'You claim you're doing this to avenge one death,' he sneered. 'How many will die trying to pull me down?'
'You feel free to kill us one at a time, for no reason,' Mungo retorted, circling wide to join the pack. 'If some of us die killing you, then at least the rest will be safe.'
'Only if you kill me,' Jubal corrected. Without taking his eyes from the pack, he reached his left hand over his right shoulder, found the knife hilt, and wrenched it free. 'And for that, you'll need your knife back!'
Mungo saw the knife coming as Jubal whipped his left hand down and across his body, but he froze for a split second. In that split second, the knife took him full in the throat. The world blurred and he went down, not feeling the fall.
The pack surged forward, and Jubal went to meet them, his sword flashing in the sun as he desperately tried to win his way to the exit.
A few fell before his first rush - he didn't know how many -but the rest scattered and closed about him from all sides. Sticks jabbed at his face faster than he could parry them, and he felt the touch of knives as small forms darted from behind him to slash and duck away.
Realization came to him that the harassment would bring him down before he could clear the wooden cases; abandoning his charge, he paused, whirling and cutting, trying to clear a space around him. The urchins were sharp-toothed, elusive phantoms, disappearing from in front of him to worry him from behind. It flashed through his mind that he was going to die! The survivor of countless gladiator duels was going to meet his end at the hands of angry children!
The thought drove him to desperate action. With one last powerful cut, he broke off his efforts at defence and tried to sprint for the wall to get something solid at his back. A small girl grabbed his ankle and clung with all her strength. He stumbled, nearly falling, and cut downwards viciously without looking. His leg came free, but another urchin leapt on to his back. hammering at his head with a rock.
Jubal lurched sideways, scraping the child off along the wall, then turned to face the pack. A stick pierced his mask, opening a gash in his forehead which began to drip blood in his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he laid about him wildly with his sword, sometimes striking something solid, sometimes encountering air. A rock caromed off his head, but he was past feeling and continued his sightless, mindless slashing.
Slowly it crept into his fogged brain that there was a new note in the children's screams. At the same time, he realized that his sword had not struck a target for ten or fifteen swings now. Shaking his head to clear it, he focused anew on the scene before him.
The courtyard was littered with small bodies, their blood a bright contrast to their drab rags. The rest of the pack was in full flight, pursued over the rubble piles by ...
Jubal sagged against the wall, fighting for breath and numb from wounds too numerous to count. He watched as his rescuer strode to his side, sheathing a sword wet with fresh blood.
'Your ... your name?' he gasped.
'Zaibar,' the uniformed figure panted in return. 'Bodyguard to His Royal Highness, Prince Kadakithis. Your wounds ... are they...?'
'I've survived worse.' Jubal shrugged, wincing at the pain the movement caused.
'Very well.' the man nodded. 'Then I shall be on my way.'
'A moment,' Jubal asked, holding up a restraining hand. 'You have saved my life ... a life I value quite highly. I owe you thanks and more, for you can't spend words. Name your reward.'
'That is not necessary,' Zaibar sniffed. 'It is my duty.'
'Duty or not,' Jubal argued, 'I know no other guardsman who would enter the Maze, much less risk his life to save... Did you say a royal bodyguard: Are you...'
'A Hell Hound,' Zaibar finished with a grim smile. 'Yes, I am. And I promise you, the day is not far off when we will not be the only guardsmen in the Maze.'
He turned to go, but Jubal stopped him again, removing the hawk-mask to mop the blood from his eyes.
'Wait!' he ordered. 'I have a proposal for you. I have need of men such as you. Whatever pay you receive from the Empire, I'll double it... as well as adding a bonus for your work today. What say you?'
There was no answer. Jubal squinted to get the Hell Hound's face in focus, and found the man was staring at him in frozen recognition.
'You are Jubal!' Zatbar said in a tone that was more statement than question.
'I am,' Jubal nodded. 'If you know that, you must also know that there is none in Sanctuary who pays higher than I for services rendered.'
'I know your reputation,' the Hell Hound acknowledged coldly. 'Knowing what I do, I would not work for you at any price.'
The rebuff was obvious, but Jubal chose to ignore it. Instead, he attempted to make light of the comment.
'But you already have,' he pointed out. 'You saved my life.'
'I saved a citizen from a pack of street-rats,' Zaibar countered.
'As I said before, it's my duty to my prince.'
'But-' Jubal began.
'Had I known your identity sooner,' the Hell Hound continued, 'I might have been tempted to delay my rescue.' l
This time, the slight could not be ignored. More puzzled ' than angry, Jubal studied his opponent.
'I sense you are trying to provoke a fight. Did you save me, then, to wreak some vengeance of your own?'
'In my position, I cannot and will not engage in petty brawls,' Zaibar growled. 'I fight only to defend myself or the citizens of the empire.'
'And I will not knowingly raise a sword against one who has saved my life ... save in self-defence,' Jubal retorted. 'It would seem, then, that we will not fight each other. Still, it seems you hold some grudge against me. May I ask what it is?'
'It is the grudge I hold against any man who reaps the benefits of Rankan citizenship while accepting none of the responsibility,' the Hell Hound sneered. 'Not only do you not serve the empire that shelters you, you undermine its strength by openly flaunting your disrespect for its laws in your business dealings.'
'What do you know of my business dealings that allows you to make such sweeping judgements?' Jubal challenged.
'I know you make your money in ways decent men would shun,' Zaibar retorted. 'You deal in slaves and drugs and other high-profit, low-moral commodities ... but most of all, you deal in death.'
'A professional soldier condemns me for dealing in death?' Jubal smiled.
The Hell Hound flushed red at the barb. 'Yes. I also deal in death. But a soldier such as myself fights for the good of the empire, not for selfish gain. I lost a brother and several friends in the mountain campaigns fighting for the empire ... for the freedoms you and your kind abuse.'
'Imagine that,' Jubal mused. 'The whole Rankan army defending us against a few scattered mountain tribes. Why, if you and your friends hadn't been there, the Highlanders certainly would have swept down out of the mountains they haven't left for generations and murdered us all in our sleep. How silly of me to think it was the empire trying to extend its influence into one more place it wasn't wanted. I should have realized it was only trying to defend itself from a ferocious attacker.'
Zaibar swayed forwards, his hand going to his sword hilt. Then He regained his composure and hardened his features.
'I am done talking to you. You can't understand the minds of decent men, much less their words.'
He turned to go, but somehow Jubal was in his path - on his feet now, though he swayed from the effort. Though the soldier was taller by a head, Jubal's anger increased his stature to where it was Zaibar who gave ground.
'If you're done talking. Hell Hound, then it's time I had my say,' he hissed. 'It's true I make money from distasteful merchandise. I wouldn't be able to do that if your "decent men" weren't willing to pay a hefty price for it. I don't sell my goods at sword point. They come to me - so many of them, I can't fill the demand through normal channels.'