Jorian hefted the short, curved blade. "This is not an ideal utensil for the purpose, especially as he'll have that great brand Randir ready to hand. With this butcher's tool, I shall need some defense for the left hand. Give me your cloak."
"You mean to get my one good garment all hacked and slashed in the fray? I will not! Oh, you villain!" she cried as Jorian shot out a long arm and wrenched the cloak from her shoulders. He whipped the garment around his left arm.
"Now you be quiet!" he whispered, as he glided towards the shed.
Rhithos had closed the shutters over the windows of the smithy. The louvers of these shutters were also closed, lying flat against one another like the feathers in a bird's wing. One louver, however, had been broken at one end and sagged from its socket at the other. Jorian put his eye to the narrow triangle of light.
Within, the anvil had been moved to one side. Where it had stood, near the forge, three pentacles had been drawn with charcoaclass="underline" one large flanked by two small. Rhithos stood in one small pentacle, Ixus in the other. Six black candles, at the apices of the triangles of the main pentacle, shed a fitful light, to which a dull-red glow from the banked fire in the forge added but little. The sword Randir lay in the center of the large central pentacle.
In that circle, also, stood something else, although Jorian could not quite make it out It was dark and wavering, like a misshapen cloud, man-high and man-wide but without any definite limbs or organs. A pallid glow, like a witch fire or a will-o'-the-wisp, flickered through the thing from time to time.
Rhithos was waving a sword and chanting. Ixus, facing him across the large circle, beat time with a wand.
"His back is to the door," breathed Vanora. "You can thrust it open and sink your blade in his back with one bound."
"What of that spirit in the pentacle?"
" Tis not yet wholly materialized; interrupt the cantrip and 'twill vanish. Come, one swift stab—"
"Not quite what a gallant cavalier would do, but—come on!" Jorian stepped to the door. "Does it squeak?"
"Nay. Hating rust, Rhithos keeps the hinges oiled."
"Then grasp the knob and open, gently."
She did as he bade. As the door swung silently open, Jorian took a short running step. One long bound would sink the falchion in Rhithos's back, to the left of the spine and below the shoulder blade…
But Jorian had forgotten Ixus, who stood facing the door. As Jorian started his spring, the familiar screeched and pointed. Without turning his head, the smith bounded to one side. As he did so, he kicked one of the six candles. The candlestick went clattering one way; the candle flew another and went out. The cloudy thing in the large pentacle vanished.
Jorian's rush carried him through the space where Rhithos had stood and across the main pentacle. He tripped over the sword Randir, staggered, and almost trod on Ixus, who dodged and went for Jorian with bared chisel-teeth.
Jorian struck at the hurtling, black, furry body just before the teeth reached his leg. The blow hurled the giant squirrel against the forge, where it lay, twitching and bleeding. The blow had cut it nearly in half.
Rhithos recovered from his leap. He stepped back to the main pentacle and snatched up the sword Randir. By the time Jorian had turned from his blow at the familiar, the smith was upon him, whirling the sword in great full-armed, figure-eight cuts.
Rhithos's wrinkled face was pale in the candle light and sparkled with drops of sweat. He moved heavily and breathed hard, for his sorcerous operation had taken its toll of his strength. Nevertheless, so vast had been that strength to begin with that Jorian found the man, even in his fatigued condition, all he could handle and a little more.
Since the smith's blade was nearly twice the length of the falchion, Jorian was tempted to fall back before the onslaught. But he knew that, if he did, the smith would soon corner him. Therefore he stood his ground, catching the blows alternately on the falchion and the rolled-up cloak.
At first the blows came so fast and furiously that Jorian had no time for a return cut or thrust. The smith seemed determined to squander his remaining strength in a whole-hog effort to beat down Jorian's defense by sheer weight of blade and fury of attack.
Soon, however, age and exhaustion slowed the smith's windmill assault. As he parried one slash with the cloak, Jorian sent a forehand cut at Rhithos' chest. The tip of the falchion slit Rhithos' tunic and pinked the skin beneath.
Gasping, Rhithos fell back a pace. Now he fought more craftily, in proper fencing style, with his right foot forward and his left arm up and back. Since Jorian had to use his left hand, he employed the two-hand stance, facing directly forward with feet apart and knees slightly bent. The two were well matched. As they advanced, retreated, feinted, thrust, cut, and parried, they circled the main pentacle.
Jorian found that now he could fight an adequate defensive fight against Rhithos, but the other's length of blade kept him out of reach. When he tried to close, Rhithos's long blade licked out in a thrust at his exposed right arm. The point caught the fabric of Jorian's sleeve and tore a small rip in it. For an instant, Jorian felt the cold flat of the blade against his skin.
Around they went again. Both breathed in quick pants, watching each other's eyes. Jorian accidentally kicked over another candle, which also went out.
Now the smith seemed to have gotten his second wind, and it was Jorian who was beginning to tire. Again and again the smith sent thrusts and slashes at Jorian's right arm. Jorian avoided these attacks, but by narrower and narrower margins.
In the course of their circling, the smith once more had his back to the door. Vanora, who had been hovering in the background, stepped forward with the sword that Rhithos had been holding when first attacked, and which he had dropped. It was not a fighting weapon but a magical accessory—a straight, thirty-inch blade with little point and less edge, of well-polished soft iron, with a smooth ivory grip and a cross-guard in the form of a copper crescent. Practically speaking, it was useless for anything but spells and evocations.
Nonetheless, Vanora took the weapon in both hands and thrust the blunt point into Rhithos' back. The smith started, grunted, and half turned. Instantly Jorian closed with him. He whipped the tattered end of Vanora's cloak around the sword Randir, immobilizing it for an instant, and drove his falchion into Rhithos's chest. He jerked out the blade, thrust it into the smith's belly, withdrew it again, and slashed deeply into Rhithos' neck.
Like an aged oak, Rhithos swayed and crashed to the floor. Jorian stood over him, gasping for breath. When he could breathe normally, he took a rag from the pile that lay near the forge, wiped his blade, and sheathed it. He tossed the bloody rag on the banked forge fire, where it smoked, burst into flame, and was quickly consumed.
"By Imbal's bronzen arse, that was close," said Jorian. "Lucky for me he was already spent from his sorcery; I misdoubt I could have handled him fresh."
"Are you all right?" said Vanora.
"Aye. I'm relieved to see he has real blood inside him. From his cold, mechanical manner, I wondered if he'd prove to be full of cogwheels and pulleys, like one of my father's water clocks." He picked up Randir, squinted along the blade, and cut the air with it. It was a handsome, single-edged, cut-and-thrust sword with a basket hilt. "It won't have magical properties, since we broke into the spell. Still, a pretty blade. Do you suppose he has a scabbard for it?"
"He doesn't make his own scabbards but orders them from an armorer in Othomae. But one of those in the main hall might fit."
"I'll try them. Fit is important; nothing so embarrasses a hero as to confront a dragon or an ogre and find his sword firmly stuck in its scabbard. I do not suppose we need fear the law here?"