The three had split up as soon as they discovered that a company of horsemen was in hot pursuit. All that resulted from this move was a division of the troop following into three separate squadrons. Each group was a dozen or more strong, and each man was equipped with lance, crossbow, and shield. Gord never considered an attempt to thin their numbers by ambush, for what chance did he have against such soldiers? Certainly, a well-spun bullet from his sling might have some effect, but retributive missiles and close pursuit would make such attack the height of folly. Evading them and outdistancing them were utmost in Gord’s mind. Evidently, his pursuers desired quite the opposite.
As the terrain began to be cut by gullies and the landscape rolled downward toward the Yol River ahead, Gord turned on a more southerly course and spurred his horse to a canter so as to avoid being caught against the water. From what he had heard about this forest, Gord was none too comfortable traveling within its depths. The place was reputed to hide all sorts of nasty creatures and humanoid brigands, not to mention the bandits said to infest the woodland. Perhaps these tales were the stuff used to keep small children at home, however, for the horsemen on his tail had not hesitated in following when he had plunged into the trees, and a day of traveling amidst the forest had not brought him face to face with anything more fearsome than a smallish bear and many small animals of the sort one would expect to encounter in such a setting.
Near sunset Gord led his steed through the shallow verge of a nasty-looking marsh that spread out to the west as far as he could see. Just as the swollen crimson orb of the sun sank below the horizon, he came out of the morass, remounted, and rapidly rode due south. This left the dangerous lowland far behind by the time full darkness swathed the trees in gloom. There would be no way for those who still might be at his heels to locate where he had left the marsh until daylight came. Gord dismounted and walked on warily, alert for danger, seeking a sheltered spot to sleep.
A gleam of flickering yellow light alerted him that there were others ahead. Gord dropped his stallion’s reins on the ground, patted the animal’s neck, and told it in a whisper to remain silent until he came back. The courser seemed to understand, for it whickered softly, nodded its great head, and fell to searching for green growth amidst the tree roots.
Gord crept stealthily toward the firelight. It was quite difficult to move silently, for the forest floor was covered with a scattering of dead leaves and dry twigs hidden by new growth, but Gord was adept at stealth. Only the faintest of sounds marked his approach to the source of the illumination. He was soon close enough to see that there were two small bonfires, and by their dancing light Gord noted that some two dozen men-bandits, judging by their dress and weapons-were scattered in the glen, preparing their food and readying for the night. They were a scurvy lot in motley armor and garb drawn from all nations and races, it seemed, for Gord saw several orcish and elvish half-breeds among them.
On the far side of the encampment were six or eight horses. There were piles of goods near them, so Gord figured that the animals were used to carry captured spoils. This band must be returning to their base of operations, for the heap of stuff near the horses was sufficient to burden them all. Gord stayed in a crouch and began to creep slowly backward, for he had seen enough. Then a heavy weight fell upon his back, pinning him to the ground, and a sharp spearpoint pressed against his neck.
“Don’t move!” a rough voice hissed. “One sound and you’re dead!”
Chapter 14
Gord stood weaponless before the bandit chieftain, guarded by the pair of sentries who had spotted him. Capturing him had been easy, and the two were smirking. Easy pickings were appreciated by their ilk, and Gord had furnished them with a surprising amount of loot. Evidently he had been spotted when he first approached the encampment, and while two of the sentries crept up on him, another pair backtracked and found Gord’s horse. The gold reliquary, a heap of coins, and his weapons were displayed on a cloak, his too, spread at the bandit leader’s feet.
“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.