Saga of the Old City (17 page)

“Why were you spying on us?” the big outlaw demanded.

“To survive, one must be alert,” said Gord evenly. “I was not spying, save to alert myself of any possible threat to my survival.”

“Well, chum, one didn’t make much of a job of it, did one?” The bandit was mocking him, and Gord silently vowed that he would turn the tables at first opportunity. Then the man must have noted a defiance in his captive’s eyes, for after a second he added, “A tough little one, ain’t you?”

With that, he stirred the pile of coins before him with the toe of his dirty boot, grinning down on Gord all the while, hand on his sword hilt. Gord stared back but kept his gaze expressionless and neutral.

“Good!” the leader boomed. “I like guys with spunk. Tell you what I’m gonna do. I lost some good men this raid, so the company is short-handed. If you can handle yourself, instead of killing you I’ll enlist you.” The fellow paused and stared hard at Gord. Gord looked back but said nothing.

“Okay, smartass. First you wrestle with Bogodor,” said the chieftain, pointing at a hulking brute Gord could see out of the corner of his eye, “and if you survive that, you can have at Finn over there with quarterstaves.” There were catcalls and sniggers from the assembled bandits at that. The chieftain laughed a bit too, but then shouted for silence and continued.

“You don’t really have to beat ’em-just survive. I’m givin’ you a break, but only because I’m short-handed. We’re a fair bunch here, so if you make the grade, I’ll even give you one share of the loot here and you can keep your sword and knife.” The bandit’s tone was magnanimous-but if he expected Gord to thank him, the chieftain was wrong.

“How about the dagger?” Gord inquired mildly. “I’m best with that weapon.”

“Sorry, chum,” the big leader said as he picked up the blade. “I’ve taken a shine to it, but if you’re real good in the tests I’ll give you my old one sometime.”

Gord shrugged. “No sense in arguing, is there? Where do I fight this Bogo-dope?”

“That’s Bogodor!” snarled a muscular half-orc as he moved fully into Gord’s line of sight. “Come here, runt, an’ I’ll show you who’s a dope!”

With that, the bandits made a ring near the bonfire, and Gord was shoved unceremoniously into the circle even as he was stripping off his jerkin. Bogodor was satisfied to have at it immediately, but Gord skipped away from his first clumsy rush, managing to get his shirt off meanwhile. Now his lean, muscular torso was bare. His opponent would find no easy hold on loose garments.

Bogodor made another grab for him, this one less clumsy and more calculated. Again Gord eluded the attack and circled. The ugly half-orc was not as stupid as he seemed; this Gord determined from the next couple of minutes of combat. Bogodor was testing Gord’s skills, and each time he attempted a move, he measured Gord’s responses.

Gord was measuring his opponent in return. Although rather slow and a bit uncoordinated, the half-orc was strong and his hands were huge. If Bogodor ever got him in a firm hold, Gord knew that the fellow could break bones-and would probably enjoy the process, too. That mentality could actually work to Gord’s advantage if he played things properly; it would not be the first time Gord had turned an opponent’s aggression into victory, he thought, recalling for an instant his duel with Zoltan.

This match, however, was trickier than it first appeared. If Gord was crippled, then he’d be useless and slain out of hand. If he seriously injured Bogodor, Gord knew that at best he’d have the undying enmity of the half-orc and whatever friends the fellow had, and the score would be evened with a knife across his throat one night. Killing him would make Gord’s position that much worse.

His only option, Gord realized, was to somehow win without beating Bogodor badly, and without himself being injured and unable to face the test of staves. One thing at a time, he cautioned himself, as the half-orc bandit managed to grab Gord by his left arm. Gord flipped out of the grip before Bogodor could lock it into a hold, and he delivered a painful kick to the bandit’s stomach in the process. Gord was still in the fight, but now the half-orc had a far better idea of what his small opponent could do.

Bogodor advanced cautiously now. The encircling outlaws gave shouts of encouragement mixed with demands for Gord’s dismemberment. The half-orc feinted at a leg-grab with his left hand and then swung his hamlike right in a looping uppercut, which, although it just grazed Gord’s chin, was sufficient to send him sprawling. The off-balance Bogodor flopped down upon Gord with sufficient force to knock the wind out of him, but fortunately it took the brute a couple of seconds to get into a position where he could utilize his advantage. In that time, Gord managed to recover his breath and clear his head sufficiently to counter. As Bogodor grabbed Gord’s hair with his left hand and brought his right forearm down, aiming for his pinned opponent’s throat, things shifted.

By hunching, Gord managed to both protect his neck and get into a position where his jaws could lock on the beefy arm trying to crush his windpipe. As he bit the brawny arm with all his strength, Gord slammed his open right palm into the underside of Bogodor’s jaw. The blow jerked the half-orc’s head back with a snap, although the bandit’s thick neck muscles prevented any serious harm.

This combination of bite and blow caused the bandit to blink, then howl in pain and rage. Even as he bellowed, another attack was already causing him further difficulty. Gord had caught the fingers tangled in his hair, wrapped his hand around one of the digits, and bent it back toward the breaking point. At the same time, Gord used his left hand to grasp the huge right fist of the arm he was biting, trying to pull it to Gord’s left and away from the area of his throat to relieve some of the pressure on his chest.

These actions were more than sufficient to make Bogodor move. His effort to stop the jaws from clamping on his arm while maintaining his attempt to choke Gord, prevent the breaking of his finger, and still remain atop his adversary at the same time turned out to be disastrous for him. The leverage on the half-orc’s right arm forced Bogodor to roll sideways when he attempted to pull his left hand away from Gord’s hold on it before the finger snapped. Gord helped the situation further by bringing his right knee up sharply as Bogodor’s weight was removed from that leg. The blow didn’t impact with real force on the half-orc’s groin, but the grunt he made when it hit told Gord that it hurt plenty.

As the bandit’s weight moved off him entirely, Gord used his acrobatic skills to arch his back and spring erect. As the bewildered Bogodor struggled to his feet, Gord spat blood at him and mocked him through reddened lips.

“What’s the matter, Bogo-dope? You only able to wrestle old men and cripples? Or maybe you like tussling with little boys….”

His eyes red, Bogodor let out a howl of rage. He lost all plan of attack, wanting only to grab Gord and crush him to a bloody pulp. There wasn’t much room to maneuver within the circle of bandits, but Gord could leap. He somersaulted directly into the half-orc’s rush, and his feet came up just as Bogodor’s big belly arrived at the same place. The force of Bogodor’s charge easily reversed the momentum of Gord’s roll, and with his back firmly resting on the ground, his stiff legs acted as a lever to lift the charging bandit off his feet, even as inertia continued to carry him forward.

Gord used his own strength to assist the bandit on his way, and Bogodor, wind driven from his body by the belly-kick, arced over Gord’s head and came down with a jarring thud nearly six feet from where Gord now stood. The half-orc didn’t move. The onlookers were stunned. Bogodor was the strongest of their number, and he’d been beaten by a young fellow half his size.

There were a couple of grudging words of congratulation from the group, and someone slapped Gord on the back. Bogodor was now coming around, and already a few jibes were being aimed his way. Gord stood silently, poised. He looked at the bandit with no expression as Bogodor slowly got to his feet. The half-orc stared at him a moment, shook his head, and then shot Gord a half-grin.

“For a little smartass punk, you fight good,” the brute said. “We go at it again someday soon….”

Before anything else could be said, the chieftain stepped in and grabbed Gord by the shoulders. “Not bad, chum, not bad,” he said with a tinge of admiration in his voice, “but you’re not through yet! Finn here wants to show you a thing or two ’bout handlin’ a stick!”

Finn was a rangy fellow, half a head taller than Gord, and he wore the quilted padding used both to prevent chainmail from chafing and to help protect its wearer. Such gear would be a tremendous boon in a match with quarterstaves, and Finn’s expression showed he was well aware of his advantage.

Gord knew he was in real trouble now. He watched Finn spin and shadow-fight with his iron-shod staff. It was soon going to be apparent to everyone that Gord was completely inexperienced with such a weapon. Finn certainly needed no protection from any attack Gord could mount with a quarter-staff. All the young man knew about billets like this was using them to assist in balance or for vaulting. The contest would be over quickly, and Gord could only hope that he wasn’t crippled or killed in the sure-to-be-painful process.

A new arena-circle formed, and the bandits began cheering and calling out once again. Gord was handed a heavy staff and again shoved forward. The ring closed behind him, and Finn stood facing him, on guard with his quarterstaff. Both men stood motionless for a couple of seconds, staring into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly, several shrieks rang out from the circle of outlaws. Gord saw with shock that a crossbow bolt had suddenly sprouted from the chest of a man across from him. Another missile had left a scarlet trail across Finn’s cheek.

Gord immediately threw himself to the ground, instinctively wondering why he hadn’t heard the angry buzz of the bolt that hit Finn, for its flight certainly must have come close to his head. Already two or three of the bandits were down, flopping or dead, and others were wounded. Nevertheless, they were tough fellows, and their response was immediate. It took only seconds for them to recover from the surprise of the unexpected hail of quarrels; then they were running, dodging, crouching, scattering, at the same time that Gord was moving into a crouch and preparing to defend himself, somehow, with the staff. Weapons were unsheathed or grabbed and the encampment was nearly ready for a counterattack against the missiles when six mailed horsemen thundered into the clearing. So the canon’s hounds were still after him!

Bolts still flew through the air even as the riders cantered toward the bandits with leveled lances. More bandits were slain or wounded by these missiles before the sharp lanceheads bit home. As a lancer thundered past where Gord was crouched, he stabbed the thick quarterstaff between the horse’s legs. The animal neighed in pain and stumbled forward, tail over head. The rider was thrown down, rolled upon by the horse, then thrust through with a spear from his intended target. A bolt took the bandit in the leg, and he, in turn, fell to the dirt.

Gord rolled for cover in the shadows, searching frantically for some weapon with which to defend himself. Already about half of the bandits were dead or seriously wounded, and only two of the lancers were down, at least one done for certain. The four still atop their steeds had discarded their long weapons in favor of sword and axe. Several more of the outlaw band fell, but one of the horsemen was struck full in the chest by a flail. The soldier had hardly hit the ground before two bandits fell upon him and finished the work.

“Here, chum!” The words reached Gord just as a blade-his own dagger!-buried itself in the tree trunk beside his head. The thrower was the chief of the company of bandits. Gord was grateful for the gesture-and also pleased that the fellow didn’t seem to notice how far the dagger had sunk into the tough bronzewood bole. As Gord tugged the weapon free with difficulty, the leader called out to him again.

“It ain’t much, but you better be good with it, ’cause we’re up to our ass in alligators!” With that, the chieftain darted beyond the clearing, probably aiming to stop the sniping cross-bowmen from doing further bloody target practice.

Gord moved to position himself where he could make effective use of the dagger. No sense in pitting himself face-to-face with the soldiers’ longer arms. From behind, or in a grappling melee, the blade would be deadly, but against longsword or great axe the disadvantage would be telling.

Only one of the men-at-arms was still horsed. Another fought beside his slain steed, broad-bladed sword swinging in vicious arcs. At least two of the crossbowmen had dropped their missile weapons to join their embattled fellows in the glen. Bogodor, armed with a huge morning star, stepped before their advance and with a mighty swing wounded one, despite his mail, before either could react. Then both soldiers countered with swords, and the half-orc was hotly defending himself from their cuts and thrusts as Gord crept closer to the action.

Bogodor might have been strong, but he wasn’t skilled at arms. In a minute he was bleeding, and in another he was down. The soldiers were good-but that didn’t prevent Gord from striking as soon as he got his blade within range of one soldier’s back. The supernaturally keen point of his dagger passed through the steel mesh of the foeman’s mail coat as if it were mere leather, and a second blow finished the job.

The dead man’s comrade had been heading off to assist the unhorsed soldier, who was now hard pressed defending himself against several of the bandits. The sounds of his partner’s demise made him turn back quickly, however. When he saw Gord taking the dead soldier’s sword, he raised his own brand and rushed to revenge his fallen mate. Gord barely had time to raise the newly gained sword and ward off the man’s opening stroke.

Gord found himself in a lengthy fencing match that tested his skills and abilities to their fullest. The soldier was better than he at swordplay, but Gord had the advantage of his dagger to ward and threaten. Both opponents were bleeding from small cuts-Gord more so than the armored foeman-but Gord was fast and agile, and far fresher than the mail-burdened swordsman opposing him. The soldier aimed a flurry of blows at Gord, and when this onslaught forced Gord to retreat, the fellow finally took the opportunity to unsheath his own poniard. Now the soldier thought the match to be balanced-or unbalanced, rather-in his favor, and he moved in for the kill.