Now he contested to the death with four expert warriors all at once. He stood still unwounded, holding four large tulwars in play, while those who dared wield them against this black-clad man were dripping blood from wounds he had given them.
Events were becoming too much for the westerners in the audience to bear. The insult inherent in all this was unacceptable. Onlookers from Jakif, Tusmit, and Ekbir grew angry and loosened their own scimitars and curved-bladed daggers. The various nomad tribesmen in the crowd watched the show without apparent allegiance, commenting to one another on style and form as they viewed the display before them. Most of the Kettites, along with all of the eastern mercenaries, however, were rooting openly for the small man called Gord of Greyhawk. They cheered his successes and laughed at the clumsy attempts of the Jakifi to strike him.
It was becoming obvious to all that the melee could end only one way, and that ending must come soon. All of the Jakifi guardsmen were wounded and panting with fatigue from raising and swinging their large blades repeatedly. In no more than a minute or two, one of them would fall, then another. Soon, all of those who had come against the small man would litter the floor as three already did.
When yet one more corpse crashed to the tiled floor, the shah had seen enough — and Kufteer himself entered the fray. Although the noble's dagger had a jewel-encrusted hilt, its silvery crescent below these gems was sharp steel, highly functional, and glittering with a dark enchantment. Kufteer came in a silent rush from a point slightly behind Gord, heading toward the young man's left side, with his curved dagger held across his body, set to deliver a disemboweling stroke as the black-garbed easterner concentrated on the three guardsmen still standing before him.
Gord gave no indication that he knew Kufteer was coming, but at the last instant he sprang aside suddenly, allowing the startled Shah of Wadlaoo to pass on a slant in front of him. The wickedly gleaming blade of Kufteer's dagger cut empty air; then, with a cross-body thrust of his dagger into Kufteer's side and a shove of his left foot against the nobleman's hip, Gord pushed the shah off course right toward the exposed blades of his own guards. The nearest of the swordsmen tried to pull his weapon up and away, but succeeded only in running the edge along Kufteer's neck as he did so. The mouth tried to scream, but no sound came out as the nobleman crumpled in his tracks.
The guardsman whose weapon struck the blow stood frozen for an instant, horrified at what he had just done. Gord's weapons flashed again, and the Jakifi warrior no longer had to concern himself with having slain his master, for he too was a corpse. As the guardsman's body collapsed on top of Kufteer's, the two survivors dropped their tulwars and ran. They would rather risk being captured some time later, given a thousand cuts, and then rolled in salt until dead than continue to face this terrible, black-garbed man any longer.
Silence reigned in the wine house for the space of a heartbeat. The flesh of the blubbery proprietor shook as he peered angrily about his establishment and realized his plight. It was bad enough that this upstart had won — now the bargain could not be sealed, and Omar would lose the thousand gold dok-shees and the fabulous pearl. Worse yet, the death of so great a personage as the Shah of Wadlaoo in his establishment would probably bring the wrath of the shah's own ruler, the Marcher Lord of Ket, down upon his body. Trembling and growing more furious by the second, Omar realized that the young foreigner must be killed at any cost. He vented his wrath in a shrill scream, pointed at Gord, and shrieked an order to 'Attack!'
Several of Omar's armed servants reluctantly approached the circle where Gord still stood amid the fallen forms of his adversaries. At the same time, an uproar of sound and activity spread through the audience; these men had had enough of watching.
'Hoddo Ekbir!'
'Veluna and Struthburt!'
'Tusmani Akbur!'
In seconds, a cacophony of battle-cries and challenges erupted and the place truly became a battleground of east versus west. Kettites fought on both sides, each according to his feelings at the moment, brawling and using blades. The eastern mercenaries and outlaws generally contended with the dark-skinned and turbaned westerners, while Gord stood alone, an island in the turmoil because no one dared deal with him. Off to his right he saw the Pearl of Perfection making her way toward him across an uncongested area; the young man she had been with was nowhere in sight. One of the fat owner's servants lunged at the girl as she got near Gord, but with a lunge of his own and a flash of steel, the young man handled the threat easily. Then the crowd lost all semblance of cohesion, and the surge of the melee engulfed the open space that had surrounded Gord just a moment before. The girl moved closer to Gord and grabbed his arm.
'Quickly — follow me!' the gorgeous girl shouted in his ear. Then her shapely arm released his, and she began running and dodging through the crowd of fighting men, heading for a curtained archway at the rear of the large court.
Gord ran after the nearly naked girl. The brawling seemed to ebb in an area she passed through; seemingly, no one wanted to be responsible for injuring this beautiful and coveted prize. Nobody directly attacked Gord either, for they all had seen what he could do, but the young easterner had to be constantly on the alert to avoid being stabbed or slashed by an inadvertent stroke as he darted along the same course the dancer had taken. Charging behind the girl through the still-swinging cloth that screened the portal, Gord found himself in a broad but ill-lighted hallway. He caught a glimpse of the Pearl's pale hair disappearing around a corner ahead. The smell of stale, spicy food was strong in here. He guessed that the girl was heading for the kitchen and some back exit, so the young swordsman dashed down the short passage and around the corner into a large room.
'Hurry!' she urged as Gord came into the deserted place. This was the cooking room, all right, but the cooks and scullions must have either joined the melee or fled earlier. 'We must get away quickly,' the Pearl said as she led Gord across the room, out another doorway, and through a small, walled garden. A tall man, his body covered by a voluminous burnous and his face veiled in the fashion of many Tusmit tribesmen, stood holding open a heavy back gate. At his feet was a guard; in the hand not holding his dagger was the dead man's robe.
'Who is-' the man started to ask, but the girl cut him off.
'Can't you see?' the Pearl scolded as she and Gord came up to the portal. 'It is the Ourmi who stood between you and death!'
The veiled warrior made no reply. With a swirl he draped the unclad dancer with the burnous he held, guiding her through the gate as he did so. Gord leaped through the portal on her heels, and then the tall Bakluni pushed the heavy door shut and jammed an iron bar into place.
The man and woman had to stop for a moment to get their bearings, because the alley in which they stood was almost pitch dark. But Gord had a special night-sight that served him automatically, and he could see as clearly as if the sun illuminated the sky, not merely a sprinkling of stars and the tiny, pale-blue half-sphere of Celene, the lesser of Oerth's twin moons. 'Thanks, Pearl of Perfection, for showing me the way out of that place,' he said sincerely. 'My sword arm was growing weary.'
'Why did you fight on my behalf?' the tall man asked, pulling back the hood of his burnous.
Gord suddenly recognized him as the tribesman who had been the object of the Pearl's affections inside. There was no doubt that Gord had saved his life, but the young easterner also understood that the man's pride had been injured. He answered without irritation. 'To be honest, this whole night was like a bad dream. I once knew a beautiful dancer of Ket myself, and she too was to be sold. No matter. I did as I chose, and I trust you are satisfied with my work,' Gord said.
The girl squeezed Gord's leather-clad arm. 'Thank you, stranger, for you have helped give me life and hope! I can never tell you how much what you did means to me.'
'Yes, many thanks, warrior of the East,' the tall Kirkir said with a ring of grudging admiration in his tone. Then, more enthusiastically, he continued, 'Come with me. I carry the Pearl home to the Pennors, where the Al- babur tribe of the Kirkir people roam free. There will be welcome there for a man such as you.'
'Oh, yes, Zulmon, do have this Gord of Greyhawk come too!' the dancer agreed. Then she added urgently, 'But we must hurry, for all Hlupallu will soon be in hue and cry over what has happened. We must get out, and then we can talk on the way.'
Gord didn't mind leaving the issue unresolved for the time being. The three went quickly down the alley and into a narrower side passage that turned several times before giving into a small, open square. Four horses were tied here, two of them saddled. Zulmon went to one of the horses' packs and produced a robe similar to his own, but drab instead of colorful. He tossed it to Gord, and the young man quickly put it on over his leather garb.
'Can you ride bareback?' Zulmon asked as he helped the girl into one of the saddles.
