Things had taken a turn for the worse alright. A moment ago that had hardly seemed possible, but fate had found a way.
Logen doubted that Quai would be much use in a fight. That left him alone against three or more, and only with a knife.
If he did nothing him and Malacus would end up robbed, and more likely killed. You have to be realistic about these things.
He looked the three bandits over again. They didn't expect a fight, not from two unarmed men - the spear was sideways on, the sword pointed at the ground.
He didn't know about the axe, so he'd have to trust luck with that one. It's a sorry fact that the man who strikes first usually strikes last, so Logen turned to the one with the helmet and spat the spirit in his face.
It ignited in the air and pounced on him hungrily. His head burst into spitting flames, the sword clattered to the ground. He clawed desperately at his face and his arms caught fire as well.
He reeled screaming away.
Quai's horse startled at the flames and reared up, snorting. The skinny man stumbled back with a gasp and Logen leaped at him, grabbing the shaft of the spear with one hand and butted him in the face.
His nose crunched against Logen's forehead and he staggered away wiht blood streaming down his chin.
Logen jerked him back with the spear, swung his right arm round in a wide arc and punched him in the neck. He went down with a gurgle and Logen tore the spear from his hands.
He felt movement behind him and dropped to the ground, rolling away to his left. The axe whistled through the air above his head and cut a long slash in the horse's side, spattering drops of blood across the ground and ripping the buckle on the saddle girth open.
Boil-face tottered away, spinning round after his axe. Logen sprang at him but his ankle twisted on a stone and he tottered like a drunkard, yelping at the pain.
An arrow hummed past his face from somewhere in the trees behind and was lost in the bushes on the other side of the road.
The horse snorted and kicked, eyes rolling madly, then took off down the road at a crazy gallop. Malacus Quai wailed as the saddle slid of its back and he was flung into the bushes.
There was no time to think about him. Logen charged at the axe-men with a roar, aiming the spear at his heart. He brought his axe up in time to nudge the point away, but not far enough.
The spear spitted him through the shoulder, spun him round. There was a sharp crack as teh shaft snapped, Logen lost his balance and pitched forward, bearing Boil-face down into the road.
The spear-point sticking out of his back cut a deep gash into Logen's scalå as he fell on top of him. Logen seized hold of the axe-man's matted hair with both hands, pulled his head back and mashed his face into a rock.
He lurched to his feet, head spinning, wiping blood out of his eyes just in time to see an arrow zip out of the trees and thud into a trunk a stride or two away.
Logen hurtled at the archer. He saw him now, a boy no more than fourteen, reaching for another arrow. Logen pulled out his knife.
The boy was nocking the arrow to his bow, but his eyes were wide with panic. He fumbled the string and drove the arrow through his hand, looking greatly surprised.
Logen was on him. The boy swung the bow at him but he ducked below it and jumped forward, driving the knife up with both hands.
The blade caught the boy under the chin and lifted him into the air, then snapped off in his neck. He dropped on top of Logen, the jagged shard of the knife cutting a long gash in his arm.
Blood splattered everywhere, from the cut on Logen's arm, from the gaping wound in the boy's throat.
- The Blade Itself, Part I, The Wide and Barren North