The Mercenaries - Ed Greenwood [27]
Tossing the sailor aside, he charged past the reeling man and bore down on the helm. "Are you deaf, man?" he roared, towering up over the sweating Tharkarian.
The steersman looked up fearfully at the raging Konigheimer. "But… but…" he protested. "My orders-"
Kurthe's blade flashed out. Til give you orders!" he snarled as his steel darted down-but the wild thrust was turned aside by a gleaming blade that came out of nowhere, soft and swift, to meet his with deft precision.
"Keep to your course," its owner told the steersman calmly.
Kurthe stared along the sword and met the dark, dangerous eyes of Belmer, looking back at him expres-sionlessly.
"You!" the Konigheimer shouted as his eyes kindled into two red flames. "All of this started when we took your cursed writs-and became, it seems, Master Soft-and-Sweet, your slaves!"
He smashed his blade free of Belmer's in a skirl of protesting steel and waved it menacingly, eyes narrowing. That, little worm, is going to stop right now. I'm going to see the color of your innards, Belmer- here, on this deck, now!"
Belmer shrugged and spread his hands. With another snarl, Kurthe stepped forward and swung with vicious force.
The small man ducked and swayed smoothly, and the Konigheimer's blade whistled through empty air. Belmer reached out with almost delicate grace and slid his own blade along Kurthe's side, slicing through the Sharker's stained old shirt and drawing a ribbon of dark blood along exposed ribs. Then he stepped away as if he had all the leisure in the world, in time to deflect Kurthe's frantic backhand swing down into the deck boards with a ringing clang.
The other Sharkers watched, stepping slowly closer, and the crew of the Morning Bird -all save their moaning, hand-wringing captain-clambered up to perches low in the rigging to see better. Sobbing with rage and pain, Kurthe swung his borrowed blade in another great two-handed swing, to chop the fat little man in half at gut level.
The steel bit deep, ripping into Belmer. No blood sprayed, and they heard no wet thunk of metal biting flesh. Kurthe's blade tore easily through soft leather, and cloth beneath it, and burst into view again, trailing a few tumbling glass vials-and they all saw that Belmer's fat belly was a false thing: a front of padding and straps.
Belmer had taken the slash to stay close, bending over backward away from it, falling-no, he touched the deck with one spread hand, and in the same fluid motion used it as a spring to lunge back up, in behind Kurthe's swing. His own blade sliced open the Sharker leader's shoulder and shirt together, and-as Belmer glided swiftly sideways-peeled the shirt away to lay bare the Konigheimer's whip-scarred back.
As the watchers gaped at that catlike attack, Belmer shot them a quick look and moved sideways again with the same gliding grace, unbuckling his false belly to let it fall. As the wounded leader of the Sharkers snarled around to meet him, the small man, suddenly thin and sleek, stood facing them all. Now, as Belmer fought, no one could take him from the rear.
Bellowing in frustration and rising pain, Kurthe advanced with his head lowered, like a bull seeking to drive an opponent into a corner, chopping and hacking in short swings that wove a deadly, oncoming wall of steel. Belmer took a pace back, braced himself, and then met those swings with his own blade. His strength surprised them all. When the blades met and shivered, and the sparks flew, it was Kurthe's steel that was turned aside, and the former slave who grunted with effort.
Calmly, icily silent, Belmer parried his furious foe, causing the Konigheimer's blade to glance wildly hither and thither. Each time it clanged