Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [158]
He shouldered past Darrigo without waiting for a reply, jaw set and eyes bright. Aye, trust him to leap on any chance to show off before his wife, Darrigo thought, and reached out to keep the door from banging into a table the magelords might be rather fond of, as Peeryst flung it wide.
Almost immediately, he gave a startled cry. Darrigo saw a rushing armsman crash into the youth, reel, and keep on running. Peeryst wasn't so lucky; he hit the wall nose-first and groaned.
Darrigo groaned. Of course blood was leaking from the idiot's over-delicate beak when he got up… and of course, little Nanue would have to get up and rush out to see what had befallen her light-o'-love… On cue, Nanue rushed past him, skirts rustling, and shrieked in earnest.
Darrigo peered out in time to see a well-dressed noble shove Nanue off his blade, snarling, "Step aside, wench! Can't you hear the alarm?" Nanue fell back against the doorway with a sob of fear. The man's blade had gashed her arm, and blood was running freely down her skirts. That was enough for Darrigo.
Two strides took him to Peeryst. With one hand he snatched the dainty little blade out of his nephew's hand. With the other, he shoved the young hope of the Trumpettowers at his wife. "Bind her wounds," he snarled, setting off down the passage after the hurrying noble.
"But-how?" Peeryst called after him desperately.
"Use yer shirt, man!" Darrigo snarled.
"But, but-'tis new, and-"
"Then use yer hose, stonehead," Darrigo roared back, as he took a flight of stairs three at a time.
He was wheezing and stumbling by the time he reached the bottom, but he caught up with the hurrying noble there. His quarry was just raising his blade, looking for all the world like he was going to plant it in the ribs of another dandified fellow a little farther along the hall. Darrigo smacked him across the back of the head with his sword. Thankfully, the dainty weapon didn't break. The dandy whirled, the reek of his perfume swirling about him.
"You dare to touch me, old man?" The noble's blade was darting at his throat before Darrigo could have uttered any reply.
Snarling, the old farmer beat it aside and shouldered forward. "Set steel to a Trumpettower lass, would you? And her unarmed, yet! You don't deserve to live three breaths longer!"
Jansibal leapt backward just in time. The old man's ornamental sword hissed past his nose. His urge to laugh died abruptly… this graybeard was serious!
Then a clear laugh rang out from behind him: Thelorn, damn him before all the gods! Jansibal snarled and slid aside, forcing his way past the old man to get his unprotected back away from the reach of his rival.
"Attacking old men now, Jansibal? Younger ones starting to refuse you?" Thelorn called interestedly. In sudden fury, Jansibal lunged at Darrigo. Their blades crashed together-once, twice, and thrice… and Janisbal's codpiece clanged to the floor, both of its tiny straps cut.
The old man gave him a mirthless smile. "Thought perhaps you'd be able to move a mite faster without all that weight down there," he remarked, advancing again.
Jansibal stared at him in astonishment, and then that little blade was sliding in at him again, and he was forced into a desperate flurry of parries. Thelorn laughed again, enjoying his rival's humiliation. Jansibal snarled and attacked, and almost casually the old man's blade floated in over his guard and drew a line across his nose and cheek.
Jansibal spat out a startled oath and backed away. Darrigo lumbered after him, and the perfumed dandy turned and ran down the dark hall, away from them all. The old man raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Fleeing a challenge? And you think yourself noble?'
Jansibal Otharr made no reply but a gasp, and a moment later Darrigo saw why. A blade was protruding from his back, dark with the nobleman's blood. The blade shook, a booted foot kicked, and Jansibal Otharr slid down to his knees on the floor and sagged back into a silent heap.
"That's an Athalantan noble?" said the