The three had split up as soon as they discovered that a company of horsemen was in hot pursuit. All that resulted from this move was a division of the troop following into three separate squadrons. Each group was a dozen or more strong, and each man was equipped with lance, crossbow, and shield. Gord never considered an attempt to thin their numbers by ambush, for what chance did he have against such soldiers? Certainly, a well-spun bullet from his sling might have some effect, but retributive missiles and close pursuit would make such attack the height of folly. Evading them and outdistancing them were utmost in Gord’s mind. Evidently, his pursuers desired quite the opposite.
As the terrain began to be cut by gullies and the landscape rolled downward toward the Yol River ahead, Gord turned on a more southerly course and spurred his horse to a canter so as to avoid being caught against the water. From what he had heard about this forest, Gord was none too comfortable traveling within its depths. The place was reputed to hide all sorts of nasty creatures and humanoid brigands, not to mention the bandits said to infest the woodland. Perhaps these tales were the stuff used to keep small children at home, however, for the horsemen on his tail had not hesitated in following when he had plunged into the trees, and a day of traveling amidst the forest had not brought him face to face with anything more fearsome than a smallish bear and many small animals of the sort one would expect to encounter in such a setting.
Near sunset Gord led his steed through the shallow verge of a nasty-looking marsh that spread out to the west as far as he could see. Just as the swollen crimson orb of the sun sank below the horizon, he came out of the morass, remounted, and rapidly rode due south. This left the dangerous lowland far behind by the time full darkness swathed the trees in gloom. There would be no way for those who still might be at his heels to locate where he had left the marsh until daylight came. Gord dismounted and walked on warily, alert for danger, seeking a sheltered spot to sleep.
A gleam of flickering yellow light alerted him that there were others ahead. Gord dropped his stallion’s reins on the ground, patted the animal’s neck, and told it in a whisper to remain silent until he came back. The courser seemed to understand, for it whickered softly, nodded its great head, and fell to searching for green growth amidst the tree roots.
Gord crept stealthily toward the firelight. It was quite difficult to move silently, for the forest floor was covered with a scattering of dead leaves and dry twigs hidden by new growth, but Gord was adept at stealth. Only the faintest of sounds marked his approach to the source of the illumination. He was soon close enough to see that there were two small bonfires, and by their dancing light Gord noted that some two dozen men-bandits, judging by their dress and weapons-were scattered in the glen, preparing their food and readying for the night. They were a scurvy lot in motley armor and garb drawn from all nations and races, it seemed, for Gord saw several orcish and elvish half-breeds among them.
On the far side of the encampment were six or eight horses. There were piles of goods near them, so Gord figured that the animals were used to carry captured spoils. This band must be returning to their base of operations, for the heap of stuff near the horses was sufficient to burden them all. Gord stayed in a crouch and began to creep slowly backward, for he had seen enough. Then a heavy weight fell upon his back, pinning him to the ground, and a sharp spearpoint pressed against his neck.
“Don’t move!” a rough voice hissed. “One sound and you’re dead!”
Chapter 14
Gord stood weaponless before the bandit chieftain, guarded by the pair of sentries who had spotted him. Capturing him had been easy, and the two were smirking. Easy pickings were appreciated by their ilk, and Gord had furnished them with a surprising amount of loot. Evidently he had been spotted when he first approached the encampment, and while two of the sentries crept up on him, another pair backtracked and found Gord’s horse. The gold reliquary, a heap of coins, and his weapons were displayed on a cloak, his too, spread at the bandit leader’s feet.
“Why were you spying on us?” the big outlaw demanded.
“To survive, one must be alert,” said Gord evenly. “I was not spying, save to alert myself of any possible threat to my survival.”
“Well, chum, one didn’t make much of a job of it, did one?” The bandit was mocking him, and Gord silently vowed that he would turn the tables at first opportunity. Then the man must have noted a defiance in his captive’s eyes, for after a second he added, “A tough little one, ain’t you?”
With that, he stirred the pile of coins before him with the toe of his dirty boot, grinning down on Gord all the while, hand on his sword hilt. Gord stared back but kept his gaze expressionless and neutral.
“Good!” the leader boomed. “I like guys with spunk. Tell you what I’m gonna do. I lost some good men this raid, so the company is short-handed. If you can handle yourself, instead of killing you I’ll enlist you.” The fellow paused and stared hard at Gord. Gord looked back but said nothing.
“Okay, smartass. First you wrestle with Bogodor,” said the chieftain, pointing at a hulking brute Gord could see out of the corner of his eye, “and if you survive that, you can have at Finn over there with quarterstaves.” There were catcalls and sniggers from the assembled bandits at that. The chieftain laughed a bit too, but then shouted for silence and continued.
“You don’t really have to beat ’em-just survive. I’m givin’ you a break, but only because I’m short-handed. We’re a fair bunch here, so if you make the grade, I’ll even give you one share of the loot here and you can keep your sword and knife.” The bandit’s tone was magnanimous-but if he expected Gord to thank him, the chieftain was wrong.
“How about the dagger?” Gord inquired mildly. “I’m best with that weapon.”
“Sorry, chum,” the big leader said as he picked up the blade. “I’ve taken a shine to it, but if you’re real good in the tests I’ll give you my old one sometime.”
Gord shrugged. “No sense in arguing, is there? Where do I fight this Bogo-dope?”
“That’s Bogodor!” snarled a muscular half-orc as he moved fully into Gord’s line of sight. “Come here, runt, an’ I’ll show you who’s a dope!”
With that, the bandits made a ring near the bonfire, and Gord was shoved unceremoniously into the circle even as he was stripping off his jerkin. Bogodor was satisfied to have at it immediately, but Gord skipped away from his first clumsy rush, managing to get his shirt off meanwhile. Now his lean, muscular torso was bare. His opponent would find no easy hold on loose garments.
Bogodor made another grab for him, this one less clumsy and more calculated. Again Gord eluded the attack and circled. The ugly half-orc was not as stupid as he seemed; this Gord determined from the next couple of minutes of combat. Bogodor was testing Gord’s skills, and each time he attempted a move, he measured Gord’s responses.
Gord was measuring his opponent in return. Although rather slow and a bit uncoordinated, the half-orc was strong and his hands were huge. If Bogodor ever got him in a firm hold, Gord knew that the fellow could break bones-and would probably enjoy the process, too. That mentality could actually work to Gord’s advantage if he played things properly; it would not be the first time Gord had turned an opponent’s aggression into victory, he thought, recalling for an instant his duel with Zoltan.
This match, however, was trickier than it first appeared. If Gord was crippled, then he’d be useless and slain out of hand. If he seriously injured Bogodor, Gord knew that at best he’d have the undying enmity of the half-orc and whatever friends the fellow had, and the score would be evened with a knife across his throat one night. Killing him would make Gord’s position that much worse.
His only option, Gord realized, was to somehow win without beating Bogodor badly, and without himself being injured and unable to face the test of staves. One thing at a time, he cautioned himself, as the half-orc bandit managed to grab Gord by his left arm. Gord flipped out of the grip before Bogodor could lock it into a hold, and he delivered a painful kick to the bandit’s stomach in the process. Gord was still in the fight, but now the half-orc had a far better idea of what his small opponent could do.
Bogodor advanced cautiously now. The encircling outlaws gave shouts of encouragement mixed with demands for Gord’s dismemberment. The half-orc feinted at a leg-grab with his left hand and then swung his hamlike right in a looping uppercut, which, although it just grazed Gord’s chin, was sufficient to send him sprawling.
