Page 130 of Queen of Sherwood

Still, I didn’t notice a hairless chin on any of the grisly men in front of me. Beards, scars, and bulky frames for each of them. No mere novices here, or boys who would wet themselves when the fighting got tough and the blood spilled.

My closest enemy was fifteen paces away.

I bent my knees into a defensive stance, staff held in front of me with both hands. Will slid his blades together like a cook ready to make mincemeat of these fuckers. Tuck clanked his iron fists together and put himself in a boxing stance.

I calculated an invisible line in front of me, somewhere between a patch of soft mud and the first boots of the soldiers. It was a line I would not let these bastards cross.

Ten paces.

My heart thrummed, battle-lust singing in my brain. It was a deadly, ugly song, and one I had been crooning a lot lately.

Eight paces, and I could see the whites of the soldier’s eyes beneath his helm, nose protected by a cross-guard. He looped his sword in a circle, eyeing me and me only.

Problem was, there were five other men eyeing me and me only, too.

It wasn’t a problem for me, though. It was a problem for them.

Six paces—

And I lunged. Unexpectedly, swiftly, faster than a man my size should be able to.

Shifting from my defensive stance on my back foot to an offensive charge startled the first soldier and made him hesitate.

He steadied himself on his back boot, shield up—

And my quarterstaff cracked over it with a wooden crash.

Shouts split the night once I opened up the skirmish.

The soldier shoved his shield toward me, trying to slam into my chest.

I pivoted, loosened my hold with my left hand, and speared my staff around him, clubbing the dull end against his chest.

He let out a grunt. Rib broken, smashed. Began to double over before realizing the mortal danger he was in and trying to push forward.

I didn’t relent or give him time to recover. As his sword came up to meet my descending staff, I kicked with my right boot, hard as I could, and caught the fucker square in the shield.

It shoved him back, out of range of his sword—

But not out of range of my quarterstaff, with my long arms.

I spun in a full circle, wielding the staff like a cudgel, side-stepping at the same time.

The whites in his eyes grew large. His shield came up—

Too late, and my staff glided over the upper rim of his shield and smashed into the side of his head. His helmet crinkled like it was made of frail tin, and blood spurted from his eyes and ears as half of his head caved in.

I stepped forward into the guard of the next man in line, before the first had even swayed to his knees, dying.

Now I moved fast, the battle-lust taking over, everything else drowning away. The cries and shouts and clanging of steel around me vanished.

An arrow whizzed over my shoulder and struck the man’s lifted shield. Then another arrow thudded home, and he hid his face behind it.

A bad move. Because he lost sight of me as I ducked.

When his shield lowered, I was nowhere to be seen, low and crouched.

I swung my staff in an uppercut, skidding the end along the mud in a groove and sending a plume of dirt and grass into the air.

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