~*~
Trixie thoroughly enjoyed Grandpa Nash’s company. She always thought of him this way now. Some people have a particular, unmistakable nature, as though they are simply born to be a specific thing. Some women are naturally maternal and it is obvious even when they are little girls playing with their dolls. Some people are natural leaders, or diplomats, or soldiers. Whether or not they actually do what they seem fated to do is another matter. Plenty of maternal women never have children, and not everyone born to lead ever has an opportunity to do so.
Trixie considered Nash a natural grandfather. She never met anyone so obviously grandfatherly—the look, the attitude, the patience—everything. After four days on the road together, she felt as though she had known him all her life. Her reading rapidly improved, too, due to his patient tutelage. She could now actually read all of the words in Run Bunny Run.
Grandpa Nash produced another book for her, this one about a dog, named Spot, which also seemed to like to run. It lacked much of a plot, but she became exited when she realized she knew and could read most of the words written on the pages.
A light rain fell most of the night before. Fortunately, they had already stopped for the day at a small inn at a way station, and they were resting dryly indoors well before it started.
In the morning, they found the packed dirt road dotted with shallow puddles and slippery with mud in places. Nonetheless, they maintained the slow jogging pace they had established as their routine. Trixie, of course, could keep such a pace for a long time without discomfort. How well Grandpa Nash could keep up still amazed her, but he never complained or asked her to slow. She glanced over at him and saw his belly bouncing and his white beard swaying back and forth. Amazing.
Later that day, their road became little more than a narrow dirt track meandering lazily with no apparent sense of purpose or direction through a thick patch of woods. The canopy of leaves partially shielded the road from the evening’s rain and the path remained dry, at least in comparison to the soggy track outside the cover of the trees. Also, the uninterrupted shade made the air a bit cooler. Trixie picked up the pace just a notch. Grandpa Nash followed suit immediately.
Turning a sharp bend, she found four men blocking the road. The one in front held a sword. It was not a fancy sword, by any means, or even a very good one, if you wanted to get right down to it, but it did have a pointy end, and, right now, he pointed it at Trixie.
“Stand and deliver,” the owner of the battered sword commanded with the confident authority provided by about four feet of sharpened metal and a number advantage of two to one.
Trixie stopped in the middle of the path with Grandpa Nash next her. The would-be highwayman stood only about ten yards from them. If by herself, she knew she could escape easily by simply turning around and outrunning them. She could not leave Grandpa Nash, though, and despite his competence at sustaining a slow jogging pace, she felt pretty sure the lean young thugs in front of her would be considerably quicker in a short sprint than the portly old storyteller beside her. If she turned and ran, he would likely be caught and killed.
She noticed only the one in front held a blade. The three leering examples of the family embarrassment no one wants to talk about, let alone admit a relationship to, backing him up, wielded only clubs.
She appreciated that a good, stout club could be every bit as deadly as a sword if they got a blow in, but it did give her reason to believe she might be able to get both of them out of this. The single sword among the four of them suggested none benefited from experience or training in combat. She did. She hoped the blade holder would be no better at swordplay than she was at reading. If so, she should be able to dispatch their leader quickly and the other three might run. If not, well, it could be more difficult.
“Get behind me,” she said to Grandpa Nash, drawing her rapier from the scabbard on her back.
Her own sword, a custom blade made especially for her a few years ago by a craftsman in Kartok, greatly surpassed the quality of that of the highwayman. The fine Gotroxian sword balanced comfortably in her hand and felt almost like a natural extension of her arm. Nonetheless, it looked thin and somehow inadequate against the far broader and cruder weapon held by her opponent.
She took a step forward while her aged companion ducked into the woods. Good, she thought. If nothing else, she could give him time to get away.
The sword-wielding ambusher approached her. “Bad choice, honey.” He smiled menacingly.
The three men behind him did not even bother moving up. Apparently they trusted their spokesman to be able to handle a simple woman. She hoped desperately to surprise them.
She let him attack, expecting him to use the blade like a club. This would leave his body exposed and she would be able to make a quick and fatal thrust to the heart. She hoped this might have a good chance of ending the fight before it truly began. It seemed like a good plan based on a reasonable assumption. She said a quick, silent prayer to the demigod of messengers for a little extra support.
He began his first attack exactly as she expected. The feint drew her in and she thrust. The move almost cost her life as he quickly brought his sword down to deflect the strike to the body he apparently anticipated. This knocked her rapier wide.
The strength of the impact on her blade sent a numbing jolt to her hand. Luck as much as skill enabled her to maintain a grip on the hilt.
She stepped back, avoiding his inexpert counter attack. Not really very good, she judged, but not completely incompetent either. She must not underestimate him again.
As their deadly dance continued, she grew certain she could beat him. He clearly possessed greater strength, and he benefited from a longer reach than she did. He also seemed to control a natural agility partially compensating for his obvious lack of training and experience. She could anticipate and react more quickly, however, and she knew how to handle a blade. After his first strike, she adjusted her stance and form, which made avoiding his further attacks much easier. It would just take a little more time.
She drew blood four times but caused no serious injury. She hoped his partners in crime witnessed enough to toy with the idea of reexamining their own employment options. If so, the idea of a quick career change failed to attract them. Instead, they decided to help their boss and began circling to approach Trixie from the rear. They carefully refrained from getting close enough to get in the way of either her skilled thrusts or their leader’s dangerous swings, but they did draw nearer.
Trixie could see her opponent tiring. It showed mostly in his face, but his movements became sluggish, too. The quick reflexes he exhibited at the beginning no longer showed as much. In a little more time, she might have him down.
Time, however, may have run out for her. She kept an eye on his accomplices in her peripheral vision, and she tried to maneuver so they could not get directly behind her. Right now, they hovered too close and too far to her right.
Damn! He noticed it too because he shifted to his right, forcing her to turn her back to one or more of his companions, at least for a second.
The highwayman with the sword still presented her greatest imminent threat, but she expected it would take time she would not have to reorient herself to prevent one of the other thugs from clubbing her from behind. No matter what she did, they would be able to get to her before she could fend them off with her sword. Maybe they would not kill her, she mused. Right, and maybe a knight in shining armor would ride up and save her right in the nick of time.
The likelihood of her imminent demise did not frighten her. She felt surprisingly calm about the immediate future possibly because the present consumed most of her attention. She hoped Grandpa Nash had managed to escape.
Just then, her opponent made his fatal mistake. Even as she thrust her blade forward and felt it pass almost effortlessly between his ribs, she knew her sad fate. She could not possibly reposition herself in time to stop an attack from behind.
She tensed in anticipation o
f the blow as she pulled her sword free from the body slumping to ground. Everything seemed to be happening much slower than it should.
Instead of the expected thud of a blunt object to the back of her head, momentary pain, blackness, and journey into the afterlife, she heard an unexpected and extremely unusual sound.
Two thuds, sounding like boards hitting wet sacks of grain, were followed almost instantly by a third sound, as of something quite heavy hitting the ground—hard. She felt the vibration in her feet and a whoosh of air as though a storm suddenly blew in, a storm lasting but a fraction of second and bringing no rain. The great gust whipped Trixie’s long hair into a cloud about her face as she attempted to turn around.
It lasted just long enough for her to turn to see Grandpa Nash standing over three unconscious men lying in the road behind her. Somehow, in the few seconds since she lost sight of them, he had managed to incapacitate the other three highwaymen and was now quickly tying their hands behind them.
Her subconscious mind worked hard to provide a logical explanation for the scene before her and, failing to find one, left her momentarily speechless and numb, hoping she would not notice.
“It looked like you needed some help,” Grandpa Nash explained, peeking up as he tugged the knot tight.
“Yes, I did. Thank you.” She found herself confused. “How did you…? What did you…?”
“They were concentrating on you. They didn’t notice me.” He smiled.
“But it was only a few seconds…”
“They shouldn’t be out long. We can march them to the next way station and turn them over to the Royal Constables. How is the other one?”
Trixie had almost forgotten about the man she had fought just minutes before. She turned to examine him. It didn’t take her long to determine his status. “He’s dead.”
“That’s too bad,” he said sadly. “Human life is all too brief as it is. To waste it like this is a shame.”
Trixie thought this a very odd thing to say, considering the circumstances, but she took it to mean that he found the death of someone so young always regrettable. In a way, she agreed with him. She would have considered it more regrettable if their positions were reversed, though. Given the choice between her and the highwayman, she preferred the outcome as it stood.