Or else Taddeusz had been Hell itself on a battlefield when he was in his prime.
“Lord Golsingh,” Hansen said, “I’m a, ah, a warrior who’s come from the far reaches of—” why not? “—Annunciation to, ah, join Your Excellence.”
“Is this a joke?” said Golsingh, looking at his foster father with a puzzled expression. One of the slave attendants who huddled as they awaited their masters’ pleasure began to laugh.
A crow glided from a treetop and landed nearby on the one corpse the victors hadn’t bothered to strip: the warrior whose armor hadn’t stopped a crossbow bolt. The bird cawed in amusement, fixing Hansen with its one bright eye.
“Yes, he’s probably Lopez’ buffoon looking for a new place,” Taddeusz said. He added in dismissal—no longer angry, because the intruder was no longer worth his anger, “Go back to your master and tell him to have himself at Peace Rock within a tennight or we’ll burn him and everyone else in his miserable village alive.”
Taddeusz and Golsingh both wheeled their ponies.
Hansen’s face went flat. “If you’re looking for a buffoon,” he shouted to the riders’ backs, “then you could start with the fool who led your right flank into that half-assed charge. It was god’s own luck he didn’t lose you a battle you should’ve had on a platter!”
The horsemen drew up; Taddeusz’ pony stutter-stepped as the warchief twisted to look over his shoulder. The freemen lifted the lances they’d laid crosswise on their pommels for carriage.
“I’ll handle this, Excellency,” Taddeusz said.
The wall-eyed crow danced from one foot to the other on the dead man’s chest, clicking its beak in mockery.
“I tell you I’m a warrior!” Hansen said. “I can help you more than you imagine in planning your next battle.”
“You lot,” Taddeusz said, pointing to the four slaves. “Serve him out.”
He nodded to Golsingh again. “Come along, Excellence,” he said. “We don’t want to fall too far behind the column. You never know what’s lurking in these woods.”
The horsemen trotted off together, spurning clods of mud and snow behind them. The slaves, drawing single-edged knives from beneath their rags, moved toward Hansen.
“A warrior has armor and attendants,” cawed Walker. If the slaves heard the words, they gave no sign of it. “What do you have except your own foolishness, Kommissar?”
The riders were out of sight among the trees. “Look,” Hansen said to the slaves. “This isn’t your problem. Why don’t you guys just wait a few minutes—”
The nearest of the slaves rushed him.
Hansen scampered back. The knife looked dull, but its wielder slashed with enough enthusiasm to manage the job if he got close enough.
“Look,” Hansen called, “somebody’s going to get—”
“I git his boots!” the slave cried to his fellows. All four of them were plodding after Hansen at the best speed their rag-wrapped feet could manage on the slushy ground.
Hansen jogged in the direction Lopez’ surviving freemen had retreated. Only his mind was cold now. The defeated men had scattered equipment as they fled, and—
A shadow sailed past his head with a caw and a snap of its wings. It landed on a fallen branch ten meters ahead, then hopped so that its black beak was toward Hansen.
Walker’s claws rested not on a branch, but rather on the stock of a crossbow. . . .
“You don’t deserve help!” the crow called as it sprang airborne an instant before Hansen snatched up the weapon.
“I don’t need help, Walker!” Hansen snapped as he turned to face his pursuers.
And that was true enough. He would’ve found something. Though maybe not this crossbow, a little off the track he was following and half-buried in snow. . . .
The slaves paused doubtfully when their victim turned to face them.
“Naw, it’s all right,” said the one in the lead. “It ain’t cocked, and anyhow, he don’t have arrows.”
Hansen lunged, smashing the speaker in the face with the crossbow’s fore-end, then using the tips of the bow to right and left like a pickaxe to the chests of the next two slaves. The second stroke caught only rags as the target leaped backward, squawling in justified terror.