Daughter of the Drow - Elaine Cunningham [119]
To his astonishment, the man's reactions were even faster than his own. The human fighter leaped and whirled in a single movement. With incredible timing, he jumped over the drow's lunging attack and stomped down with both feet. Gorlist hit the ground hard, full length, and the human landed with him, a booted foot on each of the drow's kidneys.
And the proud drow, who scoffed at pain, let out a howl of pure agony. The human danced aside, and Gorlist saw the club arc down toward him again. Even if he'd been able to move, the weapon came too fast for him to avoid or deflect it.
Gorlist felt the shatter of bone as the club struck his rib cage. This time he did not cry out, but he took little pride in that accomplishment. There was no time for that, no time for thoughts of any kind. His head was jerked sharply to one side as the human hauled him upright by his hair.
Holding the slight drow easily at arm's length, the strange warrior took several strides forward. Gorlist's jfa booted toes barely touched the ground, but he notice^ the human looked much smaller at such close range. It was an odd thought, coming to him dimly through the pain of his many injuries, but Gorlist tucked it away. He had survived many fights and he had done so by knowing his enemies. It might help someday to know that this one was not the seven-foot warrior of first perception. And no matter how bad his hurts, Gorlist remained aware of the battlefield, and he suddenly realized what the human intended to do with him.
A few paces away was a steep ravine, with a fall of nearly ten feet to a shallow, rock-strewn creek. Gorlist knew the danger of such a fall. One of his broken ribs would almost certainly pierce a lung and bring upon him a slow but certain death.
Desperation gave strength to the battered drow. He seized the first weapon that came to hand: a tiny, thin knife tucked into the seam of his jacket sleeve. The drow brought it up and slashed across the man's chest. The coarse leather jerkin, the garment of a human peasant, deflected the cut as effectively as drow chain mail.
Frantically the dark-elven fighter slashed out with his meager weapon. He managed to connect a few times, scoring bloody lines across his captor's arms. Yet the human did not slow, did not register the pain by so much as a flicker of an eyelid. He merely took one hand from the draw's hair and seized the flailing wrist, easily crushing the bones and forcing the tiny knife deep into the fingers that gripped it. But Gorlist was beyond pain now, and he registered neither the ruin of his hand nor the sound of his knife falling to the rocky ground.
The man stopped and pulled Gorlist close, face-to-face, and then heaved him up and away. There was a moment's flight, and then came the punishing tumble down the rocky slope.
The drow came to sudden, jarring stop against a boulder in the center of the shallow creek. He tried dragging himself to shore, but the effort sent him into a spasm of coughing. Gorlist tasted his own blood, and knew any further effort was futile.
Almost gratefully, the drow sank into the stream. The icy water numbed his pain and swept him toward oblivion, toward whatever reward awaited the faithful of Vhaeraun.
When all was silent, Henge, priest of the Masked God of Night, crept cautiously from the cave where he bad hidden during the battle. He was by nature a wary sort of drow, and the sight before him convinced him of the wisdom of discretion.
His brother Brizznarth, who was famed for his stunning swordplay, lay in a pool of his own blood. Since the young drow was clearly beyond help, Henge did not linger over him or waste any energy on grief. There was only one other drow fighter in sight, and he did not seem to be feeling any better than Brizznarth. So Henge moved on to the still form of his leader. He crouched