Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XLIX: Surrender

A Southern Isles man came at him from the left, hacking at his leg, trying to knock him off his horse. Pitch blocked the man's blow and slashed him across the neck. Blood fountained and the man fell. Another of King Hans' soldiers attacked from the other side, but Pitch pivoted too quickly for the man and swung his blade again, a silver and crimson blur in the morning light. This man died as well.

Blood dripped from his sword, and his arm and shoulder felt leaden. Still, Pitch could have gone on killing all day long if he thought it would have done him any good. But the battle was lost. Despite his best efforts, King Hans had managed to rally too many men to the defence of the realm. He still didn't know where he would go next, but he was not foolish enough to believe that there was nobility in dying well. It was time for him to leave Bligh Beach.

Not far from where he fought, a landing craft still rested in the sand, waves lapping at its hull. It was intact, seaworthy from the look of it. And a group of Alsace-Lorraine soldiers were massing around it, attempting to shove it off the sand and back into the Channel, so that they might make their escape. Pitch had every intention of going with them.

Slamming the blade of his sword into one last Southern Isles soldier, he broke away from the battle and drove his mount through the shallow surf toward the craft.

So intent was he on reaching the vessel before the Alsace-Lorraine men pushed it out from shore, that he didn't even see the knight riding directly at him until it was too late.

He tried to rein to a halt, tried to raise an arm to shield himself from the collision, but the rider crashed into him at speed, sending him flying from his saddle.

Pitch landed hard in the shallows. He took a second to clear his head, then tried to stand, but at first his spurred boots couldn't gain purchase in the wet sand. By the time he found his footing and began to stumble toward the craft, the Alsace-Lorraine soldiers had it free of the sand. While some of the men began to row it away from the beach, others raised the gate.

"Attendez!" Pitch bellowed. Wait! "You French dogs! Would you abandon me?"

He could still wade out to it. He started sloshing through the surf, but the knight steered his mount in front of Pitch, cutting him off.

A wave hit the craft, lifted it, and the oars bit deep into the water. With a sudden surge, the boat pulled away.

Roaring with fury, crazed beyond reason, Pitch whirled toward the rider, swinging his blade with all his strength. The knight danced his horse around Pitch, dodging his blade and levelling a savage blow of his own at Pitch's head.

Pitch ducked, grabbed hold of the bridle and yanked the rider out of his saddle. The knight fell hard, but quickly righted himself. Heedless of his own safety, Pitch rushed the man, raising his sword again.

The knight, tall and slender, met the attack, blocking one blow and striking at Pitch. Pitch parried easily and slammed his blade at the man's helmet once, twice. The knight staggered, his visor flying open. And ...

Pitch stopped, his sword back to strike again. It was a woman. The face staring out at him from within the helmet was that of a woman!

Not that he cared. This woman—this whore!—had kept him from escaping. He would die on this miserable, bloodstained beach because of her. But she would die first.

She was still saddled, although she had her sword raised defensively. Pitch lunged toward her, his sword high for the killing blow, and he struck her hard on the back of her helmet, near the base of her skull.