tried to kick his shins or groin. Smart or not, the fight was on.
His brawny sword arm was trapped above his shoulder so he tensed it to keep it from being twisted, then dealt with the kicker by lashing out with his own foot, blocking her kick and knocking the knife-wielder's arm away.
The narrow street was dark, the only light was the glow from a rose-colored lamp above the tavern door. Painted by the blood-red light, it was hard to distinguish his opponents, but the man looked rawhide tough, scarred, and knotty-jawed; while the woman looked young-still wrapped in baby fat. All three were drunk, which helped. Sunbright would have to test how strong they were.
Stamping his broad, heavy boot on the woman's toes, he pushed straight back to slam his rearmost opponent against the wall. The man, young and perfumed, grunted when he hit the wall, then again when Sunbright added to his grief by smashing his left elbow deep into the dandy's soft belly. When the lad doubled, Sunbright crashed an elbow upward into his teeth. Though the barbarian cut his own bicep, he managed to get his other hand free.
The closest attacker now was the woman, who was wailing about her injured foot. Sunbright distracted her by kicking her jaw out of shape. She whirled and slammed the cobblestones, moaning.
The tough man before him, coarse and smelling of onions, had stepped back when he lost his knife. Evidently he hadn't much stomach for fighting, or else waited for the reinforcements that were spilling from the tavern. They milled drunkenly, yelling, yet Sunbright saw a knife blade, a broken bottle, two or three clubs, even a trio of slim swords. Since he was free, the barbarian thought, now was a good time to disappear around a corner. Someone might get lucky with a quick jab, but Sunbright Steelshanks could run down a deer. He could certainly outrun this lot. He cast behind and left to see if the coast was clear.
A whisper from the dark alerted him. A metallic ching pinged by his ear. He had no clue what that portended, or how to defend against it. Suddenly, a weighted chain hissed around his sword arm. Before the cold steel had even wrapped fully, the man in the street hauled. Twisted links bit the barbarian's arm, and he was yanked forward.
He crashed on one hand and knees on the cobblestones.
'Kill 'im!'
'Kick his lights out!'
'He hurt Magda!'
'I'll pay for his hands! Cut 'em off!'
'And 'is eyes! Gouge 'em out!'
Boots, clogs, and soft shoes alike thudded into Sunbright's ribs, shoulders, and rump. Two clubs batted at his head, but the attackers were getting in each others' way. Sunbright didn't stay down long. Since they expected him to roll away, he went the opposite direction, charging them in a half-crouch, one hand guarding the back of his head.
Yet even in this desperate situation he was appraising his enemy and coming up blank. This mix of villains made no sense. There were perfumed fops with fine clothes and soft hands, men and women, and coarse working folk in near-rags. Sunbright knew enough about the classes to distinguish them by their voices and slang alone. Why were so-called gentlefolk associating with riffraff? Was everyone in this city as mad as the man it was named after?
Then he crashed among them, and left off questioning their motives.
One strong man still hauled on the weighted chain that ripped skin from Sunbright's arm. The man leaned back on his heels and hauled to keep the barbarian down and tamed, like a rebellious horse. The 'horse' fought back. Since the chain-wielder was the greatest danger, Sunbright charged him. The man fell back, still hauling, but the barbarian was faster. As soon as he got slack in the chain, Sunbright dragged back Harvester and stabbed the blade straight as an arrow. The man dodged quickly to save his throat, but not quickly enough. Harvester's barbed tip seared his neck. He yowled once and dropped to one side, and Sunbright smelled blood like sheared copper and knew he'd delivered a killing blow.
Shaking off the coils of chain, the barbarian whirled on the rest And was smashed on his sword wrist by an iron-wrapped club.
The blow was perfect, completely stunning Sunbright. Harvester clanged on cobblestones. Others had fallen back. One young fop doubled over, vomiting stale beer at the smell of blood. But someone yelled to rush him and surged in. More than one would die in this street, the barbarian knew. It mustn't be him, lamed hand or not.
Scanning the red-splintered darkness, he inventoried his opponents' weapons. His right hand was numbed, perhaps broken, and pain flashed up and down his arm like a forest fire. He couldn't make a fist, but he could slap with it. His left hand snatched up the dwarven warhammer, almost forgotten in its belt holster, in time to block a jab at his gut. He batted a club aside with a clack, stepped back, kicked, and forced his opponent back temporarily. He stooped to retrieve his sword left-handed, but someone hurled a bottle at his head and he fell over in a squat. The hurler laughed and jumped to kick, then yelped when she sliced her soft shoe on Harvester's keen edge. Sunbright kicked to his feet.
A shadow crowded him, thrusting awkwardly with a long sword. He turned into the thrust, let the slim blade pass under his right arm, and clamped down on it. The wielder, an incompetent who shouldn't even carry a sword, tugged to free the blade. Sunbright snapped the warhammer at his face, felt a satisfying chunk of iron on bone, and the swordsman staggered. Sunbright ducked behind him as the crowd half-rushed, half-hung back. The woman in the silken cape who'd cut her foot thrust angrily with her sword, and skewered her broken-nosed drinking buddy.
She yelped, 'Sorry, Jules!' but Sunbright heard the sob of a sucking wound: a lung puncture. He propelled the stricken man against the swordswoman. They tangled with each other and fell.
He still had to retrieve his sword, but still had to watch his back, so he angled for the stone wall. Stooping his great height-he was half a head taller than all of them-confused them long enough for him to move. Along the way, he smashed the warhammer on a thug's hand and club, downward so the man beat his own knee. Sunbright shouldered him into the crowd too. It helped that the fops panicked and milled, and the thugs cursed. As he thumped against the wall, someone whisked a knife at him, but he sidestepped and the blade snapped on stone. He punched awkwardly, left-handed, skinned his knuckles on a brow ridge, then punched higher and bowled the man over.
Not bad for an unarmed, one-handed barbarian against nine street toughs (or toughs and fops), but he couldn't fight forever. If he could circle, kick, and punch clear to his sword, he'd reckon it a good night's work.
Then light spilled around the corner like daylight, a half-dozen gasglobes lined with mirrors.
A commanding voice hollered, 'Right! Everyone stay where you are! Hands in sight! We're the city guard!'
In a city of madmen, Sunbright thought, this could be bad.
After the darkness, the glare was blinding, and Sunbright hunched one shoulder and turned away-though he still tracked the mob.
His guesses made in semidarkness proved true. The contrast between the street toughs and the fops was enormous. There were four street toughs: three men and a woman, and five young fops, two of them girls. The toughs wore cast-off clothing, ripped and ragged, work boots and clogs, though two were barefoot. They were tough as rawhide, sharp-boned and skinny as starved wolves after a long winter. They'd probably never had a decent meal in their lives. The fops had brocaded shirts, silk neckerchiefs, small, elegant hats with feathers or pearls, satin capes, tight breeches made of some material with a high sheen, and hand-crafted shoes of red or yellow leather. Perfumed, painted with eye makeup and face powder, with the softness of baby fat still upon them, they looked like mischievous children dressed up and let out to play.
Not everyone was upright. One thug lay on his back, his neck sheared by Harvester's tip, his life's blood a pool on the cobblestones. The drunken fop, the poor swordsman, lay groaning and clutching his chest where the girl had accidently punctured him. She squatted to comfort him, then nagged him for getting in her way. Others had walking wounds. Sunbright had scored half a dozen hits.
Yet the tundra dweller still couldn't understand. Why would privileged brats hang with footpads? Surely they didn't need the money: their clothing could have bought out a marketplace. Was this some perverted sort of bounty hunt?
The six city guards wore polished lobster-tail helmets, blue-green tabards, and metal breastplates adorned
