Page 108 of Bride of Mist
With a curse of pain, he dropped the weapon. In one smooth movement, she swept it up and out the window. Then she returned with a second clout from the tray. This one flattened his ear with a resounding clang.
He shook off the blow and charged forward again.
Gripping her makeshift weapon in both hands, she stepped sideways and used all her strength to bash the tray flat against his face. Blood streamed from his nose, and he lurched about in a daze for a few moments.
But in that small space of time, Gaufrid had stolen to the corner of the room and armed himself with the claymore.
“Surrender!” he ordered.
She ignored his command and weighed her options.
The claymore gave him the advantages of reach and power. But he was still vulnerable, clad in nothing but a leine, encumbered by a heavy weapon.
Did Gaufrid have his brother’s strength? His agility?
Dougal had claimed he was the best fighter at Darragh. She hoped Gaufrid wouldn’t prove otherwise.
“Drop it,” he growled, “or I’ll run ye through with my blade. I swear I will.”
She dropped the tray then. Not because he’d told her to, but because it was useless against a claymore. Her chances were improved with both her hands free.
She didn’t believe for one moment he’d have mercy on her. He was aware she was connected to Dougal now. The brother he’d sent to his death.
It was tempting to draw hersaisand snap off his blade. Stab him through the heart with herbishou.Then whip out hershoudaoand slice his head from his shoulders.
But Gaufrid was the laird of the clan. If it was discovered a heavily armed assassin had somehow sneaked into Darragh to kill the laird, she’d be hanged in the blink of an eye. Her mission would be compromised.
She had to rely on her wits and her bare hands. This was going to be a game of defense, not attack. She needed to disarm him and get out.
When he advanced, sweeping the point of his blade up toward her chin, she backed in retreat, angling toward the hearth. He followed her with the weapon, sneering in triumph as she was forced backward.
Eventually, her heel hit the plaster wall. She could go no farther.
Still he advanced. She shrank away, slowly sinking down the wall, cornered.
Gloating over his conquest, Gaufrid planted the point of the claymore between his spread legs and stared smugly down his nose at her.
She crouched before him, trembling and averting her gaze.
“Now,” he said, “we’re goin’ to have a wee chat, ye and me.”
Confident there was no escape for her, he lowered his guard, dropping to his haunches before her and resting the claymore across his knees. He never noticed she’d dipped her hand into the bucket of ashes beside the hearth.
“Who are ye, lass, and what have done wi-”
She threw the ashes into his face. He shrieked and tumbled backward, dropping the claymore and scrubbing at his eyes.
The moment she reached for the fallen sword, his groping hand closed around its grip again, reclaiming the weapon.
Blinded, he nonetheless swung the sword wildly about, nearly chopping the heads off the Fortanach brothers before they wisely scattered.
Dodging the slashing blade, Feiyan resorted to a risky tactic. Rather than retreating, she lunged toward him. Sliding to the ground, she skidded between his widespread legs to come to her feet behind him. Then, planting a foot on his buttock, she gave him a great shove toward the window.
He lurched forward and banged his head on the edge of the shutter, then caught himself on the stone sill.
Rushing up, Feiyan pounded her closed fist down hard on his sword hand. His wrist bent backwards, loosening his grip on the claymore. Simple momentum carried the weapon over the sill, and it plunged from the window.
No one screamed. It must have landed uneventfully.
