“He’ll not answer you just yet,” Chandra said, and jerked him back to keep him off balance. “All of you will drop your swords and knives, now!”
“Nay,” Robbie Durwald managed to say, and he brought up his hands to claw at her arm. She stuck the knife tip into his throat. Blood welled out. He froze.
“If you move, you will be dead,” she said against his temple. “Now, stay on your knees and don’t move.” Slowly, she eased her hold and stood over him, leaning only slightly, her knife point firm against his neck.
She said now, “All of you, take three steps back. That’s right, do it now. Three steps.”
Slowly, the men moved backward.
“Mary, fetch their knives and swords and put them behind me. Hurry, but take care.”
“I’ll kill ye, ye bitch, and it’ll be slow and I’ll laugh whilst I—”
She eased the knife further into his neck. He gulped and shut up.
What to do now?
She’d won. She couldn’t really believe it, but she’d managed because of her red-eyed rage about Mary, and she’d won.
Where were the bloody servants?
It was dead silent in the Great Hall save for the still, harsh breathing of Robbie Durwald. The pain was leaving him, she realized, and she knew he would try to get away from her.
“Mary, hand me my own knife and sword.”
She held her own knife in her hand, eased up the other and slipped hers into place. She said to Robbie Durwald, “Feel my knife. It’s sharper than yours, and it’ll go through that coarse neck of yours in but an instant. Don’t move or you’ll be dead before you keel over.”
“How long do ye think ye can hold us here all by yerself?”
“As long as I—”
It happened so fast that she didn’t even see it. One of Durwald’s men pulled a knife out of his tunic belt and hurled it at her. It struck her shoulder and Chandra felt a blaze of fire slam into her. Her knife wavered and Robbie Durwald moved quickly, twisted her wrist until she dropped the knife, and then jumped back from her.
He was laughing.
At her.
Chandra had thrown her knife at Graelam and struck him in the shoulder. The irony of it ate deep. She didn’t appreciate it. The pain was so strong, so overwhelming, that it took every bit of her strength, pulled from the deepest part of her, to keep a hold. “Mary,” she said. “Mary, stay behind me.”
“Aye, Lady Mary, do whatever ye wish, but first, ye will very nicely return my weapons to my men.”
“Chandra—”
“I’m all right, Mary. Do as he says. I’m all right.”
Mary looked at her friend, her face deathly pale, the knife stuck in her shoulder, blood pouring over her hand.
“Do as he says, Mary.”
“Aye, Lady Mary, do as the little lad here asks.”
Robbie Durwald came to stand over her. He took her chin in his palm and forced her face upward. He sank his knife point into her woolen cap and jerked it off. Her hair fell about her face.
“Ah, now I see ye as ye really are. The knife hurts? Aye, I can see that it does.” He reached down and jerked it out.
Chandra felt as if someone had pulled her heart from her chest. She had time only to suck in her breath at the pain; then she fell over onto her side.
Durwald knelt beside her, ripped off strips of her tunic, wadded the cloth and pressed it against her wound. He called to his men, “Once you have yer weapons, we’re off.” He stared down at her, willing her to open her eyes.