The dwarf continued his assault-reckless, untrained-with a series of wild swings. The rusty spikes of his club whistled through the deepening darkness as Cimozjen evaded the strikes, gauging his adversary’s skill and power.
The lack of a response gave the dwarf more courage. He pushed himself harder and harder, trying to land a blow. Yet as he did so, his breath grew more labored. Cimozjen surmised that a tendency towards lassitude and debauchery had taken its toll on the dwarf’s constitution, or, more charitably, that he had perhaps a disease of the lungs that had precluded him from military service.
“Looks like you should have thought to bring a weapon to the fight,” panted the dwarf. “You’re going to pay for that mistake.”
He swung again, and the spikes on his bludgeon caught the edge of Cimozjen’s long leather coat, tearing several long rips in it and pulling it off one of his shoulders.
Cimozjen retreated and took a second to inspect the damage. “I just bought this yesterevening,” he groused. He slipped one arm out of its sleeve and grabbed his coat near the hem. He started to shuck the other sleeve off.
The dwarf swung again, and Cimozjen dodged, flustering with the coat and getting his hand twisted up in the leather sleeve. The dwarf followed through with a heavy back-handed strike to the midriff, but this time Cimozjen did not give ground. He stepped in, catching the head of the mace in his longcoat. He heard a popping sound as the spikes punctured the thin leather in several places, holding the weapon fast.
Cimozjen whipped his coat around the weapon, swaddling it in leather padding. A quick jerk yanked the weapon up, and Cimozjen was likewise able to snare the dwarf’s weapon hand with one long sleeve, trapping it in place while simultaneously freeing his other hand from his sleeve.
With a gleam in his eye, Cimozjen used his weight and leverage to force the dwarf’s arm down, driving the thug slowly to the ground and a position of submission.
“Tell me, lad,” said Cimozjen, gazing into the dwarf’s grimacing face, “shall we start this conversation anew, and let it take a more hospitable turn?”
“Fine,” growled the dwarf, and he threw a heavy roundhouse punch with his sizeable left fist.
Cimozjen had but an eye blink to reflect on the fact that he had used both of his hands to lock up only one of the dwarf’s. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the cold, wet ground. He started to rise to a sitting position, one leg curled and the other straight in front of him. There was something in his mouth, so he spit it out. Even as he did so, he realized that it was a piece of one of his front teeth, now lost in the dark of the filthy side street.
The dwarf was frantically trying to unwrap his club from the shroud of Cimozjen’s raincoat, but, by the sound of it, the only success he was having was in ripping ever-greater holes in the garment. The tips of the spikes could be seen peeking out through the battered leather. He glanced over at Cimozjen rising, gave one last frantic jerk at the coat, and rushed forward to attack.
Cimozjen didn’t even manage to get a knee underneath himself before the dwarf was upon him.
I am so careless, thought Cimozjen, that a dwarf has a height advantage over me.
Chapter TWO
A Mutual Acquaintance
Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998
The dwarf struck an overhand blow. Still reeling from the punch, Cimozjen barely raised his shield arm in time. The other arm still propped him upright where he sat. The blow wracked his forearm with pain.
The dwarf swung again, and Cimozjen managed to angle his arm. The club slid down his forearm and off, causing no harm to his body but bringing a new burning pain to the length of his arm bone. In that brief moment, Cimozjen managed to push himself up so that he was sitting on his heel. The other leg was still in front of him, drawn in defensively, and he thanked the Host that the dwarf didn’t think of striking his exposed knee.
The dwarf struck again and again-rapid overhand blows-slowly beating down Cimozjen’s defense. Every strike made his arm throb all the more. Then one of the blows struck Cimozjen’s head, just above the left temple. He felt two or three spikes tear his scalp, and his ears rang from the impact.
Abruptly his opponent changed tactics, and the next attack came with a snapping sidearm swing, catching Cimozjen full in the ribs. With his sagging arm guarding his bleeding head, his side was completely unprotected, and again he felt blunt iron spikes jab into his flesh.
Cimozjen reflexively dropped his arm, and for his troubles he got several more cuts on the inside of his arm as the dwarf pulled the spiked club back.
The dwarf paused, wheezing through his teeth. Cimozjen couldn’t quite tell if his panting utterances were an attempt at laughter, or just an expression of extreme exertion.
Now that he was sitting on his heel and, for the moment, stable, Cimozjen whipped up his right arm and snared his fingers through the dwarf’s thick beard. He closed his fist around a hefty handful of coarse hairs and pulled, simultaneously pushing up with his leg and whipping his head forward. He aimed the heavy part of his brow at the dwarf’s nose, and was rewarded with a loud crunching sound and the spray of the dwarf’s spittle in his eyes.
The dwarf flailed at him, succeeding only in hitting Cimozjen weakly on the back of the head with the handle of his club.
Cimozjen dropped back to a sitting position, then yanked the dwarf forward and head butted each of the dwarf’s cheekbones. He paused for a second to ensure the dwarf’s nose was bleeding profusely, then he butted it once more for good measure. The grinding sound was at once appalling and satisfying.
Cimozjen sat back, whipped the dwarf’s head to the left and right to disorient him, then twisted to the side and yanked the dwarf forward by the beard, throwing him over his shoulder. The dwarf landed flat on his back with a heavy, meaty thud. The club skittered along the ground with a string of hollow-sounding thunks and dull metal pings.
“So be it,” panted Cimozjen, wincing at his pain, “I gave you the chance to walk free. But now I must tell the town watch. And then your nose will be the least of your troubles.” He paused as he inspected the dwarf’s damaged face. “Well, perhaps not. But look on the bright side. You can fall on your face with impunity now.”
He rose to his feet and lurched over to the young woman. He kneeled beside her, wincing as he did so.
“Are you badly hurt?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“I am well enough, I suppose,” grumbled Cimozjen. He hissed an intake of breath. “Though I wrenched my neck butting his face. Not as limber as I used to be.” He rubbed the base of his neck and grumbled. “Nor as fleet. How do you fare, miss?” he asked at last, looking down at her with longsuffering eyes.
“He struck my head,” she said. “And my basket of food …”
“I cannot help your groceries,” said Cimozjen, “save to help you find them before the rats do. But let me see to your head.” He reached out his left hand and gingerly ran it along her scalp, at last settling on a knot on the back of her skull. “Right, that’s a good one. Feels as large as a wood nut.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” she said bravely. “I’ll be fine.”
“I tell you the truth, you’ll be better than fine. Allow me.” He cupped his hand over the bruise, bowed his head, and held his right hand fisted to his breast. Whispered words flew from his tongue, a barely audible litany.
She gasped. “It tingles … it …” Then her tone turned sour. “What are you doing? You didn’t use a leech, did you? I don’t want one of those things in my hair!” She put her hand to the back of her head and felt around. “Where-hey, where did-” She paused, looking at Cimozjen in confusion. “Magic?” She smiled in amazement, then her look faltered. “But … but I’ve no coin, good man. I can’t afford …”