Storm over Vallia by Alan Burt Akers Page B

training at Lancival. There they taught their girls how to take care of themselves.
    The men were already arguing fiercely among themselves.
    “Grab her, you great hulu!”
    “Git outta the way!”
    “Can’t see a thing—”
    “That’s my foot!”
    A rough hand raked along the cobbles after Silda’s boot.
    Obligingly, she rolled over onto her back, peering back to see the silhouettes of the men against the vague luminosity of the moon-drenched street. She felt regret, as she lifted her boot, that as a zorca-rider she did not wear spurs. Still, the boots were solid. The heel crunched down with a nice juicy smack.
    One of the louts yelled blue bloody murder.
    In the next instant Silda was on her feet and the sound of the rapier as it whipped from the scabbard jolted half an ounce of sense back into the drunken heads.
    “She ain’t—”
    “She’s got her sword!”
    Nath the Sly felt cheated.
    “Get on her, you fools!”
    One of the men surged forward, a black batlike shape.
    Silda had no wish to slay them. Oh, yes, there were plenty of girls who would joy in sticking a length of tempered steel into their bellies, one after the other. But Silda’s emotions were held in check. She was a cool fighting machine, and as such not about to spill blood that could be avoided. Her cover remained more important than simple vengeance.
    Delicately, she pinked that outstretched arm.
    The fellow yelped as though branded and stumbled back.
    “Onkers! Idiots!” Silda poised ready for anything.
    “Get her!” screeched Nath. He did not lunge forward, preferring to leave the heavy stuff to his half-drunken companions.
    Standing in the darkness she was practically invisible to them, while they stood out as black silhouettes.
    “Run off, you unhanged cramphs, or I’ll spit you through, one after the other!
Bratch!
”
    They did not bratch there and then, although they hung back. Nath whispered ferociously and Silda just glimpsed in time the upraised arm and the flung cudgel.
    The common folk of Vallia are adept and swift at throwing cudgels and knives.
    She ducked. The wood clipped her across the forehead, bounced, clattered against the cobbles. She felt a wave of dizziness sweep over her, and ground her teeth together and fought the ugly wave of weakness that dragged at her knees. She remained upright, warily watching, and she used her training to push away the pain.
    “Right, you rasts. You’re done for now. By Vox!” she got out, half-gasping. “I’ll have your ears!”
    Her head felt light, like a feather, and as she moved forward that silly head seemed to want to go ahead on its own, her body stumbling after. She flicked the rapier into line. The little ’un. He was the bastard to go for...
    One of the men husked out: “I’m off. Come on — she’s probably got no gold, anyway.”
    Silda lined up, poised, and lunged.
    With a cry of pure horror Nath the Sly leaped like a salmon, just avoided the blade that would have skewered his right arm. He took the point in his elbow and for a breathless heartbeat Silda fancied the rapier would hang up entangled in his bones. She whipped it free and immediately slashed it hard down the arm of the next fellow.
    That settled it.
    Their clumsy farm shoes clattered on cobbles.
    This unpleasant incident, Silda was aware, was one of the ugly results of drink.
    Except — except that little ’un, the one the others called Nath, had clearly been intent on dark business.
    Well, there were thousands of Naths on Kregen, named for the fabled hero of many an epic legend. Nath was just about the most common and most favored name in Kregen. The precious metal Nathium was reputed to hold magical qualities in its silky texture. She put her left hand to her forehead, and felt stickiness.
    She had not drawn her main gauche. The whole stupid incident hardly seemed to merit great concern. She took her hand away from her forehead and lightly touched the brown leather and canvas bag slung at her