see if—”
    His words were lost in the noise as the barbarian’s mace—held in his presumably weaker left hand—caught a third bravo in the stomach and sent him sprawling across the room. The injured man screamed with a horrible wet sound that suggested half his innards had just been ruptured.
    The remaining three all rushed the barbarian at once, their knives flashing high. The one with the buckler took a mace blow perfectly, catching it on the small shield and knocking it backward toward the barbarian’s face. The barbarian took a step back, surprised at this resistance—the first real challenge he’d met—and another bravo took the opportunity to lunge forward with his knife and prick his chest. The barbarian howled and brought his axe around to slice off his foeman’s cheek. The axe was red with blood when it came back, whirling in its master’s hand. Continuing his swing, the barbarian brought it behind his back and embedded it deep in the buckler, splitting the wooden shield and the wrist that held it. Two more bodies struck the floor.
    Croy felt no fear at watching this spectacle of gore. He had trained himself, over the course of many years, to ride the wave of giddiness that threatened to freeze him to the spot. He took another step forward and raised his hands again for attention. “Stop this. Now,” he said.
    â€œJust a moment,” the barbarian said. Then he swung around on one foot, his mace whistling through the air. The final bravo had edged around behind him and was about to stab him in the back. Instead the mace shattered the bones of his forearm and he dropped the weapon. For a moment he stared at his hand dangling at the end of a crushed arm, and then began to scream.
    There was no other sound in the room. The air seemed to hang perfectly still, as if it had turned to glass and held every object secure in its place. Croy felt rooted to the spot, unable to move an inch.
    It was no magic spell that made Croy feel that way, but the simple focus of battle joined. It was clear this barbarian would not surrender without a fight. Based on what little Croy knew of his people, that was no surprise. The barbarians of the eastern steppes were born warriors all—they spent their entire lives hunting and fighting, and they were renowned for their pure bloody courage. Only a thin range of mountains separated their land from the kingdom of Skrae, but that fluke of geography was a true blessing. If the barbarians ever came to Skrae in pursuit of conquest, even Croy doubted the kingdom could stand for long against them.
    Now he was face-to-face with a perfect specimen of that warrior culture, and he didn’t know if he could prevail.
    â€œI believe you wished to say something,” the barbarian said. His lips drew back in what might have been a friendly grin—if the posture of his body and the set of his muscles didn’t suggest he was about to spring forward in