make sure you stitched it up right, well as cut it proper. There’s more art to keeping people alive than making ‘em dead, after all.”
Evelyn hesitated, and Matthew knew if she were unsure, then he was in over his head.
“If you wish,” he said, putting on his gloves. “I should get back outside. Only wanted to come visit with my guests, be polite. You two men have a good day.”
“Want me to come with?” asked Trevor.
“No,” Matthew said, harsher than he meant. “No, you ain’t much use outside. Stay with your ma.”
He got the idea, and his hand brushed the knife hidden in his pants. Matthew winced and hoped neither of the soldiers saw. He pulled the door open and stepped outside. When he shut it, he leaned his back against it, closed his eyes, and listened. Never one with an active imagination, he struggled to picture the most likely thing they’d do. They were searching for the boy, obviously. They’d step into the curtain, one inside to look, the other hanging back, watching them, waiting to see if anyone did anything stupid.
His hand closed around the pitchfork’s handle.
Something stupid like this.
Matthew kicked the door inward. It seemed like his entire vision narrowed down, just a thin window to see one of the soldiers staring back at him from the curtain, the one named Ben. His eyes widened for just a moment. His hand reached for his sword as if he were lagging in time. Matthew thrust the pitchfork for the soldier’s exposed throat. Ben’s sword couldn’t clear his scabbard in time, so instead he ducked and turned away from the thrust, a purely instinctual move. It only made matters worse. When two of the teeth pressed against the side of his face, Matthew shoved with every hard-worked muscle in his body. The tips were thick, but with such force behind them, they still punched through flesh and tore into bone.
Ben rolled his head downward, trying to pull free. When he did, blood spewed across the floor. He screamed. It might have been a word, a curse, but Matthew didn’t know, didn’t understand. Ben’s jaw hung off-kilter, his right cheek shredded and the bone connecting it shattered. The look in his eyes reminded Matthew of the one time he’d encountered a rabid coyote attacking his animals. His sword free, Ben charged, not waiting for Gert. Matthew took a step back, braced his legs, and shoved the pitchfork in the way. The teeth hit his chainmail, and amid the screams of his family he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. They didn’t punch through the armor, but they still bruised his flesh and pushed inward strong enough to break more bones.
Matthew twisted the handle to the side, bringing Ben to his knees, still stuck on the pitchfork’s teeth. Dimly he heard his wife cry out, the words not registering any meaning, only her tone. Gert rushed through the curtain, his sword swinging. Abandoning the clumsy weapon, Matthew lunged for the door. He landed on his knees, grabbed his shortsword, and spun. Gert bore down on him, swinging with both hands. Their blades connected, and panic flooded him when saw a tiny chip break off at the contact. His sword was weaker, the metal cheaper. It wouldn’t be long before it broke.
“Leave him alone!” he heard Evelyn shout, finally piercing through the haze. Gritting his teeth, he groaned as Gert pressed down with all his weight. He spared only a moment’s glance to see Ben fling the pitchfork to the dirt and turn toward his wife. He had to help her, but he was pinned and badly positioned.
“Trevor!” he screamed. Where was his boy? Why wasn’t he helping? Now wasn’t the time for fear, damn it! He angled his sword to block another chop, realized it was a feint, and smacked aside the thrust aimed for his belly. “Don’t you be a coward, boy, treat ‘em like damn hogs!”
Evelyn hurried across the room, grabbing the poker from the fire. She held it clumsily, a pathetic weapon compared to the gleaming sword Ben wielded in his blood soaked hand. Then he couldn’t spare the glimpse, for Gert had dropped to one knee, hoping to lessen the distance between them so he might lock Matthew’s sword out of position. Matthew struggled against it, but slowly his sword wavered, then hit the floor beside him. Gert’s elbows pressed against his chest, his knee atop one of his legs.
“Don’t worry ’bout your wife,” Gert