From Man to Man Page 6

  VII.

  'This is no time for thought.'

  "Duck!" Draven yelled.

  'Though you might look more like a chicken.'

  Nicolas fell to the floor, hands over his head. The bandit's sword cut through the air, slashing for the Tax Collector's back.

  Clang!

  Sparks, the ring of steel. The axe leapt in Draven's grip, the shock of the blow jarring his arms. The weapon sheared through the rusted sword, snapping the blade near the hilt. The outlaw screamed at first in shock, then agony as the axe clove into his gut. Draven sidestepped around the man, wrenching the axe-head free with a wet crunch. The outlaw dropped to his knees before pitching to one side, howling, pawing uselessly as his insides became outsides.

  "Run!" Draven yelled at the Tax Collector.

  Wild-eyed and white, Nicolas gawped up at him from the dirt.

  "Get up!" Draven hauled him upright by the collar and sent him on his way with a boot to the seat of his pants.

  Nicolas staggered but kept to his feet, sprinting back towards the village. He darted this way and that through the trees, as madcap as a headless chicken. Arrows gave chase, but the outlaws did not seem to follow on foot.

  Draven turned from the fleeing Tax Collector, dropping to a crouch. An arrow whipped past, and he spun out of its way. The shot took a hooded man in the shoulder as he crept upon Draven.

  "You missed!" Draven laughed.

  "I was aiming for his throat – you got in the way!" Shrike's voice echoed from the trees.

  Draven saw to the outlaw with the flat of his axe, a clout loud enough to knock the sense to stay down. And stay down the outlaw did.

  The axe swung up, glinting in a fracture of dying sunlight through the canopy.

  "Stop!" A stranger cried from the forest.

  A last arrow arced lazily through the trees, skipping across the earth.

  Draven remained where he was, axe readied over the downed outlaw. "Show yourselves! Or this one'll have more than an arrow in the arm to worry about."

  A single outlaw stepped into view from the forest, hands raised before him. Grey bearded on a long face, with curled horns of matted hair, the man ventured a nervous smile, thin lips drawn back over small teeth. The old man reminded Draven of an old goat.

  "Don't kill him – we only meant to scare ya." The outlaw's eyes never left the axe in Draven's hold.

  "Scare? You mean rob!"

  The forest creaked expectantly. Draven guessed it not to be the boughs of the trees, rather the strings of numerous bows.

  Goat-face tossed his head, sucking on his lips. "Scare ya off so you'd leave the coin," he bleated, scuffing the dirt with a toeless boot. "No harm, no foul."

  "And if we hadn't scared so easily?" Draven let the axe hover expectantly over the downed outlaw.

  "Then we'd have had a word – just like we're doing now." Goat-face kept his hands up before him, but Draven noticed the fingers of his left hand begin to curl.

  "Close that fist and I'll cut his head off."

  Goat-face's fingers straightened. "I see you've had words before…what about an offer?"

  "Terms?"

  "A split. There's fourteen of us-"

  'Not counting the three I killed, and one for Shrike…that leaves ten.'

  "-And only two of you. How about an even share? You walk away with a cut, a finder's fee if you will, and we take the rest. No-one else needs get hurt."

  'Ten to two.' Draven scoped the woodland for the remaining outlaws. Goat-face was good. The old man kept his eyes forward, not even a glance to betray his band. 'Ten to two – a twelfth of the taxes is a fair amount…any coin's a coin.'

  "Uncle!" Another outlaw stepped from the trees. Stepped wasn't the right word, Draven decided, frowning as he watched the glutton waddle forwards. A squished face, jowls that shook with each waddle, and fingers more sausage than digit wrapped around a sword, the outlaw came puffing and panting.

  Pig-nose stooped to catch his breath. "Uncle, there's only two of them. We can handle two, leave it to the lads."

  'The only thing you could manage is slops.' Draven itched to wring his bandana. 'I'll be damned if I'm going to let a band of the old, the fat and the inept beat me out of work – work that I know!'

  Goat-face prodded Pig-nose silent, before turning to Draven. "What say you?"

  "Will you hear my terms?"

  "Go on."

  Taking a deep breath, Draven planted his feet. "There's more than enough coin for two men to carry between them. The Tax Collector carried it all by himself."

  Goat-face worked his jaw. "So?"

  The axe spun idly in Draven's grip, sunlight dancing on its blade. The reflection caught iron in the undergrowth to his left. Before Draven could shout, an arrow streaked into the trees. A dull thump followed, accompanied by Shrike's laughter.

  "I think my friend and I can manage the coin by ourselves." Draven smiled. "That's one less on your side – better luck next time, you'll get bigger cuts."

  Goat-face bristled. "I'll give you cuts! At 'em lads! An extra coin for the one that brings me the archer's hands!"