Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [54]
Looks like I spoke too soon, Riker chided himself.
Without hesitation, Kobar’s friends came to get him. Each of them took an arm and dragged him out of the rug merchant’s booth.
Nor did he resist much. What for? It would only have postponed the inevitable.
With the crowd packed in like this, he couldn’t run. Lyneea could have helped, but where was she? Hadn’t she noticed yet what was happening here?
As Kobar’s companions thrust Riker forward, the crowd cleared away and formed a circle around a portion of the market’s winding lane. It was big enough for what Kobar had in mind, but barely.
“Last chance,” the Impriman warned him. He gestured to one of his friends, who held out his knife, handle first.
Riker didn’t take it. Don’t give in now, he told himself. You’ll find another way out of this.
“Suit yourself,” said Kobar. And subtly altering his grip on his weapon, he advanced on the human.
The attack wasn’t meant to be clever. It was intended to humiliate with its straightforwardness.
But Riker didn’t intend to be humiliated. Or, for that matter, to be skewered on Kobar’s point.
At the last moment, he sidestepped the attack and, for good measure, struck Kobar a two-handed blow that sent him staggering.
The Impriman looked at him with newfound respect. “So,” he said. “You can fight.”
Will didn’t reply. It was more important to concentrate on staying alive.
Kobar took another swipe at him—this time, one with a little more thought behind it. Riker had to jump back quickly, using all the space the crowd would give him, then shuffle sideways to avoid the real attack. For a trained duelist almost never intended his first assault to be his best one, and Kobar was obviously a trained duelist.
Sure enough the Impriman followed up with a long, hard lunge, expecting to hit flesh and bone. But with Riker already on the move, his point found nothing but empty air.
Cursing, he rounded on the human again. Riker kept dancing along the perimeter of their space, brushing against the ring of onlookers as he moved.
Kobar feinted. Riker refused to be deceived, refused to react and yield the advantage to his adversary.
Another feint, better than the first, but the human didn’t swallow this one either. Kobar was getting impatient, Riker decided. He would be less cautious, less picky about his openings.
He was right. Kobar didn’t wait long to strike again. He started his attack slowly, hoping to lull Riker into overconfidence, then put all his weight into a sudden rush.
It was a rash thing to do when time was on his side. But Riker wasn’t about to tell Kobar that. Timing it so that his adversary just missed him, he whirled and chopped down on Kobar’s wrist.
The Impriman cried out in pain. His weapon fell to the ground.
When he went for it, Riker kicked it between the legs of someone in the crowd. Kobar took the opportunity to slam into the human’s midsection, carrying him off his feet. As they fell together, Riker grabbed his adversary’s tunic and planted a heel in his solar plexus. Then, as he rolled backward, he pushed his leg out and sent Kobar flying.
In a fraction of a second Riker was on his feet, not because he feared a reprisal from Kobar—he had landed pretty hard if his grunt was any indication—but because Kobar’s friends were still in the first rank of onlookers, and both still had knives.
In another fraction of a second, he’d located one of them. The Impriman was starting forward, weapon in hand. Riker braced himself.
Where was the other?
The human never saw the blow. The next thing he knew, his cheek was pressed against the frozen mud of the lane, and there was a ringing in his ears.
Someone turned him over, dropped down on top of him. The same someone pinned Riker’s shoulders to the ground with his knees. Snowflakes fell into his face, big and soft and dreamy. He tasted blood as he recognized the face looming above him: it was Kobar’s.
“Filthy muzza,” the Impriman spat, his clenched teeth making the words hard to understand. His eyes flashed green fury. “Filthy muzza of an offworlder