Tirigon sprang down from the wine barrel to face the survivors, who now were determinedly drawing their swords and knives and surrounding him. “That was a long time coming,” he observed maliciously. “My promise is this: If you can injure me-give me the slightest of scratches-your families shall live. Because you won’t be able to kill me,” said the alf complacently. He placed his sword in the scabbard he wore on his back. Presenting himself, unarmed, to the crowd, he stretched out his arms and turned on the spot. “What are we waiting for?”
Mallenia looked at the two alfar by the door. They had not moved. They were leaving their sibling to take his pleasure as he wished-then the alf woman turned to face Mallenia.
The haughty expression on the alf sister’s countenance turned to curiosity. She was about to move forward, but her brother held her back. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on the Ido princess, as if she were studying the face of an old friend.
Mallenia had no idea why she was attracting such interest. Shaking off her sense of unease, she stepped over the dead bodies to reach the handful of her loyal followers about to enter the fray.
If she died, she wanted to die among her own people, fighting for Gauragar. Her movements were governed by an obsession to inflict a wound on the alf Tirigon, thereby saving their families.
Tirigon adjusted his tionium arm protectors and waited with a smile.
Uwo, a little man and the town’s only fishmonger, thrust with his sword, making a quick move to one side.
The alf blocked the jab with his forearm and the blade broke into three from the impact. While the pieces were still in mid-air, Tirigon grabbed one of them and hurled it at Uwo, hitting him in the chest. The man sank to the floor.
Already, Tirigon had snatched the next piece of blade, which he threw at another attacker heading his way. The metal sliced through his throat and he fell, gurgling, hands clasping his neck, trying to close the gaping wound.
The courage of desperation drove the conspirators to a joint attack on the enemy, who was enjoying his sport, avoiding jabs and thrusts and deflecting blows in other directions, so that their blades hit their own friends.
By the end, only Mallenia and Arnfried the blacksmith were left to stand against the alf. The rest had fallen or were cowering on the earthen floor, fatally injured.
The smith, a strong man with a long beard and impressive muscles, was bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder, but he had his dagger gripped fast in his hand and was snorting with fury.
Tirigon regarded the red splashes on his armor. “Regrettable,” he said. “That should not have happened. The blood runs into the engraving and then clots.”
Arnfried sprang abruptly forward to surprise the enemy. He feigned a stab with his knife and at the same time launched a punch to the face. Mallenia stormed in, taking advantage of the alf’s defensive move.
The slim adversary avoided the blade and grabbed the blacksmith’s balled fist with his left hand. But he had underestimated the man’s strength and was forced backwards against a wine barrel.
Arnfried brought a knee up and rammed it into Tirigon’s ribs; the armor grated. Concerned, the female alf cried out in her own language.
Mallenia used her left-hand sword to jab at the alf, who stepped aside at the last moment. The tip of her sword went through wood, releasing a stream of white wine behind him that made the floor slippery.
“Respect,” growled Tirigon, addressing the smith and parrying his next attack with his other hand. There was a click and two metal discs shot out from the long outer side of his forearm bracers. Like lightning he drew them across the man’s breast. Arnfried yelled out and jumped backwards, losing his balance on the wet floor. As he fell, the alf was directly above him and smashed a mighty blow into his solar plexus. Bones cracked and buried themselves in the lungs; the smith rolled in the mud in agony.
Without hesitation Mallenia threw herself at Tirigon to pull him to the ground. He had noticed her coming at him out of the corner of his eye and leaped away-becoming a victim of the wet floor like the smith. His right foot slipped. Although he tried to steady himself he crashed against the tub of salted meat that Mallenia had earlier fallen foul of.
The female alf cried out.
Mallenia hurled both her swords at the enemy as he lay; one aimed at his head, the other at his groin. He would not, she hoped, be able to parry both strikes. But Tirigon, acting on reflex, jerked up his plated arms: The first sword was deflected and flew off into a corner of the cellar, the second broke up on striking the tionium.
Nevertheless the alf emitted a groan.
Mallenia could not believe her eyes. A long thin splinter of blade had pierced the alf’s cheek, nailing him to the barrel. Not a fatal wound by any means but certainly very painful. And, above all, it had destroyed the perfection of his countenance.
Behind her, Mallenia heard the sound of fast steps and metal scraping.
Meanwhile Tirigon raised his hand and said something she did not understand; the injury to his face made the words sound terrible.
“You promised to spare our families,” said Mallenia. She did not have to turn around to know that the alf woman was behind her with a drawn sword in her hand, ready to kill her. “Do you keep your word?”
The alf uttered a low “Yes.”
“And I shall leave this cellar alive?”
“Never!” came a hiss at her back. But the defeated brother confirmed the agreement was to be honored.
“And you thought we couldn’t kill you,” Mallenia said carefully, her left hand on the handle of her knife. She bent down and cut off a lock of his black hair. “This will be a reminder of my triumph over you and your arrogance.”
The murderous look in Tirigon’s eyes said all there was to say.
“Look after your luck, last of the Ido line,” came the warning from the second alf at the door. “You will be able to leave the cellar. The conspirator families will be allowed to live. As far as we’re concerned, that is. But what Emperor Aiphaton does, when he hears about it, is another matter.”
“He will certainly hear of it,” said the alf sister gleefully.
Mallenia turned around angrily. The siblings were standing behind her, and the sister did indeed hold a sword in her hand. “I should have known you would find a loophole, a way of breaking the agreement!”
“It’s not a loophole. It is an exact interpretation.” The alf, identical to his wounded brother apart from the fact that his sword was different, bowed slightly. “If I were to interpret it even more minutely, I could say that, in reality, Tirigon injured himself and it was not you who wrought a miracle.” He pointed to his sister. “Firusha would be happy were we to come to that view of things. As long as we are still deliberating how to construe the significance of your victory you will be able to reach the door unharmed.” He took a deliberate step to the side to allow her to pass.
Mallenia did not hesitate, and hurried out of the room, with its awful stench of blood, guts, wine and salted meat.
As she left, she unfastened her hand-crossbow from under her cloak, cocked it and turned on the threshold. She pointed it at the wounded alf, aimed at his head and fired.
The bolt flew out and struck Tirigon in the neck.
Mallenia cursed. She had been aiming at the head but her hand had been shaking. But if the gods-apart from Tion-were on her side she was now rid of this enemy.
She stepped out of the door in great haste, slamming it behind her. The key was on the outside, because the sheriff had forgotten to remove it. Thus she was able to lock the siblings in and make her escape. She would need the head start this gave her.
The alfar would be pursuing her, so the conspirators’ families should be safe. For the moment. She could worry about everything else later.