Page 63 of Bride of Mist
She braced for combat, flexing her knees and raising her hands.
He jabbed forward wildly with the dagger.
She dodged it with inches to spare.
He made another reckless slash.
She retreated again. But now the men close behind her were rousing. Judging the location of the first by his scuffling in the leaves, she spun, making a wide arc with her foot. It collided with the side of his head, knocking him back to the ground.
When she circled back, she wasn’t quite quick enough to dodge the next slash of the dagger. The point grazed her cheek, just below her eye, leaving a stinging trail that made her recoil with a hiss.
Meanwhile, the red-bearded man she’d choked had recovered enough to grab her from behind. As his arms went around her waist, she smashed her elbow into his nose. He stumbled back with a wail of pain.
Emboldened at the sight of her blood, the man with the dagger slashed forward again.
She raised her left arm, intending to strike his wrist and dislodge his grip on the blade. But he changed his angle at the last instant, and the edge sliced through her sleeve and grazed her forearm.
More incensed by her damaged garment than her cut flesh, she staggered back out of range, unfortunately into the arms of the waiting thief, revived from her kick.
“Hold her!” the man with the dagger said.
Arms went around her, while from the ground, through his crunched nose, the red-bearded man snarled, “Don’t kill her! She’s mine!”
She attempted to escape her captor’s grip, bringing her heel down hard on the top of his boot. She missed.
“You’ll have to take the fight out of her first,” her captor chimed in.
“Oh, I plan to,” the red-bearded man promised as he struggled to his feet.
The man with the dagger paused to sneer in her face. “And after, we can throw her in the river.”
Suddenly, from across the path, Dougal called out, “I’ve got your man! Let her go!”
There was a hesitation as the three outlaws turned to see their bald-headed, black-bearded cohort squirming at the point of Dougal’s sword.
After a tense moment, the man with the dagger snorted. “Go on. Kill him.”
“What?” The bald-headed man’s face fell. “Nay, nay, nay, Robbie!” he squeaked out. “Russell? John?”
It seemed none of his fellows much cared if he lived or died.
“Don’t kill me, sir,” the man begged Dougal.
This time when Feiyan tried to crush her captor’s foot, she felt the crunch of bone under her heel.
With a howl of pain, he hopped back, releasing her. But not before the man with the dagger could lunge forward to press the edge of his blade against Feiyan’s throat.
She glanced at Dougal. His jaw tensed. The blood left his face. She sensed he was going to surrender. Lower his sword and let his captive go.
But she wasn’t ready to yield. What Dougal didn’t realize was Feiyan could do dagger defense drills in her sleep.
“Nay!” she shouted.
“Move,” the man sneered at Dougal, “and I’ll do it. I’ll slit her bloody throat.”
“Oh nay you won’t,” she bit out.
In the blink of an eye, before mac Darragh could lose his nerve and drop his weapon, she ducked back from the blade. Grabbed the man’s wrist with her left hand. Punched him in the chin with her right. Kneed him in the groin. Then, when he bent forward in pain, she pinioned his dagger arm. A quick twist made him yap and drop the weapon.
