To the High Redoubt by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online

man on the ground reached for his axe. He was still clutching himself and moaning, but he had recovered enough to be able to fight again.
    Arkady saw the movement, and he responded quickly, bringing the heel of his boot down on the man’s wrist. He heard the snap and grind of broken bone and the miserable wail with a guarded confidence. He had been able to reduce his opponents to two, and if his left arm could hold out, he was fairly sure he could defeat them.
    The man on his right shifted ground, looking for a way to get behind Arkady. He dragged his right leg, but not enough to make movement impossible. His axe swung ominously.
    Sensing this maneuver more than seeing it, Arkady pivotted, slashing with his long sword. He felt the tip of it rake the limping man’s mail, and saw the sparks where steel scraped steel, but then he lost his footing and stumbled backward.
    With an enraged shout, the leader was on him, bringing his axe high for the dispatching cut.
    Arkady thrust with his short sword, holding it low enough to get under the mail cuirass. With the other sword, he lashed out at the limping man, hoping to keep him back. The force of the leader on Arkady’s short sword demanded all his strength and attention, for the bandit writhed like a gaffed fish as the point sank into his abdomen and drove upward under his ribs. Arkady felt blood on his hands and spatters of it on his face, and he dodged as the bandit leader’s flailing arm brought his axe close.
    The limping man shouted, and his leg went out from under him. He thrashed, trying to reach the new, wide cut Arkady had given him. His axe lay on the ground, and he made no move to grasp it.
    Arkady rolled away from the body of the leader of the bandits. He felt weakness rush through him now that the urgency of battle had ended. Tears stood in his eyes and his left arm trembled so badly that he had to release his hold on the hilt of his short sword. He felt that he was about to be sick.
    The limping man wrapped a length of cloth torn from his sleeve around his leg, then struggled to his feet. He looked in silence at his fallen comrades, then stumbled off toward where the bandits had left their horses, gasping with every step he took.
    Two of the others had recovered enough to shamble after the limping man, leaving their leader and the second man Arkady had wounded behind.
    Arkady sat on the ground, his legs stretched out in front of him, his head lowered. He was panting and the cut in his arm ached abominably. He could not bring himself to turn his head and look at the bandit leader, though the dead man lay less than an arm’s length away; instead Arkady peered through the darkness to the other remaining man, who lay unconscious on the ground. He knew that he should go to the fallen bandit and cut his Achilles tendons, crippling him and punishing him for his outlawry, but Arkady could not bring himself to create another beggar to sit by the side of the road with a bowl. Slowly he got to his feet and made his way back toward the faint glow of the dying campfire.
    â€œArkady-immai?” Surata asked tremulously as he approached, hearing his uneven steps.
    â€œIt’s all right, Surata,” he said in great fatigue. “They’re…gone, most of them. The two that are left won’t bother us.” He sank down beside the campfire, seeking what little warmth it offered, his thoughts dazed. He cradled his wounded arm against his chest and fixed his eyes on a place in the middle distance. He could not tell how much he was bleeding.
    Surata shifted the blankets and the shield away from her and sat still and alert, trying to locate Arkady by his movements and the sound of his breathing.
    â€œOver here,” he said after a brief silence. “I’ve got a cut on my arm and I’ll probably have some bruises tomorrow.” He had long since resigned himself to such hurts, for they were part of a soldier’s life, but he was