“One chance to live,” Rafe said. “Throw your weapons down and tell me who hired you, and why.”
The man only tightened his grip on his blades.
Rafe gave the man a more careful appraisal. Everything about him said he was a professional, and that he wasn’t going to go as far as attempting to kill someone only to give himself up now. This man was never going to talk. He wouldn’t reveal his employer or tell Rafe how he’d tracked him. He’d rather die.
Rafe could accommodate that.
He dismounted, springing down to the ground several paces from the other man, who was so surprised that Rafe gave up his advantage that he hesitated for a moment, which was a moment too long.
Rafe executed a series of moves so familiar to him that he could do them asleep. His opponent was a competent fighter, and parried well for the first few thrusts. However, Rafe didn’t just follow a learned sequence—he always adapted to his opponents’ response. He had a knack for seeing a fighter’s move an instant before it actually occurred. Some people thought it uncanny, and it was the primary reason why Rafe kept winning battles—few things surprised him.
This time was no different. The man’s actions seemed clumsy to Rafe, as though he was moving through mud while Rafe moved through air. The conclusion was inevitable, and when Rafe saw an opening, he took it without thinking twice.
His sword pierced through the other man’s lower torso, just below the edge of his breastplate. Rafe retracted it instantly, confident in the result.
Sure enough, his opponent dropped his own weapons to clutch at the wound, desperate to keep his guts inside his body.
“You bastard,” he hissed out.
“Yes, I know,” said Rafe. “I’ve just killed you, but you have a while before you die. Hours. Maybe a day. Did you have anything to declare? Please skip the confessions. I’m not qualified to forgive.”
“Go to hell.” The other man sank to his knees, his face paling as blood began to seep through his fingers.
Rafe shrugged. “That’s all you have to say? Goodbye then.” He turned to fetch Philon, who’d only gone a little ways away, being very used to noise and violence.
“You can’t leave me to die!” the other man said.
“I can. I will. Unless you tell me something useful.”
“And you’ll take me to a village?”
“No,” Rafe explained. “I’ll finish you off quickly. Choice is yours.”
The other man grimaced as some great pain rolled over him. He seemed to be having some realization of his change in fortune. Rafe always wondered at the sort of soldier this man was. They thought they were invincible right up to the moment death took them. Rafe always knew how close death was. Though he put on a show of nonchalance, he respected the deadliness of a sword.
The man opened his mouth, about to say something, when he suddenly hunched over in pain and coughed up blood all over the ground.
Rafe sighed, seeing the signs of a brutal ending. “Very well,” he said, more to himself than to the man. “Though he doesn’t deserve it.”
To the man, Rafe said, “Straighten up. Now!”
He followed the order, though it obviously hurt to do so. He faced Rafe on his knees.
“What’s your name?” Rafe asked.
“Morton.”
“Close your eyes, Morton.”
The man did. Rafe took a step forward and swung the sword in an arc. A red line colored Morton’s neck, and then he slid to the ground, dead.
Rafe quickly checked the body for any indication of where he might have come from or who he might know, but found nothing. Just as he expected.
He glanced at the crossbow, then stomped down hard on it, breaking the mechanism. He turned back to the corpse, intending to snap the remaining crossbow bolts in two, but he didn’t see any. Had that bolt been the only one the man had? Strange.
Rafe seized Philon’s reins, mounted up, and returned to the crossroads. In all, the fight lasted less than a minute.
Angelet was still there, alone. She sat on her horse, staring at the hill to the south. It was not an interesting hill, and Rafe didn’t like her silence.
