The Ciphers of Muirwood (Covenant of Muirwood #2)(90)
“Maia, behind you!”
Maia whirled and saw Captain Carew stealing up on her, sword drawn. She brandished her own sword, bending into a Paeizian stance.
“I am on your side!” Carew insisted, his eyes gleaming with the emotion of the battle. “Come with me to safety.” He beckoned to her urgently.
“I do not trust you,” Maia responded, and flinched as Carew lunged at her. He deflected her blade and grabbed her arm, pulling her off balance. “Sorry, lass, but I—”
He grunted in pain as a blade slid into the gap between her and his chest. Someone had sliced his breast, ripping open his tunic and sending an angry red line of blood down its ripped remains.
“Let go, or you lose your hand next,” Collier warned icily.
Carew did let go, using the hand to stanch the blood from his wound as he spun in another direction, lifting his blade to defend himself. He grimaced with pain and fury.
“I meant not to hurt her,” Carew snarled. “Just to bear her to safety.”
Collier snorted. “She was already safe,” he quipped. “Drop your sword.”
“I will not. I am the king’s champion,” Carew challenged. He went at Collier like a man possessed, his blade flashing in the sunlight. Collier retreated from the ferocity of the attack, whipping his own blade around to block and deflect the whirlwind of blows that came at him. Carew was the king’s captain, the most accomplished swordsman in Comoros.
Maia’s heart cringed with dread as she saw the look of determination on both men’s faces. Neither would yield willingly, she knew.
She watched as Collier continued to give ground. Suddenly he ducked low, twirled, and brought up a dagger with his left hand, jamming it hard into the meat of Carew’s leg. The captain howled with pain. As Collier straightened, he kicked Carew in the jaw, knocking him backward in a daze. The dagger protruded from the leg still, and Collier stood over Carew as he scrambled backward in the dirt.
“Is that really the best you could do?” Collier taunted. Carew thrust a fistful of dirt at Collier’s face, but Maia’s husband nimbly evaded the debris. He dropped low, grabbed the dagger, and dug it in farther before yanking it loose, causing a roar of pain from Carew.
“Drop your blade, or I swear I will take off your hand to get it,” Collier threatened.
Carew’s face twisted with anguish as he opened his palm, letting the blade go. Collier snatched it up.
Jon Tayt, who stood near Maia in a protective stance, suddenly leaned forward and hurled an axe, which spun end over end and felled a knight charging one of the Evnissyen. The Pry-rian saluted Jon Tayt with his blade, a sign of respect from one hunter to another.
“Watch Maia,” Collier called to Jon Tayt. “I will fetch her father.” As soon as Jon Tayt nodded, he took off running.
“Do not kill him!” Maia shouted at him. If her father was going to perish, she did not want it to be at her husband’s hands. She knew it would not bode well for the beginning of their marriage, even though her father’s actions had shown he was not worthy of redemption.
He glanced back at her, gave her a look of annoyance, and vanished into the melee.
The battle continued to rage around Maia as her father’s knights closed in combat with Lia’s men. One by one, the Evnissyen disarmed their opponents—she noticed they were fighting to wound or maim, not kill. One by one, the knights’ weapons were taken away, and those who had been disarmed were being herded toward the village green and the maypole. She saw Aldermaston Kranmir was already there, his face chalky white and horror-stricken. So was Crabwell, his elegant clothes now ridiculously spattered with dirt and grass.
Maia’s heart pounded inside her chest as the conflict raged around her. With so much commotion, it was difficult to keep track of the events that were unfolding. Suddenly three knights charged her and Jon Tayt at once. Jon Tayt positioned himself in front of her and howled with fury at the men who surrounded them, using axes in both hands to parry. One of the knights tried to run him through, but Maia deflected the death blow with her sword. Jon Tayt spun low to the ground, using the flat of his axe to break a knee and punch another man’s stomach. One of the knights fled. The other two dragged themselves away.
Moans and cries of pain sounded everywhere. Hearing the Earl of Forshee’s voice, she glanced over to see he was cursing savagely at Dodd. The two were battling each other, an unseasoned younger man versus a much older and more experienced warrior. Her heart seized with panic.
“Jon, you must help Dodd!” she told him.
“I am not leaving you,” he answered hotly. “The boy can handle himself.”
“No, he is too young. He—”
“I trained the lad, by Cheshu!” Jon Tayt said with a laugh. “He fights like an Evnissyen. Watch!”
The earl had a huge two-handed sword, and he swung it down at Dodd with savage fury. The younger man sidestepped the earl and then stomped on his foot, crippling him. The next moment he cracked an elbow against the earl’s cheek, stunning him momentarily. Spitting out another epithet, the older man swung his blade again, limping noticeably, but Dodd blocked the blow with his battle-axe and jabbed the haft into the earl’s throat. Forshee coughed and spluttered, and Dodd wrenched away his weapon and threw him to the ground. The earl tried to crawl away, but Dodd kicked him hard in the ribs and then seized his collar and dragged him toward the maypole.