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grim-looking war club.
    Old Seamus began cursing and fumbled at his belt in an effort to pull his knife, but Gallen grabbed Seamus’s shoulder, restraining him. “Don’t be a fool!” Gallen warned. “There’s too many of them. Give them your money!”
    “I’ll not be giving them my money!” Seamus shouted, pulling his dagger, and Gallen’s heart sunk. Seamus was the father of seven. He could either let the ruffians have his purse and watch his family suffer, or he could fight and probably die. He was choosing to die. “Now back me, will you! Back me!”
    Dutifully, Gallen stood back to back with Seamus as the robbers closed in. That is what Seamus had paid him for. Three shillings, Gallen realized. I’m going to get killed this night for three shillings.
    The tall man brandished his sword. “I’ll be thanking you to drop your purses, lads.” From his accent and curly red hair, Gallen estimated that he was a Flaherty, from County Obhiann.
    “I beg you sirs,” Gallen said, “not to go making free with our money. I’ve got none to spare, and my friend here has a wife and seven innocent children.”
    One robber laughed. “We know! And Seamus O’Connor just made forty pounds while hawking his wool at the fair. Now out with the loot!” he shouted angrily, waving his knife. “An’ if you give it to us casual, we won’t hurt you so bad.” Gallen watched the men close. One of their number must have seen Seamus’s money at the fair and waited until the old man got on this desolate stretch of road before setting the ambush.
    The robbers had them circled now, but held off a pace. Gallen thought of running. It was only a mile over the hill to An Cochan. A bead of sweat rolled down Gallen’s cheek, and his heart was hammering. He glanced around at the circling men in their dark tunics. Seamus was growling like a cornered badger at Gallen’s back, and Gallen could feel the old man’s muscles, hard as cords, straining beneath his coat. Gallen wanted to stall, hoping that even with his mind all clouded by whiskey, Seamus might see that it made no sense to leave his family orphaned. An owl soared over the ravine.
    Seamus began swearing and shouting, “Why do you have your faces blacked, you ugly bastards? I’m not a child to be frightened by a sooty face! Off with you! Off with you!”
    Gallen half-closed his eyes and wondered, If I were the greatest knife fighter in the world, what would I do?
    In an instant, it was as if a familiar mantle began to fall over him. Gallen’s muscles tightened into coils and the world moved into sharper focus. Gallen felt the blood pounding hot in his veins, and his nostrils flared wide, tasting the night air. He sized up the ruffians before him, and though it was dark, subtle shades of light began to reveal details about each man. They were breathing hard, the way men will when they’re afraid.
    Nine men. Gallen had never fought nine men, but at that moment it didn’t matter. He was, after all, the greatest knife fighter in the world.
    Gallen tossed his head back so that his hood fell away, letting his golden hair gleam in the starlight. He chuckled softly and said, “I must offer you men fair warning. If you don’t back away and give us the road, I’ll have to kill you.”
    One robber gasped, “It’s Gallen O’Day! Watch him boys!” The men swarmed around Gallen and Seamus faster, moving warily, but none dared venture in too close. The tallest robber shouted, “Take him, boys!”
    Gallen didn’t worry about the robbers at his back. Seamus had his knife out, and even though he was drunk, no sane man would try to tangle with him. Instead, Gallen sized up the five men to his front and sides. Two of them hung back half a pace—cowards who didn’t want to look it. Another man stood close in, but he was tossing his knife back and forth between his left and right hand, hoping that the sight of it would strike fear into Gallen. Another robber was stocky, with an unsightly