“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.
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.
“If I come this way again,” he said, “I’ll bring a hundred-mark or so dogs with me to guarantee safe passage!”
“You will need more than that to escape us again!” a voice called back. There was some laughter at that.
“Scurry, mouse!” another hillman shouted defiantly. “Else we might forget a dead man’s word!”
At that, Gord kicked his horse into a trot and slapped the girl’s mount as he drew parallel with it. Together they cantered around the boulder ahead of them, out of the narrow passage and onto a better path beyond, as the last rays of the sun painted the sky with a sanguine hue.
“You seem unaffected by what just occurred,” Evaleigh said in a small, distant voice.
“What is there to be troubled about, my dear one?” Gord replied casually. “After all, I defeated that fool, took his comrades’ jibes and insults, and we rode free! That is fitting… the way of things in such places as this.”
“I see,” the girl said softly, and then spoke no more.
Gord insisted that they keep going well into the night, for he suspected some of the hillmen would attempt to find them during darkness and gain revenge. He walked ahead, leading both mounts, as Evaleigh dozed in her high-backed saddle.
After they had traveled in this fashion for a couple of miles, the narrow track met another, which grew into a road. Gord was confident that this route must lead to somewhere they could stay, and he wanted to make good time. He woke the sleepy girl and jumped back aboard his mount. The tired horses were brought into a trot by much urging, and within an hour the pair rode into a tiny cluster of huts—a place they later learned was called Owlsthorpe.
Dogs barked frantically as they entered the place, and several lights were visible behind shuttered windows. Someone shouted out, demanding to know who trespassed in the community, and Gord replied simply that friendly and tired travelers sought refuge from the night. The only reply was a slamming noise, indicating that the inquirer had shut and probably barred fast the shutter he had opened to ask. All around them, the lights inside the huts were doused.
“At least we aren’t being attacked this time,” Evaleigh observed ruefully.
Gord shrugged to himself in the dark and moved his gelding ahead, peering at the dark shapes around them. Evaleigh followed, and they advanced to the far edge of the hamlet without further incident. Here they came upon a small farmhouse and barn that were somewhat isolated from the other buildings. Gord dismounted in front of the barn door and used his dagger blade to carve through the simple lock holding it closed. Gord and Evaleigh led their horses inside, Gord barred the door with his sword blade, and soon both weary wayfarers were asleep in the straw therein.
A pounding on the secured door awakened them a few hours later, in the early morning. An outraged owner demanded to know who was in his barn. Gord and Evaleigh roused themselves, brushed off a few bits of clinging straw, and greeted the fellow cordially. After a few bronze zees clinked into his hand, the man was civil, although by no means friendly or informative—that required a few
more coins. Eventually they learned where they were, how far away the next community was, and how to get there.
After paying yet more for a meal, the two left Owlsthorpe and rode east through the remainder of the Flinty Hills toward Knurl and Count Blemu’s castle there. They saw a few gnomes, fleetingly, and met no threat during their passage through the region. The land became a series of green, rolling hills then, and travel was swifter.
In two days they came to the ferry across the upper reaches of the Harp River. They crossed the river just as the sun was setting, and Evaleigh told Gord that they were now only half a day’s ride from her home. That night they spent in a hostel near the crossing, making love desperately. Gord wasn’t certain why, but for some reason a deep melancholy had settled over Evaleigh during the last two or three days. She had refused to elaborate on her mood on the few occasions when Gord chanced to bring it up, sometimes passing it off as a fleeting thing and at other times simply ignoring, or pretending not to hear, his questions.
Gord felt himself beginning to be overcome by the same bleak mood, which was frustrating because he did not know its cause and because he had expected both of them to be happy now that they were so close to their goal. Their intimate contact in the hostel on the eve of Evaleigh’s homecoming heightened rather than lessened the mood, and he slept little that night, his brief periods of slumber troubled by evil dreams.
The next morning was bright and clear, and—much to Gord’s surprise and pleasure—Evaleigh seemed to have thrown off her sadness. Smiling and radiant, she urged him to hurry, and the two raced their mounts along the well-kept highway. At a crossroads hamlet, Faselfarm, they spurred left, Evaleigh laughing as stray fowl squawked and flapped as they got out of the path of the thundering horses, and dogs pursued them, barking. Soon Gord saw the towers and battlements marking Castle Blemu. They too were seen, and amidst a sounding of brazen horns, mailed riders came forth to meet them. Evaleigh shouted her name joyously, and the challenging patrol quickly became a guard of honor for the long-lost Lady Evaleigh’s triumphant return.
[Greyhawk Adventures 01] - Saga of Old City Page 22