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That Gil struck first had already given them the upper hand.
“Let's go!” the armored man roared as he thrust his axe toward the sky. A few energized shouts rose in answer.
When they went east, Thea went with them. She didn't understand their movement or reasoning, but she supposed combat strategies came from experience. It was their village, one they'd defended their whole lives, though the doubt and distress she'd heard in the one man's voice at the numbers made her wonder how great their chances were. The group she moved alongside was a dozen or so men, plus herself; they outnumbered the smaller bandit groups, but only as long as they met them individually.
The armored man led the rush and lunged into the raiding party with a bellow. His axe smashed into the enemy leader and Thea flinched. She'd never seen real violence before the throne room. She was unprepared for it now.
The village men positioned themselves around her. Whether it was deliberate or by instinct, she didn't know, but she slid forward to take on a raider by herself with a silent vow that she wouldn't weigh them down.
Her presence was a boon. The raiding party gaped at sight of her, her illusion-dark hair flowing like a banner in the wind as she dove forward and stabbed for a man's gut. The blade glanced off his armor, but the strike knocked the wind out of him and he stumbled. A villager finished the job.
A new worry streaked through her as the first raider collapsed. Gil's lessons had focused solely on how to kill. What if she didn't want to?
“So,” the village band's leader roared over the clash, “Kentorian women do fight!”
The exclamation bolstered her and she responded by diving in to slash her dagger across a bandit's thigh. The man howled as he went down. There, she'd disabled one. She didn't have to kill anyone. She didn't have to be like Gil.
And yet he did not kill, either.
Each strike that landed without doing more than causing injury gave her a new appreciation for everything he'd done. The guards in the palace and the ferry, the brigands in the mountains—he'd managed to fend them off without landing a single fatal blow. All it would take was one slip, one strike with imperfect timing. She pulled many too soon, leaving her opponents without any injury at all, but the village men were right there to defend her after every mistake. She was smaller, faster, but also without armor and at higher risk. She darted out to strike like a snake, then retreated behind the wall of their weapons and stronger bodies. They worked out a rhythm before the last man went down.
Before he did, the second wave hit.
The group from the west came at their backs as Thea landed her last strike and someone else drove the bandit to the ground. They turned too late for a perfect defense and the village men scattered like a fan, leaving Thea exposed.
She dove forward, toward the nearest raider, and slashed at his thigh. It was the fastest way she'd found to disable them, a strike they weren't expecting. But this man wore more armor, and her blade bounced off and stole her balance.
As she reeled, a club came for her head.
A hand snapped out to catch it a moment before the green cloak swirled past her cheek. Gil wrenched the club from the bandit's hand and surged forward with his knife. He struck hard and fast, and more times than necessary. The raider collapsed, screaming, and Gil started to follow.
“Don't!” Thea cried. She caught his arm before he could stab again.
He froze.
“Don't forget,” she breathed.
He slid back and let the village men descend on the man to do what they would.
Step by step, Thea reeled him backwards. His muscles were coiled tight beneath her hands, powerful and tense, yet he yielded to her touch as if hers were a grip like iron. His breath came hard and heavy, but he did not strike her as winded. He was too steady, too controlled, poised like an angry beast ready to fight.
Ah. She softened her touch and stroked his arm as she removed him from the fight, stepping backwards over groaning bandits left struggling on the ground. It was anger that boiled through him, present in every fiber of his being. A rage he could hardly contain. She'd seen that stance in him before, though she hadn't recognized it then. She'd been too distracted, too frightened, focused on nothing but the nightmare unfolding before her as he slaughtered the king.
As the last raider went down, some of the tension slipped from him and he turned to search her face. “Are you hurt?”
Thea shook her head. “The men on the slope?”
“Disabled.” Not killed. He glanced toward the villagers to be sure they'd heard. A handful of them split off in that direction.
The determination in their step gave her pause. “Will they kill them?”
“It is their right to do so. The people of this outpost may defend themselves how they please.” He tilted his head toward the inn they'd come from, then started off that way. “You need only focus on what we're doing, and right now, we are going to Danesse.”
“What? Right now?” Thea stumbled over somebody's arm as she followed. The man groaned. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“That was the agreement, was it not?”
“Well, yes.” She just hadn't expected it so soon. She started to return her dagger to its sheath, then paused in the middle of the road. It was dirty.
