“As usual?” The query by the hawk-faced member of the trio brought a quick nod in affirmation from Scarface. Without further instruction the questioner strode purposefully across the narrow street. He walked quickly, paralleling the path of their target, and was soon ahead of Gord on the opposite side of the way. The drunken young man paid him not the slightest attention, intent as he was on simply making his journey home without falling.
“As near as I recall…” Gord sang softly to himself as he went, occasionally using his right hand to steady himself against the front of one building or another. “ ’Twas an evenin’…” he caroled out, loudly now, as If pleased with his performance, “…in the fall…”-and at that point he actually lost his balance and toppled to the ground in the darkness beside a building.
“Take him now!” Scarface called out to the man with the hawk face as he and the pig-eyed fellow ran toward the fallen youth. The lead man was already crossing to get to the victim when the command was shouted, for he had been watching and waiting for the right moment. The three thugs converged on the prone victim as vultures swoop down to feast upon the carcass of a dying animal.
The hawk-faced man was the first to arrive, his dagger poised to strike-and an instant after he lunged toward the fallen figure, a scream sounded along the lane. No shutters flew open to shed light on the happenings, no doors cracked to allow the inhabitants of the street to see. Nobody cared to investigate late-night events in the Foreign Quarter. Even the watch patrolled only the main thoroughfares and the streets along the walls. Those who dwelled within or dared to walk through this neighborhood were fair game.
“That blaster is already looting him!” This came from Pig-eyes as he and his companion ran up to where the two shapes were mingled in the deep shadows. They had seen their comrade fall upon the prone fellow, and assumed he must certainly be going for the victim’s purse even now.
“You’ll get yours!” Scarface growled at the hawk-faced man through his panting as he lumbered up to where the assault had taken place. The threat was obvious and certain to be carried out. The thick-necked leader would brook no attempt at grabbing spoils without his approval. Scarface bent over the two bodies, grabbed his comrade by the collar, and flung him off the victim. A second too late, he realized what he had done.
“He’s already gotten It, friend!” Gord said loudly as he lunged upward to a kneeling position and rammed his short sword into the man’s paunchy gut. Now it was Scarface’s turn to yell. He let out a roar of pain, for the blade had sunk into his vitals. Clutching his belly with both hands, the bull-necked man reeled and staggered away, moaning.
Pig-eyes had been a few steps behind when his boss got to the scene, which gave him time to stop and pull out the weapon he hadn’t thought he would need. The momentary delay did Gord some good as well. The man cursed as he ran at Gord and drove a wickedly aimed blow at him-but the curved blade of his knife sank into the back of his dead associate instead. At the last instant, Gord had pulled the hawk-faced fellow’s corpse between himself and his attacker, using it as a shield.
“Gods-” Pig-eyes began to sputter another oath as his blade sank in, but he got no farther, for the body suddenly sailed upward and outward, striking him. As the would-be mugger stumbled backward, trying to get free of the sprawling corpse and pull out his knife at the same time, Gord sprang up and went over to press a full attack.
Drunk he was, but not so much as he had put on. Further, this trio of thugs was inexpert. Gord had figured them for bandits when he had first entered the Man in the Moon, before he had fully sunk into his black mood and black wine. His young age and heavy purse had made the three incautious. That pair of mistakes, taking him for an easy mark and having overconfidence in their own ability, had cost two of them dearly. Now the third member of the group had to face the same possibility. As Gord advanced toward him, sword held before him in his right hand, the man had finally figured out how to get the leverage he needed to yank his curved blade out of his comrade’s body.
“Free your knife,” Gord said to him, “for this must be a fair contest.” He laughed as he said that, for such sport made him forget his own discontent.
“Help me, Baldor!” The fellow called to his bull-necked leader, but that man had no more stomach for the fight… in more ways than one. Seeing that. Pig-eyes crouched low, knife before him. His stance was good; it was evident that he had fought this way often enough to feel comfortable and act instinctively. His renewed confidence showed as he addressed Gord. “Fair? You lying little shit! Sword against knife is never equal.”
As a mugger the man left much to be desired, but Gord sensed his opponent to be a skilled fighter as he cautiously edged closer to the small-eyed man. “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Gord replied, flicking his blade out to observe how his adversary reacted. He knew that the contest was not as unequal or unfair as Pig-eyes would have him believe. A good knife-man was a terrible opponent, if he could close.
Pig-eyes saw his opportunity when the tip of the short sword moved slightly to the young man’s right as Gord edged around the body he had thrown at the small-eyed thug. To make matters even more promising, the young punk had thrust his left hand behind his back at the same time, leaving his torso virtually unprotected.
“Yaah!” the man shouted to distract his enemy as he swung his left arm outward to knock the sword wide and away. As he did that he leaped forward, and in a second Pig-eyes was almost upon his target, his sharp-edged knife held before him to sink inward and slice upward in a killing stroke.
Then Pig-eyes was shocked by a sudden movement, and the sound of steel on steel! Gord had met his knife with a dagger-a weapon that until an instant earlier had been concealed behind the young man’s back.
“Not so easy…” Gord grunted, needing all of his strength to fend off the stroke of the pig-eyed attacker. The man was full-grown, bigger, and far heavier than Gord. As they met, Gord pivoted on his right heel, turned his body, and allowed the attacker’s own momentum and straining to carry him away to Gord’s left. He stumbled, off balance, as Gord completed his turn. The sword’s blade arced upward as he spun, then came slicing down, and the fatty neck of the pig-eyed man was nearly severed.
“…for you!” Gord finished as the cut went home. Then he turned to look for the third of the trio, the one named Baldor. He was nowhere to be seen, and Gord didn’t bother to look for him. In fact, he didn’t even bother to see what the purses of the two dead men contained. From his assessment of them at the tavern, he judged that the men wouldn’t have more than a few coppers between them. After wiping his sword clean of gore, he hurried on. This was no time to have attention drawn to him.
Gord’s chambers were in a tall, narrow building that housed an apothecary. The man and his family lived just above the shop, while the three upper floors were rented out to tenants. As usual, Gord had happily taken the uppermost floor. From there he could enter and leave via the rooftop, unnoticed. This night he did just that, ascending to the top of a nearby warehouse and from there gaining his own rooms silently and unseen. Although he intended never to wear his present clothing again, Gord packed all of his belongings into a leather traveling case. When he was finished, nothing remained behind. Leaving by the same means he had used to arrive, Gord worked his way back along the steep rooftops, balancing the baggage case carefully. Soon he was back in the warehouse, and there he took a few items from the case before closing it up again and hiding it in a corner. It would eventually be found-days, weeks, or months later. Someone would be a few coins richer, and nobody would care enough about the mystery to inquire.