foe. Gord thought himself successful, as the fellow moved away from his threatening blades, but then Gord was struck by a kick that drove him against the stone wall and nearly left him breathless. Gord responded with a fast backhand cut with his shortsword, but the man's leg was already elsewhere, and the counterstroke cut only air.
'Not fast enough, thief!' the crimson-robed opponent said, posturing strangely before Gord. 'I shall give you a lesson in true fighting skills before I kill you… Watch now.'
With this, the man's hands began to flutter, his arms moved sinuously, and his feet stepped in a complex dance-like movement. Gord, fortunately for him, was too battle-wise to be fooled by such motions. He watched his opponent's eyes — when he could. The fellow actually turned his back, or looked away too often, for Gord to be able to lock his gaze on that of his adversary. Something in those eyes, or a tension displayed in neck or body, alerted Gord, and he was ready when the exotic posturing suddenly turned into a furious assault. Gord was struck again, this time by an iron-hard hand and a powerful kick, but in return he dealt the fellow a long gash with his sword and a deep wound with his dagger.
'Perhaps you might gain instruction in swordplay,' Gord mocked despite a bleeding mouth, blades moving slowly before him in his own complex rhythm of fighting.
The pale features of the robed man's face went nearly white at this. 'Save your breath, you inferior mongrel!' he snarled. 'I don't wish you to be too winded to scream when I give you a painful death!'
'It is you who keep on squeaking, white rat. Do you bite too?' Gord egged the man on, for this contest must be finished soon. The soldiers were not faring well against his near-twin. Two were down and still, and a third dropped even as Gord spoke. Their lone opponent seemed unhurt. Gord knew that he would never be able to defeat both of these formidable, weaponless fighters, so he had to finish with the one before him quickly.
Amazingly, the wounds he had given this man had ceased much of their bleeding, almost as if he were a troll. The bastard had used the opportunity of insult exchange to somehow partially heal himself, Gord realized. The process required some concentration, though, and Gord acted on the assumption that his foe was distracted. His assumption proved true, and despite the fellow's superior speed, Gord was successful in his onslaught, scoring another pair of wounds and avoiding the flurry of hands and feet that countered his attack.
A lightninglike series of exchanges followed, with slight pauses between series, where Gord taunted and jibed, and his adversary made strange noises and grimaces. Both men were hurt — Gord battered and bruised, and the blond, weaponless opponent slashed and stabbed. Who was getting the better of it, Gord could not guess, for he had never faced such an opponent before.
The fighting between men-at-arms and the pale, lean twin to Gord's foeman had devolved to a contest between two surviving soldiers and their now-cautious opponent. Out of the corner of his eye, Gord saw that this unarmed fighter was also showing signs of having been hurt. Evidently, the two survivors of the group were more skilled than their comrades had been. They tried to work to either flank of the tall, red-clad enemy as he moved and struck, keeping them at bay.
Gord must have seemed not to have been alert as he quickly appraised what was happening to his fellows, for the blue-eyed foeman launched an incautious rush that not only missed its mark but enabled Gord to deliver a vicious set of counterattacks. Two of the Wows were mere scratches, but the other pair were serious strokes that caused much harm. Seconds later, the fighter struck Gord a buffet that nearly knocked him unconscious, but missed with his follow-up attack, and again took painful wounds in return.
After another such exchange, the man sought to escape the contest, for he must have sensed that it could now end but one way. But as he flipped backward and began his dash for safety, Gord launched his long dagger squarely at his back. True to his aim, the sharp point and steely shank bit deep. The legs still sought to carry the enemy's body forward even as the trunk collapsed and went sprawling to the floor.
Without bothering to find out if the man was actually dead or simply wounded and stunned, Gord wheeled to his right. Only one hard-pressed soldier still faced the other red-clothed member of the castle's evil garrison. Both were caught up in their own life-and-death struggle, enabling Gord to get a shortsword thrust home before the foe realized that he was again beset by more than one adversary.
The sting of the wound Gord inflicted seemed to cause the man to leap sideways; actually, this was a tactic to get himself clear of the area from which the attack came and give himself some time to assess the new situation. The soldier, however, was ready for the ploy, and his short-hafted axe flew from his hand to strike the fellow even as he took the new position.
Caught unawares, the enemy warrior was unable to dodge or deflect the tumbling axe, and its blade caught him on his arm. As the man sought to pull free the buried bit, Gord somersaulted into him and bowled the man over, then began repeatedly pummeling with the hilt of his sword and stabbing with the short-bladed knife he had drawn from his boot.
'Leave off, mate… The bugger's dead,' the panting man-at-arms said softly. Gord ceased his flurry, realizing that the soldier was right.
'What about the other one?' the fighter asked. 'He get away?'
A glance showed Gord that the body of his first foe was no longer where it had fallen, but a bloody trail showed where the man had gone. The dagger was nowhere in sight — Gord's prized poniard was gone, too!
'After the dog, man!' ordered Gord. 'We must find him before he hides away in some nook or cranny of this warren and escapes!'
'Yessir!' the soldier snapped in reply without thinking. This man in black leather was obviously a leader, and the sergeant obeyed him without question. The soldier set off immediately, first trotting to where the train of darkening blood began and then slowing as he followed it through a columned archway leading from the hall. Gord was at his heels.
The telltale stains led to an arras. The hanging curtain of embroidered wool hid a narrow passage beyond. The soldier again broke into a lope, moving several paces ahead of Gord, but he had taken no more than a few steps before a shout of pain came from between his clenched teeth. He raised his left foot, grabbing for the injured member, but as he did so he groaned and crashed to the stone-flagged floor, dead. Gord halted instantly, assessing what had happened. By careful scrutiny he discerned small objects littering the dim passageway floor. Poisoned caltrops… the wounded man must have strewn them behind, knowing that pursuers would be unlikely to see them until too late. Gord leaped over the area where the small, sharp-pronged things were scattered. He bounded up a narrow spiral stairway, moving fast but keeping track of the splashes of red. The trail did not continue up past a small landing.
Without hesitation, Gord began a careful examination of the wall to his right. There were traces of blood near it, and he assumed that a hidden door was to be found here. Within a minute he had indeed located a secret stone panel. It was not difficult to release its catch and open it.
The narrow corridor beyond was dark, unlighted save for the faint illumination from the stairs, where an embrasure somewhere above let sunlight filter down. No matter; Gord's vision was not dependent on such light, for he held his dweomered sword, which magically empowered his eyes to see the parts of the spectrum above and below the human norm. Ducking his head, Gord dived into the passageway, his body rolled into a ball that tumbled ahead in a series of fast rolls. The tall, blond man he had been tracking waited within the corridor, holding a crossbow aimed at the rectangle of light revealed by the opening of the secret door.
The thick bolt buzzed harmlessly over Gord's compact rush, clattering into the stairwell beyond. As it did so, Gord sprang to his feet and attacked the wounded man before he could reload the weapon. The red-gowned foe had thought Gord unable to see him lying in ambush in the darkness, and expected to slay Gord thus. With a terrible curse, the man hurled the useless crossbow in Gord's general direction, turned, and fled groaning down the black corridor. He managed to pull open a small, wooden door at its end, but that was all. Gord struck his back with his shoulder, a slamming blow that drove the wounded man into the room beyond and sent him sprawling to the floor, face down.
'Quarter!' the fallen man managed to cry through his bloody lips. 'Spare me, and I'll give you a king's ransom!'
Gord pressed his sword point firmly against the prone man's back. 'If you move other than to speak, I'll kill you as I would a spider.' The hard finality of Gord's voice made the man freeze motionless. 'Tell me of your offer — quickly!'
'Do you pledge you'll spare me if I do so?'
'Poisoner! Foul assassin! Lurker in ambush! You dare to plead with me thus? Prepare your spirit for the foul
