“Who are you?” she said.
“We are death,” they said as one.
The short reprieve was over. The motors revved. The motorbikes reared up on their back wheels. The front wheels came down and, with a double shriek of burning rubber, the bikes shot forward, did another criss-cross, then began to circle. They wanted Gamay to spin until she became dizzy and collapsed into a helpless, blubbering heap. She refused to play their game. Instead she stood her ground with her eyes straight ahead, arms tight by her sides. The wind created by their passes blew choking exhaust fumes in her face. It took every measure of self-control not to bolt for it. They’d be on her in a second and use their spears to cut her legs out from under her.
When they saw she had no intention of running, they angled in. A spear tip came so close that it lacerated the front of her shirt. She sucked her stomach in. This wouldn’t do. She began to walk. She moved deliberately with measured steps so she wouldn’t throw their timing off. Delighted at the new challenge, the riders took turns cutting in front of her, pulling their spears away at the last possible second. She kept on going, her ears filled with the whine of motors. She refused to break her stride. Gamay knew they could kill her any time they wanted to.
She heard a bike coming in from the right. Taking a big chance, she stopped suddenly. The rider misjudged and went wide. The bike skidded around in a tight turn, but the move threw off the uncanny communication the riders seemed to have, and they wheeled around in confusion. She ran past the upturned bow of the boat, intending to vault onto the deck, but she encountered a barrier of overhanging round shields that protected the side above the oar ports. She saw why the Kradziks had let her get this close to the boat. They knew there was no way she could easily climb over the shields.
The only access to the deck was a ramp near the stern. They probably hoped she would run for it. She made a motion in that direction, and they shot over to cut her off. She grabbed one of the shields off the side of the boat, then turned and held it in front, her back to the boat. The twins spun around and came at her with lances leveled. The heavy shield, made of thick wood braced with iron, was designed more for a brawny Norseman than a slim woman. Fortunately Gamay was tall and athletic and managed to get her left arm through the straps and hold the shield in front of her.
Just in time.
Tunk!
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The spears hit the front of the shield as one. The force drove her back against the side of the boat and knocked the wind from her lungs.
The bikes peeled off to the left and the right, did quick turns, and headed back. Gamay put the shield down on the floor, braced her foot against it, and pulled out the spears. In contrast to the shield they were surprisingly light, with thin wooden shafts and slender bronze tips. They were probably designed more for throwing than for jousting.
She held the spears vertically and the shield at ready. With their weapons gone, she assumed the brothers were making a feint, but there was a blur of motion as a spiked ball whirled at the end of a chain slammed into the shield. Even with her legs braced she was thrown back and went down on her right knee. She managed to keep the shield high in a move that saved her life as a punishing blow from the second rider crunched into the shield and splintered the outer layer of protective wood.
The brothers had exchanged their spears for maces, the weapons developed to smash their way through armor. The bikes swooped down on her before she had the chance to stand. Again the spiked iron balls crashed into the shield. The wood protected her from the main shock but disintegrated after the second blow until all that was left were the leather straps and useless framework.
She grabbed for a spear and held it at an angle. The bikes held off their attack and went back and forth. Then one attacker came in. The spear spun in his direction like a compass needle. Gamay held her breath. At the last second he turned away. The other came in from her left. She pivoted quickly to face him only to be distracted by another attack on the right. It was a classic flanking tactic. They were not ready for a full press yet, probably just testing to see her reaction.
One bike passed directly in front of her, its rider thinking he was safely beyond the reach of the spear. Instead of jabbing, Gamay brought the spear back on her shoulder and hurled it at the rider. He was moving fast. Her aim was too low. The spear hit the spokes of the front wheel. The force of the wheel shattered the shaft, but not before the skinny, knobbed tire turned at a sharp angle. The bike jackknifed, and the rider flew over the handlebars. The bike skidded along the floor leaving a trail of red and white sparks. Gamay saw him hit the floor and lie still.
The second motorcycle halted its attack, and the rider pointed his headlight at the still form. He dismounted, but he knew even before he crouched down beside the twisted body that his brother was dead. He had felt his brother’s fear and pain as his neck snapped. Then came a moan that rose to an agonizing scream. A chill went up Gamay’s spine as the remaining Kradzik brother began to howl like a wolf. She edged toward the rear of the boat, hoping that if she made it to the deck she’d find another weapon. The brother saw her move. He straddled his bike in an instant. She held her spear out straight. As he came in from the side she felt the spear jerk, then heard a clink of metal. He had chopped the spear tip neatly off with a short-handled battle-ax. He stopped and held the ax high above his head with both hands. Then he came for her.
She ran for the stern of the boat. He caught up in an instant and crashed his motorcycle into the back of her legs, knocking her down. Pain shot up from her knees and elbows as they smashed against the hard floor, but she had more to worry about. A figure was standing over her.
“My brother . . . is dead . . . ”
He spoke haltingly, as if he were waiting for a cadenced answer from his twin.
“You killed . . . now I will kill you. I will start . . . with legs. One by one. Then your arms.”
With his black leather pants and sleeveless jacket, he looked like an executioner. His teeth gleamed as he grinned in anticipation. Gamay tried to roll out of the way, but he put his boot on her ankle and she cried out.
As the ax came up there was a whirring sound, and he grunted in surprise. His free hand reached up to feel the shaft of a crossbow bolt protruding from the side of his head, but he was already dead by then. The gleam disappeared from the red-rimmed eyes, and he keeled over. Gamay rolled out of the way as the falling ax clanked onto the floor. She heard quick footsteps, strong arms were picking her up, and she saw Zavala’s familiar grin. Then Austin appeared. He was holding an old crossbow in his hands.
“Are you okay?” Austin asked.
“Nothing a good skin transplant won’t cure.” She saw that Joe was carrying the gun he had borrowed from the guard. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but why play William Tell when you had that thing?”
“This throws quite a spray of bullets,” Zavala said. “It’s great for cutting down a full assault but not very good for a precision sniper shot. I would have backed Kurt up if he missed.” He knelt beside the dead twin. “You were supposed to hit the apple on top of his head.”
“Next time I’ll aim higher,” Austin said, tossing the crossbow aside.
She gave them each a peck on the cheek. “Nice to see you even if I have to endure your dumb wisecracks.”
Austin inspected the dead man near the motorcycle. “It looks like you were doing pretty well on your own.”
“I was about to go to pieces,” Gamay said, wondering how she could joke about her near dismemberment. “Where are we?”
“Lake Tahoe.”