A Time of Omens - Katharine Kerr [189]
Rhodry started to laugh.
“Get back!” he choked out between howls of demon-mirth. “Get back and leave him to me!”
He might have been only a silver dagger, but every man behind him followed his order gladly. His opponent laughed as well, a rumble under his breath. He jumped to the wagon bed and dropped to a fighting crouch.
“Shield you got, man. But I got taller.”
“And a fair fight it is, then.”
Even though he was chortling like a mad ferret, Rhodry’s mind was icy calm, telling him that the victory in this scrap depended on the strength of his left arm. He was going to have to hold his shield up high, like one of those sunshades the fine court ladies in Dun Deverry sported, and pray it held against the other’s blows. With the shield low he feinted in, slowly it seemed to him, oh, so slowly moving cross the uneven ground, saw a glint of steel moving, swung up the shield and caught the huge blade full on the boss. The brass plate sliced like butter; the blade stuck, just for the briefest of moments, but Rhodry got a hard stab on his enemy’s upper arm. Blood spurted thick and flowed slowly, oh, so slowly, down the sleeve.
Rhodry danced back just in time as the leader sliced backhanded in a blow that would have gutted him had it landed. For a moment they panted for breath, glaring at each other; then Rhodry began sidling toward his opponent’s left. Caught as he was against the wagon protecting his back, the other was forced to turn slightly—then all at once lunged. Just in time Rhodry flung up his shield, heard the wood crack in half, and stabbed as fast and as hard as he could. Later he would realize that this stab had been his last and only chance, but as the pieces of shield fell away from the handle he knew only laughter, welling out of him like a tide of fire as he thrust with every bit of strength and skill he possessed. The enormous sword swung up over his head, hovered there, trembled down, then fell from a dying hand as his opponent grunted once and crumpled over Rhodry’s sword, buried in his guts. When Rhodry pulled it free, he realized that blind instinct had made him angle the blade. Dark heart’s blood gushed out with the steel.
As the berserk mist cleared, Rhodry staggered back, gulping for breath, sweating rivers down his back, half-dizzy, half-dazed, unsure for that moment exactly where he was or what fight he’d just won. All round him he heard cheers and shouting, managed to recognize Cadmar’s bellow as the gwerbret shoved his way through what proved to be a crowd.
“Oh, may Great Bel preserve us,” the gwerbret whispered. “What is that?”
“I wouldn’t, know, Your Grace.”
For a moment, while he got his breath back, Rhodry studied his dead enemy’s face and got his second shock of the day. The tattoo designs were all elven. He’d seen many like them on horse gear and painted tents out in the Westlands: animal forms, floral vines, and even, here and there, a letter or two from the Elvish syllabary.
“Let Jill through,” Cadmar was yelling. “Ye gods, someone get our Rhodry some water.”
Jill, it turned out, was carrying a skin of just that. She handed it over, then stood for a long time staring down at the corpse. In the bright sun Rhodry was struck again by how thin her face was, all pale stretched skin and fine bone, as delicate as a bird’s wing. He gulped water down while she went on with her study of the dead man.
“I was afraid of this,” she said at