But Kendel was not prepared to lose his odd companion. Inspiration struck; he pointed toward the captive dwarf. "Jill!" he shouted desperately. "The dwarfs name is Jill!"
A smirk crossed the mercenary's face. "And what of it?" he said, misunderstanding the elf s ploy. "I've nothing more against killing me a female dwarf than a male, though may Cyric take me if I can tell the difference one from the other!"
Storm clouds began to gather on Jill's craggy face. "I ain't no ding-blasted female!" he roared in a voice that plumbed depths no human male could reach. "You human men got the eyesight of a mole and the git-up of a gelding-no wonder yer wimmenfolk is takin' up more common with the likes of elves and halflings!"
The insult seemed to strike the mercenary in a sensitive spot. "Jill?" he repeated, this time in a cruel taunt.
The single, sneering word at last had the desired effect. Galvanized by the familiar insult, the dwarf reached forward and seized the shaft of the spear. He leaned back and then ripped the weapon to one side, ignoring the strands of dun-colored beard that were torn out by the V-shaped prongs of the iron point. Then he lunged at the weapon and bit clear through the shaft.
Before the man could recover from the surprise of this unusual counterattack, Jill chewed lustily and then spat a mouthful of oak splinters into the man's face. He leaped at him, the broken spear head held like a dagger. The man stumbled and went down under the fury of the attack, and found himself securely pinned to the ground by nearly two hundred pounds of irate dwarf.
"Jill was me mother's name," the stout little warrior growled and then drove the spear home.
The dwarf hopped to his feet and wiped his bloodstained hands on his tunic. Still in the throes of his own peculiar battle frenzy, he stomped a couple of times on the dead half-ore's head. The skull gave way completely, and the axe slid free with ease.
Kendel made his way quickly to his friend's side. The battle is not yet over," he said with a grin. "Come… there are many introductions yet to be made."
Understanding-and a touch of wry humor-flooded the dwarfs slate-gray eyes. He responded with a deep-throated chuckle and fell in beside the elf.
"Oh, but that were a smart one," he said admiringly as they trotted toward the nearest skirmish. "Yer a quick-thinkin' one in battle, scrawny elf though you
might be. Me kin's gonna love hearin' this tale, once we finish this business and get us under the Earthfast Mountains. Come to think on it," the dwarf added, a speculative tone entering hie voice, "I got me a right pretty little cousin you might like to meet."
Kendel blinked, astounded by the dwarfs invitation to accompany him to his ancestral home, by the cozy welcome Jill obviously anticipated for them both, and by the somewhat daunting prospect of being expected to court a dwarf maid. And oddly enough, to the homeless and disenfranchised elf, there was an odd appeal in all of it.
"Her name wouldn't happen to be Jill, would it?" he asked casually as he raised a sword to meet an onrush-ing mercenary.
The dwarf scowled and stepped into the path of the charging human. "Yeah," he said in a belligerent growl. "And what of it?"
Bunlap advanced on the wounded elf; his bearded face twisted in a hideous parody of glee and his sword held high and back. Foxfire's torn and bleeding sword arm refused to respond. He seized his sword in his other hand and managed to bring it up. The parry was weak, but it turned aside the first blow.
The man thrust in again, high, with a quick, stabbing movement. Foxfire parried again, this time more surely. For several minutes they fought, the blows ringing harder and coming faster.
But the loss of blood was beginning to take a toll on the elЈ His vision swam, and the human's sword darted in over his guard to cut a deep line across his chest. Foxfire lunged at his opponent; Bunlap danced back, and the elf fell facedown onto the ground.
The expected killing stroke did not come. A heavy, iron-shod boot stamped hard on the elfs lower back, sending waves of agony shimmering along every nerve. Dimly Foxfire felt the man's sword cutting deep and burning lines upon his skin. Apparently Bunlap intended to mark the elf as he himself had been marked. He took his time, cutting his signature with painstaking care and a sadistic pleasure as tangible to the lading elf as his own pain.
Suddenly Foxfire heard a startled oath. The heavy boot that pinned him to the ground was gone.
The elf lifted his head, shook away the haze of pain and blood. To his astonishment, Arilyn stood between him and the human, an elven sword held in a two-handed grip.
"You again," Bunlap said in a low, ominous voice. "Get out of my way. This elf is mine."
"I think not," the elf woman said coolly. She met the mercenary's first vicious stroke and parried it with a circular sweep that sent his sword arm out wide.
Bunlap stepped in close and delivered a bare-knuckled punch to the elf's beautiful face. She reeled back, shaking her head as if to clear her vision. Then she ducked as he brought his sword whistling down and across. It was a near miss. A thick lock of her wavy sapphire hair fell to the ground.
The elf woman straightened to her full height and got her moonblade back out in front of her. She lunged, turned the lunge into a feint, and then lunged again, the moves coming so close together that Bunlap was forced to retreat.
He responded by landing a brutal kick to Foxfire's ribs.
The beautiful face of his elven opponent darkened with outrage. She slammed her sword into its ancient sheath and leaped forward, her hands reaching for Bunlap's wrist.
The attack was unexpected. Surprising, too, was the female's next move. Holding fast to the man's sword arm, she pivoted so that her back was pressed against
him. Then she leaned forward at the waist, yanking down hard on his arm as she did so. Bunlap somersaulted over her and landed heavily on his back. His sword clattered to the ground.
Growling like an enraged bear, Bunlap rolled onto his stomach and seized the elf woman's ankles. With a quick jerk, he pulled both feet out from under her.
With elven agility she twisted and managed to ge+ her hands under her as she fell. This broke her fall somewhat, but did nothing to free her from the vengeful human's grasp.
Bunlap rose to his knees. With a quick, vicious movement, he twisted the elf woman so that she slammed down onto her back. He jerked her toward him and then fell forward to pin her body to the ground.
He was a large man, well over six feet tall, and his heavy-muscled bulk weighed closer to three hundred pounds than two. No female, no matter what her skills in battle, could free herself from such bonds.
Bunlap propped himself up on one elbow. With his free hand, he struck the woman across the face again and again. He took his time, leaving livid red welts on the pale skin but never hitting with enough force to break bones. This was vengeance of another sort, and one best taken slowly.
At first the elf woman struggled beneath him, her hands pushing at his chest. Gradually, the fight went out of her and her eyes-odd, gold-flecked blue eyes- became distant and unfocused. Bunlap had seen such things happen before. Terror did odd things to women. Such withdrawal was not all that unusual. And so he did not wonder when her lips began to move in a soft elven chant, or notice that her hands, which had fallen limply to her sides, moved in slight, subtle gestures. Arcane gestures.
Bunlap noticed none of this. His thirst for vengeance had given way to a darker emotion. He tore aside the elf woman's outer tunic, grimacing as he gathered up in both fists the fluid, silvery mesh of the elven chain mail that lay beneath.
It was at that moment that the elf woman finished her chant. Eldritch energy poured from her, and the metal of her sword and her armor glowed with white heat. Bunlap screamed with agony and rage as the waves of power jolted through him, yet try though he might he could not release his grip on the deadly elven mail.