In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,93
an arm free and sent one of his attackers flying over the wooden counter to land squarely in the upflung arms of the shrieking Lizabelle. The impact sent them both caroming backwards into a rack of crocks and tankards. One of the swarm broke away and took up an oak bench, swinging it at Sedrick’s head, but a shout brought Dafydd ap Iorwerth plunging out of the shadows, his sword drawn and wrested away from the men who had not been quick enough to bring him to ground. The villain saw the blade coming and blocked it with the bench. The steel bit deep into the wood, lodging there solidly enough that he was able to twist it out of Dafydd’s grip. Two more villains leaped on him from behind while the lout with the bench swung it again, slamming it over Dafydd’s outstretched arm with a resounding craaaak!
Robin, meanwhile, had sailed to Ariel’s aid, but managed only a bloodcurdling promise of chivalrous revenge before a pewter tankard knocked the words and the sense out of his head. While he reeled blindly toward the door, Ariel kicked and clawed and gouged for her captor’s eyes and ears. She twisted and turned like a slippery eel, using the wooden soles of her shoes to good advantage, barking his shins time and time again until a curse made him loosen his grip. The respite was brief. Something solid slammed into the side of her face— a fist or a cudgel, it had the same effect—and her world exploded in a burst of white light. It struck again, carrying her hat away with it, and she could not be certain if it was the redness of her hair spilling over her face, or the red of her own blood.
Discovering it was a woman he held, the man paused a moment in confusion and surprise—a moment too long and a surprise so absorbing he failed to see the door of the tavern smash open and a tall, mail-clad arbiter enter the arena.
Dispensing judgement and justice on every thrust of his sword, he sent two men screaming into the shadows, clutching at severed clothing and spurts of gushing blood. A third forfeited the ability to scream at all as the blade slivered through his throat. He spun in a spray of blood and scattered the men clinging steadfastly to Sedrick. They saw the sword and the steely-eyed demon knight who wielded it, and they abandoned their attack to bolt for the door.
The sword flashed several more times, striking flesh with the impact of a hatchet biting into wood. Ariel felt the pressure around her waist spring free and she folded into a small heap on the floor. Her vision dimmed behind a wall of pain. A warm, wet liquid was running between her fingers and down her hand, and she feared to let go of her head lest it fall off and be trampled underfoot.
The door swung wide a second time and the flare of light revealed a scene from Bedlam. There was blood splattered everywhere. Bodies of the slain and wounded men lay twitching on the floor; broken crockery and dark puddles of ale littered the area, heaviest around the groaning bulk of Lizabelle and her unconscious accomplice. The light also touched briefly on Eduard FitzRandwulf’s visored helm, showing a brief glimpse of eyes that were neither gray nor blue, but washed of colour by the heat of battle.
Caught in the light, a second newcomer was silhouetted in the doorway. His diminutive form was brushed aside by a pair of fleeing villains, and Sparrow spared but a fleeting breath on a graphic oath before he unslung his harp-shaped arblaster from his shoulder and let fly a speedily armed quarrel after the departing culprits. The tip of the arrow punched into a well-rounded buttock and, with a squawk of glee, the wood sprite fit another short, stubby bolt to the bow and set off in further pursuit.
The door swung shut behind him but Eduard had stared at the opening long enough to lose concentration. An assailant came up behind him, a dagger driving for the opened slit under the sleeve of mail. It was Iorwerth’s shout that brought Eduard spinning around, his sword cutting cleanly through the villain’s bony elbow. The forearm split away and cartwheeled into the shadows in a burst of blood, the hand still clutched around the hilt of the knife.
The man screamed. His eyes bulged and his remaining hand reached quickly