“I’ve been in a few.”
“I could tell.” Kormak strode up to the bar and put a coin on the counter-top. “Beer for me and whatever my friend here is having. And have one yourself,” he said.
The barman poured two drinks and put a coin in the goblet on the stand behind him. “For later,” he said. “The boss does not like it if we drink on the job.”
“Understandable,” Kormak said. “Ana come in?”
“Ana who?”
Kormak tapped another silver coin on the counter-top. “Tall girl, red hair likes glitterdust, knows Scar. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”
The barman looked over at the bouncers. There were two more by the door.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Kormak said. “I need to find her fast though.”
He put the coin on the counter-top and placed another beside it, setting it spinning with a flick of his thumb.
“You a friend of hers?”
“A special friend. A client.”
The barman trapped the coin with his hand. “She went upstairs to see Scar. She looked a bit stunned.”
“He’ll give her something to perk her up, no doubt,” Kormak said.
“No doubt.”
Kormak put another coin on the bar, finished his drink and said, “Maybe he’ll give me the same.”
The barman gave him a professional smile. “You can but ask,” he said. His gaze went to the first floor balcony. An orc was coming out. With him was good-looking, blowsily dressed red-head. She looked down and pointed at Kormak and shrieked. “That’s him, Scar. That’s the bastard who said he’d cut my throat.”
The orc followed her pointing finger. Kormak cursed and began walking towards the stair. Two bouncers moved to block his way.
“You don’t want to do that,” he said.
“No choice, pal,” said the biggest of the two. “You don’t pay our wages. Scar does and she’s a client of his.”
He smiled as he spoke but before he finished the sentence a blow was on its way towards Kormak’s head. Something glittered on the man’s fist. Metal knuckle-dusters, Kormak assumed. He stepped to one side and inside the man’s guard and dropped the man with a punch. His twisted and his elbow buried itself in the second bouncer’s stomach. The man fell retching. Kormak took the stairs two at a time. The red-head kept screaming. “Stop him. He’ll kill me!”
The rest of the bouncers and the clients rushed at Kormak. The orc drew two black steel scimitars. It was not a good sign. Such weapons were the mark of an orcish blademaster. Forged in the blood furnaces of the shaman smith’s they would resist even the bite of a dwarf-forged blade without notching. Kormak wondered if he could put a knife through Ana’s throat from the distance. The orc fell into a guard position. It was much bigger than Kormak.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Kormak said.
The orc laughed. Its tusks glistened in the lantern-light.
As soon as they crossed blades, Kormak knew he was fighting against a master. The orc was astonishingly fast, skilled and strong. Scar smiled as he brought his blades into play and for a few seconds Kormak was hard put to defend himself. He saw by his opponent’s face that he was not the only one surprised. After a few moments the orc frowned and then gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement, as much to himself as to Kormak, that he faced a worthy foe.
“I shall eat your heart and your liver,” Scar said. “You are worthy.”
Kormak saw Razhak begin to slide away from behind the drug dealer and move towards the further staircase. He cursed, determined that the stealer of flesh would not escape him again.
A faint look of contempt passed across Scar’s face. He obviously thought he was the subject of Kormak’s words. Kormak heard feet on the stairs behind him. He knew it was only a matter of heartbeats before the bouncers were on him and there was no way he could defend himself from them and a warrior of Scar’s skill.
He adjusted his breathing as he had been taught so long ago on Mount Aethelas and unleashed the full fury of his sword arm. Scar went immediately on to the defensive, stepping back and away, defending himself in a whirlwind of blades. Knowing it was risky, but that he had to chance it anyway, Kormak vaulted over the balcony, and landed, knees flexing to take the strain of the fall on a table on the lower floor. Drinks spilled and chairs overturned as patrons scrambled to get away, taken aback by the sudden eruption of a large swordsman in their midst.
Razhak had reached the bottom of the stair and pulled up short, aware that he was going to have to confront the Guardian after all. A look of fear flickered over the face of the female form he wore. Kormak tensed himself to spring when Scar vaulted down from the balcony to land atop the table between him and Razhak.
“It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure of fighting one almost my equal, stranger. Who was your master?”
The dealer stood as ready to fight as talk and Kormak knew that his time was running out. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the man behind the bar was loading a crossbow. It would be a tricky shot in the crowded bar but all it would take would be a lucky hit and it would all be over. Worse, Razhak was already making her way out through the back way and not only Scar but a room full of panicking patrons now lay between them.
“I do not fight for pleasure,” said Kormak.
“Then fight for your life,” said Scar and sprang. Kormak found himself pressed face to face with the orc, glaring into its red eyes, able to count the stitches of its scar tattoos. The table shuddered under their combined weight. They measured strength against strength for a moment then Kormak attempted to trip the orc. Springing back, Scar landed on the space between the tables, keeping his feet lithe as a cat. He lashed out at Kormak’s leg. The Guardian sprang above the blow, letting it pass beneath him, knowing it was a mistake since it would put him off balance.
Scar struck again and somehow Kormak twisted to parry the blow. He landed badly, losing his balance and rolled away, feet over shoulders, using his momentum as he had been taught. He heard Scar bellowing at the tavern patrons to get out of his way. He smelled burning now. Someone had knocked over a lantern in the confusion. More people were screaming. The crowd was starting to panic.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned ready to strike. He saw Nuala. She tugged at him and pointed towards the door. He saw the sense in what she was saying. There was no point in staying to fight against overwhelming odds; nothing to be gained either. He nodded and shouldered his way towards the doorway, with her following behind. He punched a man down who got in his way, barged another to one side and moments later they were outside.
“Scar needs help, Fat Bulo and his men attacked,” said Nuala. The bouncers nodded and made their way through the doorway adding to the confusion.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” said the girl. “I think you’ve caused enough trouble for one night.”
“The trouble is just starting,” Kormak said. “And I am not the cause of it.”
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were good with a sword,” said Nuala. “I don’t think I have ever seen anyone last so long against Scar. He is the best swordsman in the city, possibly excepting the champions of the Four Warlords.”
“He was skilled,” said Kormak. He glanced around warily. Their surroundings were enough to give anyone pause. It was a small, hole-in-the-wall drinking den, deep within the maze of alleys around the Mall. It was little more than a bench, some planks set on beer barrels and a canvas canopy overhead. All around were more tables where people ate and drank. They were surrounded by the bustle of people.
“You have a gift for understatement, stranger,” she said. “They say Scar was the First Blade of the Red Horde. He would still be today perhaps, had he not plotted against the Khan of Khans.”
“Who tells this story, Scar?”
“It’s no joke. He’s killed two score of men since he came to the city, made himself the most feared gang boss in the Mall and you have contrived to make him your enemy.”