The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (8 page)

He gave ground, blocking the sergeant's blows by sheer reflex, and heard the onlooking soldiers yell with triumph.

Won't do at all, Rod's thoughts whirled. He'd been trained at quarterstaff; but he hadn't had a bout in a year, whereas the sergeant had all the skill of a devout hobbyist. It was just a game to him, probably, as the swordplay had been to Rod. The sergeant was in the driver's seat, and he knew it.

There was one chance. Rod leaped back, his hands slipping to the middle of the staff. It began to turn end-over-end, twirling like a baton. Rod set his jaw and put some muscle into it. His staff leaped into a whirling, whining blur.

It was French single-stick play, le moullnet. The sergeant probably knew it as well as Rod; but chances were he wasn't any better practiced at it than Rod was. It was rather exotic form, unless you were French. And with a name like Sergeant Hapweed...

Sir Mans and Co. gaped. The sergeant stepped back, startled. Then a wariness came into his face, and his staff jumped into a whirl. So he knew the style. But he wasn't a master; in fact, Rod had the advantage. The sergeant's staff was a blur, but a quiet blur. Rod's staff was doing a very nice imitation of a buzz saw. He had the edge on the sergeant in angular velocity, and consequently greater striking power.

Sergeant Hapweed knew it too; the muscles of his neck knotted as he tried to speed up his swing.

Now! Rod leaped forward. His staff snapped out of its whirl, swinging down counter to the rotation of the sergeant's.

The sticks met with a crack of a rifle and a shudder that jarred Rod's back teeth. He recovered a half second ahead of the sergeant and brought his staff crashing down on the sergeant's in two quick blows, knocking the other's staff out of his hands.

Rod straightened, drawing a deep breath and letting the tension flow out of him as he grounded the butt of his staff.

The sergeant stared at his hands, numb.

Rod reached out and tapped the man's temple gently with the tip of his staff. 'Bang! You're dead.'

'Hold!' cried Sir Mans, making things official. Rod grounded his staff again, and leaned on it.

Sir Mans scowled at Rod, eyes bright under bushy eyebrows. Rod gave him a tight smile.

Sir Mans nodded slowly. 'Shall I try you with a longbow?'

Rod shrugged, bluffing. With a crossbow, maybe. But a longbow... A deep, skirling laugh rolled from the rafters. The Master of the Guard and all his men jumped. Big Tom fell on his knees, arms flung up to protect his head.

Rod's head snapped out, eyes searching for the source of the laugh. On one of the great oaken beams crossing the hall sat a dwarf, drumming his heels against the wood. His head was as large as Rod's, his shoulders broader, his arms and legs as thick as Rod's. He looked as though someone had taken a big, normal man and edited out three feet here and there.

He was barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, and bull-necked. The shaggy black head seemed strangely large for such a truncated body. Black, curly hair hung down to the point of the jaw and the nape of the neck; bushy black eyebrows jutted out-from a flat sloping forehead. The eyes were large, coal-black, and, at the moment, creased with mirth. They were separated by a hawk-beak nose under which thick, fleshy lips grinned through a bushy black beard, jutting forward at the chin. Square, even teeth gleamed white through the beard. Someone bad tried to cram a giant into a nail-keg, and had almost succeeded.

'Longbow!' he cried in a booming bass voice. 'Nay, I'll wager he's as fair a shot as the county ram in springtime!'

Sir Mans glowered up at the dwarf. 'A plague on you and your stealthy ways, Brom O'Berin! Is there not enough salt in my hair already, but you must whiten it all with your pranks?'

'Stealthy ways!' cried the dwarf. 'Forsooth! Had you some pride in your calling, Sir Mans, you would thank me for showing you your own lack of vigilance!'

'Brom?' muttered Rod, staring 'O'Berin?'

The dwarf turned to Rod, glowering. 'Black Brom O'Berin, aye!'

'That's, uh, a combo of Dutch, Irish, and Russian, if I've got it right.'

'What words of nonsense are these?' growled the dwarf.

'Nothing.' Rod looked away, shaking his head. 'I should have seen it coming. I should expect something else, on this crazy -uh... in Gramarye?'

The dwarf grinned, mischief in his eyes. 'Nay, unless I mistake me, that hath the sound of a slur on the great land of Gramarye!'

'No, no! I didn't... I mean...' Rod paused, remembering that apologies were unbecoming for a fighting man in this culture. He straightened, chin lifting. 'All right,' he said, 'it was an insult, if you want it that way.'

The dwarf gave a howl of glee and jumped to his feet on the rafter.

'You must fight him now, Gallowglass,' Sir Mans rumbled, 'and you shall need every bit of your skill.'

Rod stared at the Master of the Guard. Could the man be serious? A dwarf, give Rod a hard fight?

The dwarf chuckled deep in his throat and slipped off the beam. It was a twelve foot drop to the stone floor, more than three times Brom's height, but he hit the floor lightly, seeming almost to bounce, and wound up in a wrestler's crouch. He straightened and paced toward Rod, chuckling mischief.

There was a roar behind Rod, and Big Tom blundered forward. ''Tis a trap, master!' he bellowed. 'Witchcraft in this land, and he is the worst witch of all! None has ever beaten Black Brom! Yet I shall-'

Every soldier in the room descended on Big Tom in a shouting chaos of anger and outrage.

Rod stood a moment in shock. Then he dropped his staff and waded into the melee, hands flashing out in karate punches and chops. Soldiers dropped to the floor.

'Hold!' thundered Brom's voice.

Silence gelled.

Brom had somehow gotten up on the rafters again.

'My thanks, lads,' the miniature Hercules growled. 'But the the big fellow meant no harm; let him go.'

'No harm!' yelped half a dozen outraged voices.

Brom took a deep breath and sighed out, 'Aye, no harm. He meant only defense of his master. And this Gallowglass meant only defense of his manservant. Stand away from them now, they're both blameless.'

The soldiers reluctantly obeyed.

Rod slapped Tom on the shoulder and murmured, 'Thanks, Big Tom. And don't worry about me; that Dutch Irishman is only a man, like you and me. And if he's a man, I can beat him.'

The dwarf must have had very keen ears, for he bellowed, 'Oh, can you, now? We'll see to that, my bawcock!'

'Eh, master!' Big Tom moaned, rolling his eyes. 'You know not what you speak of. That elf is the devil's black own!'

'A warlock?' Rod snorted. 'There ain't no such beasts.'

Sir Mans stepped back among his men, ice-eyed and glowering. 'Harm a hair of his head, and we'll flay you alive!'

'No fear,' Brom O'Berin chuckled. 'No fear, Gallowglass. Try all that you may to harm me. Be assured, you shall fail. Now look to yourself.'

He jumped on the rafter, bellowed 'Now!'

Rod dropped into a crouch, hands drawn back to chop. Brom stood on the beam, fists on hips, great head nodding. 'Aye, hold yourself ready. But' - his eyes lit with a malicious gleam; he chuckled

- 'Brom O'Berin is not a light man.' He leaped from the rafter feetfirst, straight at Rod's head. Rod stepped back, startled at the suddenness of the dwarf's attack. Reflex took over; his hand swung up, palm upward, to catch Brom's heels and flip them up.

Then, expecting the dwarf to land flat on his back on the granite floor, Rod jumped forward to catch; but Brom spun through a somersault and landed bouncing on his feet.

He slapped Rod's hands away with a quick swipe. 'A courtly gesture,' he rumbled, 'but a foolish one; your guard is down. Save gentleness for those who need it, man Gallowglass.'

Rod stepped back, on guard again, and looked at the little man with dawning respect. 'Seems I underestimated you, Master O'Berin.'

'Call me not master!' the dwarf bellowed. 'I'm no man's master; I'm naught but the Queen's fool!'

Rod nodded, slowly. 'A fool.'

He beckoned with both arms, and a savage grin. 'Well enough then, wise fool.'

Brom stood his ground a moment, measuring Rod with a scowl. He grunted, mouth snapping into a tight smile, and nodded.

He sprang, flipped in mid-air, feet heading straight for Rod's chin Rod swung a hand up to catch Brom's heels again, muttering, 'I'd've thought you'd learn.'

He shoved the dwarf's feet high; but this time Brom flipped his head up under Rod's chin. He had a very solid head.

Rod rolled with the punch, wrapping his arms tightly around Brom O'Berin's body in the process.

The dwarf shook with merriment. 'How now?' he chortled.

'Now that you've got me, what shall you do with me?'

Rod paused, panting.

It was a good question. If he relaxed his grip for a moment, he could be sure Brom would twist a kick into his belly. He could drop the little man, or throw him; but Brom had a tendency to bounce and would probably slam right into Rod's chin on the rebound. Well, when in doubt, pin first and think later. Rod dropped to the floor, shoving Brom's body out at right angles to his own, catching the dwarf's knee and neck for a cradle hold.

But Brom moved just a little bit faster. His right arm snaked around Rod's left; he caught Rod's elbow in a vise-like grip and pulled. Rod's back arched with the pain of the elbow lock. He now had a simple choice: let go with his left hand, or black out from pain. Decisions, decisions!

Rod took a chance on his stamina; he tightened his hold on Brom's neck. Brom grunted surprise. 'Another man would have yelped his pain and leaped away from me, man Gallowglass.'

Brom's knee doubled back; his foot shoved against Rod's chest, slid up under the chin, and kept on pushing.

Rod made a strangling noise; fire lanced the back of his neck as vertebrae ground together. The room darkened, filled with points of coloured light.

'You must let go of me now, Gallowglass,' Brom murmured, ere sight fails, and you sleep.'

Did the damn half-pint always have to be right?

Rod tried a furious gurgle by way of reply; but the room was dimming at an alarmingly rapid rate, the points of light were becoming pinwheels, and a fast exit seemed indicated.

He dropped his hold, shoved against the floor with his arms, and came weaving to his feet, with a throaty chuckle filling his ears. For Brom had kept his hold on Rod's arm and had wrapped his other hand in the throat of Rod's doublet, his weight dragging Rod back toward the floor.

Brom's feet touched the ground; he shoved, throwing Rod back. Rod staggered, overbalanced, and fell, but habit took over again. He tucked in his chin, slapped the floor with his forearms, breaking his fall.

Brom bowled with glee at seeing Rod still conscious, and leaped. Rod caught what little breath remained to him and snapped in his feet. He caught Brom right in the stomach, grabbed a flailing arm, and shoved, letting the arm go.

Brom flipped head over heels, sailed twenty feet past Rod, and landed on the stone flags with a grunt of surprise. He landed on his feet, of course, and spun about with a bellow of laughter. 'Very neat, lad, very neat! But not enough...'

Rod was on his feet again, panting and shaking his head. Brom hopped toward him, then sprang.

Rod ducked low, in a vain hope that Brom might be capable of missing once; but the little man's long arm lashed out to catch Rod across the throat, stumpy body swinging around to settle between Rod's shoulders. One foot pressed into the small of Rod's back, both arms pulled back against the base of his throat.

Rod gurgled, coming to his feet and bending backward under Brom's pull. He seized the dwarf's forearms, then bowed forward quickly, yanking Brom's arms. Brom snapped over Rod's head and somersaulted away. He crowed as his feet hit the floor.

'Bravely done, lad! Bravely done!'

He turned about, the glint of mischief still in his eyes. 'But I grow weary of this game. Let us be done with it.'

'Tr-try,' Rod panted.

Brom hunched forward, his long arms flailing out, slapping at Rod's guard.

He grabbed for Rod's knee. Rod dropped his right hand to block Brom's attempt, then threw his left about Brom's shoulders, trying to shove him forward to lose his balance; but the dwarf's hands seemed to have gotten tangled in Rod's collar again.

Rod straightened, trying to throw Brom off, hands chapping at the little man's elbows; Brom's grip only tightened.

The dwarf kicked out, throwing all his weight forward. Rod stumbled, saw the floor coming up at him.

Brom leaped past him, catching Rod's foot on the way. Rod did a bellywhopper on the stone floor, but he slapped out with his forearms and kept his head from hitting.

He tried to rise but someone had tied a millstone across his shoulders. A snake coiled under his left arm and pressed against the back of his neck.

Rod tried to roll to break the half nelson, but a vise closed on his right wrist and drew it up into a hammerlock.

'Yield, lad,' Brom's voice husked in his ear. 'Yield, for you cannot be rid of me now.'

He shoved Rod's arm higher in the hammerlock to emphasize his point. Rod ground his teeth against the pain.

He struggled to his feet somehow, tried to shake the little man off. But Brom's feet were locked around his Waist.

'Nay,' the dwarf muttered, 'I told you you'd not be rid of me.'

Rod shook himself like a terrier, but Brom held on like a bulldog. For a moment, Rod considered falling on his back to crush Brom under him. It was galling to be beaten by a man one-third your size. He discarded the idea quickly, though; there were many times in this bout where Brom could have played equally shabby tricks on Rod.

So Brom had a strong sense of fair play; and Rod was damned if he'd come off as smaller than a dwarf.

Brom's voice was a burr in his ear. 'Will you not yield, man?' And Rod gasped as his right hand tried to touch the nape of his neck. Then Brom shoved hard on Rod's neck, forcing his chin down to touch his collarbone. Rod staggered, lurched forward, and threw out a leg to keep himself from falling. The muscles across his back and neck screamed at the torture; his right aria begged to give in. His diaphragm folded in on itself, stubbornly refusing to pull in another breath of air. His windpipe crooked into a kink, and his lungs called for air. In a weird, detached moment he noted that night seemed to have fallen all of a sudden; and, stranger yet, the stars were tumbling... Water splashed cold on his face. The mouth of a bottle thrust between his lips, feeling as large as a cartwheel. Liquid trickled aver his tongue and down to his belly, where it exploded into fire. He shook his head, and noticed that there was cold stone under his back. Now, what the hell was he doing, trying to sleep on a stone floor?