about to let a few hundred of Zuhl’s soldiers come between me and their freedom.”
“That evens the odds,” Anatoly said.
Ixabrax snorted. “More than even I would say. Dispatch the scouts and wake me when the rest of the enemy forces draw near.” With that he closed his eye and went back to sleep.
Abigail finished dressing Magda’s wound and then strapped on her quiver. “How do you want to do this?”
“Let them get close enough so none can escape,” Anatoly said.
“All right, let’s go find a good spot for an ambush.”
“They’re following the draw created by the hot spring’s runoff,” Alexander said.
“Good, more vegetation to hide behind,” Anatoly said.
They moved down the draw several hundred feet until they found a place with a boulder just to the side of the tiny little stream.
“I’ll wait behind the rock,” Anatoly said. “The draw is narrow enough right here to prevent them from surrounding me. You take a position on the far side, behind those bushes and target the last man in the squad. Attack when they reach the boulder.”
Abigail nodded and doubled back along the draw so she could circle around to her position on the high ground without leaving any footprints in the snow that might give her away.
The soldiers approached with less caution than was wise, given their quarry. They walked as if they felt no fear, as if the world was their hunting ground and no enemy or predator was their match. Abigail shook her head with disdain. Zuhl’s men were as arrogant as they were brutish, placing more stock in strength and size than prowess and strategy. She nocked an arrow and waited until the point man in the single file of soldiers was a step from the boulder where Anatoly waited, axe held high.
Her arrow penetrated to the feathers through the last man’s head, spraying the clean snow with blood and brain. He fell with a thud. When the other five turned at the noise, Anatoly stepped out of his hiding place and swung his axe, taking the point man’s head with a stroke.
The remaining four men drew weapons as one, shattering the calm mountain air with a collective battle cry. An arrow silenced the next to the last man in line, driving into one side of his neck and out the other, blood dripping from its fletching as it came to rest in the snow along the bank of the rivulet, the soldier slumping to the ground a moment later.
The second man in line attacked Anatoly without hesitation, but without forethought either, his broadsword sweeping from his scabbard and arcing toward Anatoly’s midsection. The big man-at-arms stepped into the blow, allowing the blade to fall harmlessly on his dragon-plate armor as he stabbed the man in the heart with the top spike of his war axe. The next man in line lunged forward into his dying companion, pushing him into Anatoly and sending them both crashing into the foot-wide stream of warm water.
The last man standing took an arrow in the side of the chest, staggering forward a step before going to his knees, blood sputtering from his lips. He toppled into the snow with a groan of pain and resignation.
Abigail was up and running through the snow toward Anatoly. He lay pinned under the combined weight of a dead soldier and the last living enemy. Zuhl’s man dropped his sword and drew a dagger, angling to stab Anatoly in the face. When he raised his hand to bring the dagger down, Anatoly heaved against the weight of them both, tossing them aside into the snow bank next to the stream with the corpse now on top of the last remaining soldier.
Abigail reached the opposite bank a moment after Anatoly regained his feet, water flowing from his armor. Both faced the soldier, Anatoly with his axe, Abigail with her bow. Seeing that he was beaten, the soldier tossed his dagger aside and spread his hands without making any move to free himself from the corpse still splayed out across his chest.
“I surrender,” he said without any emotion.
“Why should I accept your surrender?” Abigail said
“I can’t think of a reason,” he said, slowly pushing his dead companion off his chest and coming to his knees. “If I am to die here, I would ask that he kill me.”
“What difference does that make?” Abigail asked, incredulously. “Dead is dead.”
“Women are not suited for battle. To be killed by a woman, especially with a bow, is a dishonor, but a