Hellrien drew in a deep breath and dismounted, preparing for a fight. Her position was unsuitable for mounted battle, the redshirt was holding the reins. She couldn’t just give up the caravan without a fight, not with half a dozen guards sitting inside the carts. She could well receive an arrow or a bolt through her neck, but that was the risk she was paid to take. She shouted in a calm voice: ”It’s a robbery! Out of the wagons, we’ve got ourselves a fight!”
”Ye’ve got yaself a massacre, darlin’!” the woman exclaimed, letting out a high-pitched laugh.
”Nobody ever listens”, quipped the man, drawing his blades. ”Going to get blood all over my boots, again. Third time this bloody week!”
The hooded woman sneered. ”As long as ya let me spill some... startin' wi' fancy hats there if she doesn't do as she's told!”
Hellrien looked over her shoulder at the carts and frowned. The back doors didn’t open as she had expected. Instead, she could hear clamor, crashes and shouting from the inside. Something was wrong.
”Lads…?” she called out.
”Is there a problem, sweetie?” smirked the redshirt.
The hooded woman chuckled and spun her metal club in the air acrobatically. The sounds and shouts from the carts died out. Then the doors opened. From her position Hellrien couldn’t quite see what was happening, but she heard thumping sounds as something was tossed out of the carts and hit the ground. Something that looked like a hand peeked out from behind the closest cart. Then a few guards stepped into her view, wiping their bloodied blades. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry.
They were grinning.
”Lass!” shouted Taraborn’s voice from the back. ”I think we’re outnumbered!”
The hooded woman cackled again and wandered over to the back of the first cart. She started bashing down with her metal club laughing maniacally, clearly unhinged. Hellrien could hear nauseating sounds of cracking skulls.
”Bout time, lads”, the redshirt said to the traitorous guards. ”We’ve been waitin’ on this fucking hill for hours. How ’bout you convince Ugly back there to get off his horse an’ play nice while we talk with Sweetie here.” He gestured at the hooded woman. ”She missed breakfast, you see…”
Suddenly the driver of the second cart twitched and toppled off the seat without making a sound, an arrow lodged in his temple. Hellrien looked up. The arrow had come from the top of the ridge, but the angle was too steep, she couldn’t see the shooter.
”Oi!” the redshirt exclaimed. ”Watch it with those arrows, lads! Still want to try you luck, Sweetie?”
Hellrien saw Tara slide off his saddle onto the ground, still holding on to his sword, keeping the approaching guards at a distance.
”It’s not worth it, Tara!” Hellrien shouted. ”We can’t possibly beat them!”
The hooded woman returned to the redshirt’s side. Blood and pink substance was dripping from the club in her hand. Her eyes gleamed as she glared at Hellrien hungrily. ”I don't like th' looks of that 'un”, she snarled, pointing her club at Hellrien.
Hellrien felt her tension rising. She just stood there, waiting for the pressure to rise through the roof and make her explode.
The three turncoat guards started to circle around Taraborn. Suddenly one of them cried and dropped to his knees, a dagger lodged in his back. The driver of the first cart, in the grip of rage for the betrayal, had stood up on his seat and thrown the knife. Regaining his senses, he jumped off the seat and tried to run for safety.
”Stop him!” yelled the redshirt.
”Noooo!!!” Hellrien screamed.
An arrow lodged into the driver’s back just before he reached the crest of a knoll on the other side of the road. The driver toppled over the crest and fell to the slope on the other side. The hooded woman howled with laughter.
”Run rabbit… run rabbit… thwunk... thwunk... thwunk... ahahahahhhaaaaa!”
”You bloody scoundrels!” Hellrien screamed. The redshirt leveled his blade at her.
”Stand down or we’ll fuckin’ cut you all down and help ourselves, deal or no deal. My friend here likes blood on her boots… Oh for fuck’s sake, that’s torn it! Take ’em!!!”
Taraborn was going for the two guards still standing. The first dropped as the longsword sliced through his neck while the other was knocked backwards from a fierce kick. The hooded woman was already sprinting towards the back of the caravan as Taraborn put a blade through the other guard’s chest. The woman reached Taraborn and swung her mace at his back while he was still trying to dislodge his sword from the guard’s chest. Tara twirled around and caught the mace with his cross guard. Winding his blade, keeping it between himself and the mace he then thrust it forward towards her neck. The woman managed to twist to one side avoiding death just barely, Taraborn’s blade scratching her neck. A few more brigands charged down the hill, blades drawn. The redshirt launched himself forward at Hellrien, swinging one of his swords towards her left side. Hellrien spun around and dodged the swing, drawing her own swords.
”If that’s the way you want to play it, then…” she snarled.
”Sweetie's got some fire! Well, I can dance too…”
Hellrien circled around the redshirt, swords ready. She could see she was up against an expert swordsman. The redshirt made another swing at her left, and Hellrien moved to block it. Too late she realized it was a feint attack as a vicious stab from his off-hand sword snapped out towards Hellrien’s gut. Hellrien spun around to dodge the assault, but only partially made it. The blade cut through flesh in her right flank. Hellrien yelped and the redshirt followed up with a blow to the side of her head with the crossbar of his sword. It hit her temple and Hellrien staggered back, blinking lights filling her view. Something caught her ankle from behind and Hellrien tripped backwards and fell down on the dirt, losing her weapons. The redshirt kicked the closer weapon out of Hellrien’s reach and slammed a booted foot down on her right hand, grinding it into the dirty cobbles. His sword moved to the base of her neck.
At the same time in the back of the caravan the hooded woman was taunting Tara, passing her mace back and forth between her hands but keeping her distance as they circled each other. The rest of the brigands were standing aside, not wanting to interfere with the show. The woman dabbed the cut on her neck, feeling the warm blood on her fingers, and grinned.
”I won' hold tha' against ya pretty boy ... you an' me could dance a diff'rent dance!”
Taraborn brought his blade away from the woman into a plow guard, moving away from her angling to put her between the archers on the ridge and himself.
”Give it up lad ...dun' wanna kill ya afore we've played.”
Taraborn kept moving, watching the woman with well-trained eyes.
”Put one in his knee unless he falls on them an' gives this up!” the woman shouted at the archers. ”Ya outnumbered an' outclassed darlin'…”
”Drop it, lover boy”, the redshirt shouted, ”or Sweetie here is going to be breathing blood and steel...”
Hellrien snarled and tried to bite the redshirt’s ankle. The man lazily kicked her in the face with his other foot, his full weight pressing against her hand, the tip of his sword pricking her throat. One of the brigands picked up her weapons.
”Yield or die”, he said. ”Last chance…”
”Fer fuck’s sake…” Taraborn grunted and slowly lowered to the ground, placing his sword down beside his knees. As the hooded woman approached, he slowly drew a dirk from his belt, dropping it beside beside the sword.
”Don't start carving the turkey yet”, the redshirt called out, motioning for some ot the archers on top of the ridge. ”Let’s get ’em trussed first”, he ordered as they advanced, cords ready to bind wrists and ankles. Hellrien gurgled and spat blood on his boots.
”Fucking blood”, he said ruefully, ”it’s always on the damn boots.”
