minstrel’s out of his grasp. The watchman’s return would have skewered his
enemy, had the minstrel not flopped straight to the marble.
The guard guffawed, braced his legs wide, swung the halberd back for an axe-head
blow. As it descended, his hands shifted towards the end of the helve. Chips
flew. Cappen had rolled downstairs. He twirled the whole way to the ground and
sprang erect. He still clutched his spear, which had bruised him whenever he
crossed above it. The sentry bellowed and hopped in pursuit. Cappen ran.
Behind them, a second guard sprawled and flopped, diminuendo, in what seemed an
impossibly copious and bright amount of blood. Jamie had hurled his own spear as
he charged and taken the man in the neck. The third was giving the Northerner a
brisk fight, halberd against claymore. He had longer reach, but the redhead had
more brawn. Thump and clatter rang across the daisies.
Cappen’s adversary was bigger than he was. This had the drawback that the former
could not change speed or direction as readily. When the guard was pounding
along at his best clip, ten or twelve feet in the rear, Cappen stopped within a
coin’s breadth, whirled about, and threw his shaft. He did not do that as his
comrade had done. He pitched it between the guard’s legs. The man crashed to the
grass. Cappen plunged in. He didn’t risk trying for a stab. That would let the
armoured combatant grapple him. He wrenched the halberd loose and skipped off.
The sentinel rose. Cappen reached an oak and tossed the halberd. It lodged among