Saga of the Old City (27 page)

The road, such as it was, bent sharply southward and ran along the edge of the steep uplands, quite the opposite of what Gord had hoped for. If it eventually led to Innspa, following it would take them not less than one hundred leagues out of their way, and a good portion of their subsequent journey would then have to be through the treacherous Adri. To establish where the road would take them, they rode to the top of a great tor nearby, and from its summit surveyed the course of the artery. The road, much to Gord’s dismay, kept southward. From this vantage point, however, Evaleigh spied a path that twisted and turned in a generally northeastward direction, disappearing quickly enough, of course, amidst the rolling terrain. It was obviously no mere game trail, so they chose to take it.

The going was slow, even following the trail, for the rough ground and steep ascents and descents made any pace above a walk very dangerous for their horses. In many places, both riders were forced to dismount and lead their animals. Gord wished that he had had sufficient foresight to bring mules along. The trail did at least show evidence of human use, and from the signs of sheep and goats, there was hope that small communities would be encountered along the way. While they had food and water with them, Gord did not desire to spend nights camped in the open in such a wild area. A more immediate problem soon arose, however: the path they were following split into two forks, one leading nearly straight east, the other in a more northerly direction. Both showed signs of use.

“Evaleigh, have you any sense as to which we should take?” Gord asked his companion. “I am unable to detect any difference in the twain.”

“Left or right, it makes no difference as far as I can see,” she replied after pondering both paths for a minute. “Neither seems to direct us straight toward our goal, so I must ask you to choose.”

Eventually Gord opted to follow the northern branch, for it looked somewhat less rough and it showed evidence of more recent usage. They followed it for several hours, and then it divided into three. Gord followed the center trail, for it curved east. This track led them into the very heart of the Flinty Hills, where the steep-sided mounds were highest. The afternoon shadows were lengthening by now, and Gord began to feel concerned about where they would find safety for themselves during the dark hours to come.

All too soon twilight was upon them, and still no sign of habitation was to be seen. A ravine ahead offered the most promise, so the pair rode in that direction, following a narrow path between two steep mounds. Suddenly, a small boulder came rolling and bounding down the rocky wall to their right, throwing off splinters of stone as it fell and then coming to rest with a crash just ahead of them. Both horses spooked at this, and Gord and Evaleigh had all they could manage to control their mounts as the animals bucked and did their best in the somewhat cramped quarters to turn and gallop in the opposite direction. By the time they succeeded in bringing the frightened creatures under control, the trap had been sprung.

“Surrender or die!” The booming voice came from behind them. Gord pulled his shortsword out in one swift motion as he wheeled his gelding around to face the challenger. His gaze fell upon not one, but a dozen men standing some fifty or sixty feet away. They were variously clad in studded jacks, sarks of iron rings, and leather coats and skins. Most bore long spears and short-hafted axes. One large fellow who stood slightly ahead of the others leaned on a huge, double-bitted battle-axe. This one again bellowed in a stentorian voice.

“Cast down that toothpick, fool! Look to your flanks and rear!”

Without dropping his blade, Gord quickly glanced left and right. On the rim of the cut they were in stood another dozen or so men, similar to those he had first seen but holding crossbows, rocks, javelins, and the like. A rapid look over his shoulder revealed yet more of the hillmen-spearmen and slingers this time, the latter with slings whirling slowly.

“Why ambush two wayfarers?” Gord called to the head man. “We are peaceful and threaten you not!”

“True, you pose us no threat,” said the tall leader as he strode toward the trapped couple. “It is we who are the danger, and if you do not now surrender, you will be dead shortly.” The men behind him followed closely on his heels as he continued to advance.

Seeing no other course, Gord tossed his sword to the ground and dismounted. He voiced a brief instruction to the terrified Evaleigh to stay where she was. Nearly frozen with fear, she managed to nod her head in compliance. Then, rather than waiting for the hillman to come to him, the young thief walked boldly toward his would-be captor, allowing a bit of swagger to be apparent. As the two closed the distance between them, Gord was surprised to discern that the hillman was fully head and shoulders taller than he was. The leader must have been nearly seven feet tall, and the warriors behind him all easily topped six feet. Gord kept walking, intending to meet his adversary before he and his fellows could get too close to Evaleigh. The hillman cooperated by halting his advance, and Gord strolled up to within a couple of paces of where the leader stood, leaning on his great axe. Determined not to allow his fear to show, Gord spoke just as he came to a halt.

“Well, you’re big enough…. But I had always heard that you hill folk were courageous, not cowards.”

The great fellow stood up straight, grasped the handle of his axe firmly, and glared hard at the smaller man before him. The others behind muttered threats and shot back insults in response to Gord’s disparaging of their bravery. Booming forth a laugh, the hillman chief retorted, “It is no craven act to surround eggs with straw so that they remain unbroken until you’re ready to eat them!”

“And dogs hunt in packs because they desire company,” Gord answered smoothly, never taking his mocking gaze from the man.

“Dogs? You call us dogs?” the huge hillman roared, flashing his battle-axe into motion and preparing to cleave the small man in two for the insult just voiced.

Gord did not flinch. “You are truly a lion to thus bravely slay so fierce an adversary-even unarmed as I am!” This Gord said as loudly and sarcastically as he could, expecting the great curved weapon to slice downward any moment.

The others behind the leader whooped and guffawed at this remark, for Gord indeed appeared to be more like a sheep than a deadly foeman. One of their number called out mockingly, “Don’t dirty your axe, Rendol! I’ll slay the magpie with a blow from my palm!”

“Have your woman nearby to assist you in your recovery, in case I am tougher than the little children you usually bully,” Gord answered in a scathing tone. “Better let the toughest amongst you handle the likes of me!”

Rendol had stood poised with axe held aloft during this brief exchange. He suddenly realized how stupid this posture was, and brought the weapon down to rest again. He made a successful effort to control his ire, and now looked at the slight man he was facing with slight respect rather than the disdain he had shown originally.

“Your mouth is as big as any dragon’s, and your tongue faster than a scorpion’s sting,” began the leader. “I say you are a braggart and a liar, little man. I give you leave to pick up your sword, and then we will fight. When I’ve cut you into pieces small enough to satisfy me, I’ll satisfy my other needs upon your woman there, and then honor will be restored.”

The hillmen had been gathering closer as their chief spoke, and his last statement brought a cheer from them. Here was sport they could all enjoy.

“And if I should triumph?” Gord retorted.

This question nearly collapsed the hillmen with laughter, but one bellow from Rendol and they fell into silence, broken by a smattering of stifled haw-haws and sotto-voiced jests.

Rendol sneered at Gord and said, “Then one of my brothers here will fight you and avenge my death-”

“How many cats it takes to kill a mouse,” Gord interrupted, shaking his head in mock wonderment. “But then, I suppose one mouse such as I would be worth ten cats such as you.”

This brought a new round of scowls and grumbles from the hillmen. Shouts of “Kill ’im now, and let’s get to the fun part!” and “Don’t waste time!” were intermixed with vulgar comments and general jeering. The hulking leader again shouted his men to silence and kept up the dialogue with Gord.

“I am the cat then, and if the mouse escapes my claw”-here Rendol hefted the axe for emphasis-“then he and his mouse-main shall pass freely amongst the other toms as they will!”

At that, the hillmen shouted their dissent, but the chief glared them down. “I, Rendol, have spoken, and my word is
law
! Would any of you dispute that? If so, I shall settle that matter before this little one is a hacked and bloody corpse.”

None took up the proffered contest. Gord smiled grimly to himself as he turned and walked back to where his small blade lay. At least he had gained them their liberty as their prize; now all that was necessary was for him to be victorious in mortal combat with a giant hillman armed with a battle-axe as large as Gord himself!

As he came near to Evaleigh, Gord murmured under his breath for her to remain mounted and be prepared to ride for her life-scant hope there! He then picked up his shortsword, gazed for a moment at Evaleigh’s pale face, and turned to face Rendol. He was ready.

The hillman was already moving toward Gord, this time not waiting for the smaller man to come to him. Gord only had time to get a couple of paces farther away from Evaleigh and their horses; then Rendol was upon him. The hillman’s axe swept before him in a great arc, and Gord would have been cloven in twain at the waist had he not leapt nimbly aside. He continued moving sideways, circling around Rendol, so as to place himself in the position the huge foeman had held moments before and get clear of the area where Evaleigh and the horses stood. If an ill-aimed blow struck some onlooker, he cared not, but he meant to spare the girl and the animals such hazard. Gord backed slowly now, crouching a little, with his sword held low and ready for stroke or parry.

Rendol spun around quickly for a man of his size, using the momentum of his missed blow to assist the motion. Still whirling the twin-bladed weapon, the chief eyed Gord’s position and tactic. He stepped forward without hesitation, now bringing the battle-axe up and down in a chopping stroke that Gord would find impossible to block with his small sword. Instead of trying to either dodge once again or parry hopelessly, Gord crouched lower and leaped straight at the larger man just as the axe was being brought back up for another chop. As he lunged, Gord lashed out with the sword in his right hand, looping the short blade in a cut aimed at the axeman’s knees.

Rendol heaved mightily to cut short the upward arc of his axe and bring the weapon back down. At the same time he tried to move his legs backward out of harm’s way. As the result of this combination of movements, the hillman overbalanced and fell forward. Gord’s sword bit into Rendol’s leather leggings, an instant before he threw his body to the side to avoid the hillman’s toppling body. The blade drew blood, but the attack did little damage other than to score first wound. In a match where only death meant victory, this made no difference. Gord gave no thought to self-congratulation, but instead somersaulted himself away so as to be well clear of any possible counterattack. He turned and bounced to his feet in time to see Rendol springing upright, battle-axe still clutched in both hairy hands and murder in his eyes.

“I am no joint of beef to be cleaved, oaf!” called Gord in his most mocking tone. “Where are your boasts now, windbag?” Here was a small advantage Gord thought might be built upon. An opponent blind with fury was an easier foe to vanquish-and Gord needed any advantage he could muster.

“I’ll show you boasting-with my steel!” the hillman replied between clenched teeth, and then he moved forward with a blurring windmill of axe-work, the double-headed weapon whining from the force of its passage back and forth through the air. Gord had to skip and dance to keep clear of the whirling death-blade advancing upon him.

Rendol was still calm enough to demonstrate real skill at arms, and Gord knew he must push the man with more than words. The young thief put his Rhennee-learned acrobatics into play, doing a quick back-flip. As his feet rose over his head, and his knees approached his chin, Gord drew his small knife from his boot. As he landed, he reversed his grip so that his left hand palmed the weapon with handle downmost.

The grim axe-wielder, not noticing that his foe now held a second weapon, saw no threat in Gord’s demonstration of gymnastic ability. In fact, he read it as a desperate maneuver to avoid the press he was employing to sunder his opponent’s defense-and then the opponent. The figure-eight of the battle-axe’s pattern flattened so as to become more offensive and less protective to he who wove it. At that moment, Gord let fly the knife-aiming not at the hillman’s vital portions, most of which were shielded by blade or mail anyway, but at an exposed portion of forearm, left free of armor by extension in the attack.

“You foul little bastard!” Rendol roared in anger and surprise as the keen blade sank into his arm.

“Bastard yourself, you bloated windbag!” Gord spat out in reply. “That great axe you use is twice the size of this blade, yet you offered no equalizer-so I merely provided my own.”

The huge hillman made no reply to this, other than to jerk the knife from his arm and hurl it back at Gord.

This hasty tactic gave Gord yet another opportunity. In his desire to use Gord’s own weapon to harm its hurler, Rendol had taken his right hand from the haft of his battle-axe. Although the injured left member still held the weapon firm, it now lacked the strength to use it offensively.

As the hillman threw the knife at his adversary, his wounded arm allowed the head of the axe to drop. Gord darted forward, drawing his dagger from his belt and simultaneously bringing his sword up to knock away the oncoming knife. Then he brought the sword back across his body, in a backhand slash aimed at Rendol’s face. As the hillman instinctively brought his axe up one-handed to ward off the slash, Gord struck out with the dagger he now held in his left hand. The edge of the smaller weapon easily cut through the thick leather bracer shielding Rendol’s left wrist. Again Gord drew blood, and this wound was serious enough to cause the hillman to drop the axe in the bargain.

Rendol had to back away in great haste, his bleeding arm clutched close to his body, to avoid a flurry of thrusts and cuts from Gord. Now the hillman had only his own dagger for a weapon. He drew the blade with his good arm and used it in a vain attempt to defend himself against Gord’s whirling weapons while he tried to circle around to where he could regain his fallen axe.

He tried, Gord gave him that. This big fighter was brave enough, and determined to win. No matter how he moved, however, Gord’s sword was there, keeping him away from the axe. The combat became a terrible game, and soon the hillman was dripping blood from a half-dozen new wounds delivered by Gord’s sword and dagger. Gord’s black garments had several gashes, but his body had only been scratched or nicked two or three times.

The spectators to this grim match had grown ominously quiet now. Gord knew that soon one or more of them would forget about ceremony and come to Rendol’s aid. Then all hell would break loose, and the hillmen would certainly hack him to bits. Time was just about up.

A sudden stab by Rendol gave Gord the opportunity he sought. He purposely over-reacted, leaping backward, seeming to stumble a little, and moving away from the battle-axe at last. Rendol quickly stepped forward and bent over, fingers clawing for his fallen weapon as he took his eyes off his opponent for a split second. When they looked up again, they saw only death. Gord’s sword and dagger struck home, the first hitting his neck and the other piercing the steel mesh protecting his body. The hillman’s huge frame toppled over, coming to rest upon the axe he had so desperately sought, and the combat was over.

“Mouse has bitten cat,” Gord said, looking from face to face around him, choosing words that he hoped would drive home his point without inciting the other hillmen to attack. “The cat is dead and the mouse goes freely with his mouse-main, as this doughty man promised.”

No one moved to stop him as Gord cleaned and sheathed his blades-sword, dagger, and knife. He did not seek to despoil the fallen man, but simply turned his back on Rendol’s corpse and walked slowly to where Evaleigh waited atop her palfrey, holding his own steed’s reins. Her expression showed nothing. She was clever, Gord thought, keeping his own face a mask also. It was still touch-and-go as to whether or not these men would actually honor the promise of their slain leader. One false move or wrong word could set them off.

Gord swung up into the saddle and kneed his mount into a slow walk, heading in the direction he and Evaleigh had been going before the hillmen had surrounded them. There was no attempt to stop him, but he could hear mutterings beginning to grow in volume behind them. Gord slowed his mount and turned his body, allowing his companion to move ahead of him, and called back.