horseback hidden in the brush on either side of the road. They were still a stone’s throw away, three on each side of the muddy track. The boy could hear their breath, their mounts shifting, the creak of leather on harness and belt, and the click of an arrow being nocked onto a bowstring. This did not bode well.
“Master,” he said in his usual calm tone.
“Yes, boy. What is it?”
“Men with horses and weapons are hidden on either side of the road fifty paces ahead.” He heard the rustle of paper and the thump of one of the Master’s books landing in the bed of the wagon.
“Well, now.” The Master’s voice held a waiver of interest, perhaps anticipation. “Well, well, then. Keep walking boy, but be ready. They mean to rob us, and we will have to kill them.”
“Yes Master.” Some of the Master’s words were unfamiliar, but the last were clear enough. The boy relaxed, slipping into the pre-fight meditation that prepared his body and mind. He catalogued his opponents, their number (which was seven, not six as he’d previously thought), their weapons and their positions. From this, he estimated the order in which they would attack and whom his first target would be.
As he predicted, the bandits crashed from the woods when they were about ten paces away, startling the carthorses, and bringing their bows to bear.
“Ho there, old man!” the burliest of them said, leveling a heavily-built crossbow at the Master and bringing his fidgety black mount abreast of the two cart horses. “This here’s a toll road, and you’re only allowed to pass if you pay up.”
“Toll road?” the Master said, a quirk of amusement in his voice. “I wasn’t aware of that. This is open land, sir, unless I miss my guess. And you are nothing but a thief. I’ll not pay, and you’ll let us pass.”
The boy could hear the falseness in the Master’s voice and quickly reassessed their foes; six men and one woman sat astride well-kept mounts. They all had bows: three crossbows, three hunting bows and the woman bore a short hornbow. Her eyes flickered between the boy and his Master, nervously. The crossbows were cocked and loaded, which meant they could be fired readily. Those would be his first targets. The others would have to draw and take aim first, which would take at least two seconds; plenty of time. He shifted his feet upon the rocky road, readying himself.
“That’s where you’re wrong, old man,” the burly man said, shifting his aim from the Master to the boy. “I own this road, and you’ll pay up, or I’ll put a quarrel in your young son’s eye.”
“Very well, you brigand!” the Master snapped, reaching to his belt and plucking out a bulging pouch. “This is all the real money we have. The rest is just goods, things we’d planned on selling. Take the money and go, but leave us the goods to barter in town for something to eat this winter.” He tossed the jingling pouch at the leader, forcing him to lower his weapon to catch it. The others relaxed visibly as their leader laughed and hung his crossbow over the saddlebow. He loosened the strings and drew the bag open, but instead of coins pouring out, a skeletal hand much too large for the bag to hold lunged from the dark interior.
“Kill them all, boy,” the Master said in a whisper as the long, clawed fingers plunged into the man’s throat. As the bandit fell from the saddle, screaming through the blood flooding his throat, the boy blurred into action.
He leapt into the air, tossing up the stone that was clenched between his feet and catching it as he spun. Before his feet hit the ground, he sent the stone whistling at the nearest bowman, scattering bits of skull and brains among the bandits. A crossbow cracked, but the boy had already calculated the bolt’s trajectory and intercepted the shaft in flight. Spinning again, he flung the heavy crossbow bolt into the eye of the next