Rassendyll took a step forward, careful to disentangle his feet from the body of the Thayan coward, his saber ready to strike.
The captain of the Hawks laughed again.
"Oh dearie me!" Rickman exclaimed sarcastically. "A simpleton new to the sword is coming at me. I must defend myself."
Faster than the weary Rassendyll's eyes could follow, Rickman leaped and pivoted at the same time, and proceeded to hurl himself against the wall of the study. In the blink of an eye the human projectile had landed on the edge of the hearth, grabbed a pair of crossed swords from the wall, and propelled himself back in the direction of the High Blade's twin.
Rassendyll ducked barely in time to avoid being skewered as part of the villainous Rickman's acrobatic act.
"Well done!" the knave hailed. "I don't want this to be too easy. After all it isn't every day that I get to kill the two assassins who plotted against and killed my liege."
Within a second, Rickman launched himself back at Rassendyll. The High Blade's twin raised his father's saber to deflect both blades, parrying the first while blocking the second with the hilt.
"Not bad for one so new to the artistry of the blade," Rickman jeered. "If you weren't so obviously tired you might actually make a worthy opponent."
Rassendyll shook his head quickly, trying to clear the cloud of exhaustion that pressed down upon his entire being.
"Come, come," Rickman offered sarcastically. "Why don't you attack this time? Maybe I should mention that your beloved Retreat is no more. All of your brethren were slaughtered. And shall I mention that I was the one who ordered their deaths?"
Rage gripped Rassendyll as a new rush of adrenaline sent a lightning bolt of energy through his entire body. With all the fury of a berserker in a blood rage, he leaped forward, blade slashing through the air that separated him from the object of his fury.
Rickman was prepared for the attack and sandwiched the saber's slicing strike between his own two blades, deflecting the efforts of the novice swordsman, and sending him spinning to the side. The captain of the Hawks could not resist further toying with his prey, and booted him in the rear as he spun by, sending the brother of the High Blade sprawling, Rassendyll barely held on to the sword of his father.
"So sorry you tripped," Rickman mocked. "Killing well takes practice. Now let me see. Over the past few days I have killed a Thayan traitor…"
Rassendyll scrambled to his feet.
"Ordered the deaths of the entire inhabitants of a monastery…"
The High Blade's twin thought he detected a sound from the hearth through which he had entered the room, but kept his eyes focused on the purveyor of bladed destruction in front of him.
"Ordered the deaths of some of my own men, just to keep a few things secret…"
Rickman sprang forward again, slashing at his prey, the tip of his blade nicking Rassendyll at the edge of his scalp.
"How clumsy of me!" he taunted. "I bet you wish you had that iron mask on now."
The captain of the Hawks hesitated for a moment as a new thought just crossed his mind.
"Oh dear!" Rickman mocked. "I seem to have lost count. Did I mention that I also killed another of your kind? The blind wizard smith who fashioned that mask for you!"
"No!"
The shout from the hearth startled both of the duelists, as McKern tried to race into the room having just climbed up the ladder moments in time to hear the taunting admission of Rickman to murdering his only brother.
Rickman spun toward the hearth, ready to slice and dice the Cloak who was frantically trying to enter the room and extract his own vengeance. The captain of the Hawks was focused on this latest intruder, but failed to observe the now-prostrate form of Passepout, who had fallen forward at the mage's scream. The thespian had had the misfortune of being in front of the now enraged wizard and had belly-flopped out of the hearth and onto the carpet directly in front of the rampaging swordsman, catching Rickman's foot in his wake.
Rickman realized this latest obstacle too late to stop himself from pitching forward. His frantic attempts at regaining his balance only succeeded in making his head come into contact with the hearth ledge, knocking him out. Both of his swords fell point first beneath him, skewering the prostrate form of the helpless Passepout as Volo peeked out from the secret entrance to observe the unfortunate proceedings.
"No!"
The master traveler now cried in vain. He could not stop the body already in motion.
18
Covering Tracks In the High Blade's Chambers in the Tower of the Wyvern:
Volo rushed to the side of his impaled friend, scrambling past the equally horrified Mason McKern, and around the other two prostrate forms that littered the floor near the hearth. The master traveler unceremoniously cast the groggy form of Captain Rickman off the body of his obese and decidedly prone boon companion.
Rickman began to groan; the concussion of the contact of his head against the hearth only succeeded in knocking him out for a moment, and in no time he would be in a groggy state of consciousness. "Oh, my head!" he mumbled as his hands vainly tried to make their way off the ground and up to his pate. "Ohhhhhh."
Volo ignored the blackguard's cries of pain, and knelt by his boon companion, trying desperately not to look at the hilts of the duelist's two swords that swayed like flagpoles on the mountainous summit that was the body of his beloved Passepout.
"Oh, son of Idle and Catinflas," the master gazetteer cried.
The thespian opened his eyes, and a grimace of pain immediately passed over his face.
"You are alive old friend!" Volo said softly, not yet sure how serious the thespian's wounds were.
"Just barely," the son of Idle and Catinflas replied weakly.
"Is there anything I can do, old friend?" Volo asked.
"No, dear Volo," Passepout said a trifle dramatically. "Just allow me to pass from this life, here and now, in this pool of blood."
Volo felt on the verge of tears, and held the dying thespian's hand up to his face. "Courage, dear friend," he implored. "You are still warm, perhaps McKern can save you."
"No," the master thespian insisted, "I already feel death's cold shadow as my heart pumps its last few ounces of blood into the river that feeds this pool of blood."
Pool of blood, the master traveler thought to himself, it sounds so familiar.
Volo looked down at the area around his bisected friend. The floor was dry, and nary a trace of blood was visible.
Quickly the master traveler cast back the cloak from his prostrate friend's body, and observed the placement of the two blades, one sandwiched between two tree-sized thighs, the other nestled in the right armpit. In both cases, the thespian's skin was barely nicked.
The master traveler laughed.
"It serves me right, you lucky knave," the master gazetteer replied, as his thought-to-be-dying friend sat up with great vigor.
" 'Twasn't luck, 'twas skill," the thespian replied. "It is imperative that a skilled actor know how to avoid an oncoming blade in a dying sequence if one wishes to have much of a career on the stage."
"Pool of Blood was the title of one of the plays in your repertoire, if I recall correctly."
"Indeed, it is," the thespian replied, "Ward's Folly, also known as The Pool of Blood, a real slaughterfest of a show."
Out of the corner of his eye, Volo saw McKern. The old mage was still staring at the slowly recovering form of the captain of the Hawks, muttering under his breath.
"You killed my brother," he murmured. "An honest man, a craftsman, a humanitarian. He served Mulmaster as best he could, trusting his superiors, and now he is dead. He never saw it coming. My name is Mason McKern. You killed my brother; prepare to die!"