As the ogres confronted the newcomer, an increasingly edgy Norgen became increasingly convinced that, willing or not, he was about to find out.
“Hoy, traveler!” Kot grunted. “What are you doing here, anyway? This be the Nentir Vale. We don’t see your kind here.” He grinned, showing ragged, sharp teeth. One massive hand suggestively fingered the mace slung at his belt.
The stranger looked up. Norgen gazed into pale, watery blue slitted eyes that peered out from the wholly feline face, but it was difficult for the dwarf to tell if the stranger was more angry or bored. Dark spots marked his white fur where it was visible on his face. He had backward facing clawed hands and broad feet, not to mention an unusually long and large blackspotted white tail. He wore a single-button black singlet shot through with gold thread over loose-fitting black pants. From his shoulders hung a cape that seemed fashioned of woven silver.
“Really?” His voice was a muted growl. “What kind that you don’t see would I be?”
“You’re a rakshasa,” Grerg replied. As the ogre pronounced it, it emerged sounding like an obscenity. “We’re honest folk here. No mind-twisters.” He was holding a huge club in front of him. “When we fight, ’tis honest and straightforward, and no shifty magic.”
“Get gone, demon-spawn.” The third ogre, Mulk, clutched a spiked ball and chain. “This be a clean establishment.”
The stranger looked past them, toward the bar. “How about that, innkeeper? Should I leave?”
“Eh, what’s that?” Reaching up with one hand, Norgen stuck a sausagelike finger deep into his oversized left ear. “Bit hard of hearing, I am.” He returned to his increasingly frantic polishing, though by then the goblet shone so as to take a place of pride in a dragon’s hoard. As he continued to mine unpleasant detritus from one ear, the barkeep surreptitiously took small steps in the direction of the exit.
He didn’t quite make it before all the hells broke loose.
“We’ll help you on your way!” Kot bellowed as he swung his mace out, up, and down.
Intended to split the seated rakshasa, the forceful blow splintered only the innocent table. Other patrons scrambled for cover, diving under tables, bolting for the door, and in the case of one especially prescient elf, springing out the nearest open window.
“Fast-but not fast enough!” roared the third ogre as he swung the heavy spiked iron ball on the end of its chain. It struck the stranger square in the midsection-only to pass completely through him. Reeling from the absence of any resistance, Mulk took a wary step backward.
“Phantom image! ’Ware your selves, brothers!”
“ ’Ware indeed,” a warning voice growled.
All three ogres whirled. Having drawn a longsword, their opponent stood behind them. Each time the weapon moved through the air, it seemed to emit a soft but audible snarl, and when the diffuse light of the inn caught the blade, the metal seemed to change color-from silver to gold to bronze, and back again. Its hilt twisted slightly in its owner’s grasp. It was as if the stranger was gripping the tail of a live thing instead of a shaft of mere metal. Engraved in the metal hilt guard, two cats’ faces glared at one another around the shaft of the sword. The more the owner moved it around, the more animated the hilt’s faces became.
“I am Ruhan Bijendra, a rakshasa Dhanesh. I have come to the Nentir Vale from my homeland in search of a legend. There are many such here, but the tale of the one I seek was spun to me from an early age by a voluble mage, and I have vowed not to return home until I have ascertained the truth or the lie of it and made it do my bidding.”
“Of your speaking, one thing’s certain,” snorted Kot, the leader of the ogre trio. “You’re not going to be returning home.” Tightening his grip on his mace, he let out a howl that shook mugs from the rafters, then charged.
Bijendra did not run. He did not try to dodge. He did not even employ the innate magic for which his kind was known. Instead, he simply raised his longsword high above his head and held it parallel to the floor.
Brought down by the full weight and strength of the ogre, the heavy iron mace slammed into the sword. The blade did not shatter. Nor did the arm of the one who wielded it. Instead, the rakshasa twisted his sword just enough at the moment of impact so that the much heavier mace slid sideways along the guiding blade. Sparks flew as the parried head of the bulky weapon smashed into the floor. From where he presently crouched behind the bar, Norgen looked on in amazement. What kind of rakshasa noble was this, who fought with blade as well as with magic? An explanation was forthcoming.
“I am Ruhan Bijendra, and in addition to being of noble blood, I am also by choice-a ranger.”
Clearly confused, Grerg paused as he was about to swing his club. “Your lies multiply. There is no such thing as a rakshasa ranger.”
Sliding his right foot back to firm his fighting stance, Bijendra’s frown was fraught with mock seriousness. “Then how can I possibly be standing here before you? Or perhaps I am not here at all. Perhaps I am only a figment of imaginations as dim as your wits.”
Growling, Mulk readied his ball and chain for a second swing. “For a small traveler with backward hands, you have a big mouth. We will close it for you.”
Gesturing with his reversed left palm, Bijendra beckoned. “Then come and seek. Oblivion awaits. As a rakshasa noble I would rather not fight-but as a ranger, a melee is as good exercise as counting coin. I will defeat all three of you with only my one sword.”
They came at him from two sides this time, intending to catch the haughty cat face between them. As one swung his club and the other his mace, the rakshasa spun. His sword was a blur. At the last possible instant, so was he. Descending mace connected with onrushing skull at the same time as swinging club met out-thrust face. Blood and jumbo dentition went flying as the weapons of the charging ogres connected not with the head of the stranger but with each other. Kot and Grerg went down in separate but equally bloody heaps. As the only one of the belligerent trio to retain consciousness, the last member standing clutched his ball and chain nervously. His small, glaring eyes sought danger in every shadow and corner.
“Some illusion again!” Outrage, as well as the first inklings of fear, filled the ogre’s voice. “You said you would use only your sword!”
From behind him, a powerful feline shape stepped forward and gestured. A pale essence coalesced around Mulk, engulfing him in otherness. As a strand of it grew dense around his throat, the frightened ogre spun and swung wildly, striking at the smoke. As soon as he faced the ogre, Bijendra swung his enchanted sword around in a wide, powerful arc, striking With the flat of his blade. As it made contact with the side of the ogre’s skull, Mulk let out a gurgle. His eyes rolled backward into his head and he collapsed into a pile of unconscious, motionless meat. Stepping forward, Bijendra stared down at the unmoving body.
“I lied. It’s clear you don’t know much of anything about my kind or you would be aware that we are known for deception in word as well as in image.” Wiping clean the gore-streaked blade on the ogre’s backside, he slid it neatly into the sheath slung against his back as he turned and strode toward the bar. Brave and confident dwarf that he was, Norgen was ready for him.
“Drink?” the dwarf mumbled, swallowing hard as he held out the sloshing goblet. “On the house.”
Bijendra looked over his shoulder and said, “Three mighty ogres in a heap, who upon awakening will wish that they were dead. I could oblige them that, but I must not linger here. I have leagues to cross still, and they would be better traversed without having to always look behind me.”
Norgen knew what the rakshasa was getting at, and said, “The ogres have other kinsfolk in Hammerfast. And there’s always the outside chance that Goldspinner, the leader of the Merchant Guild and the current High Master of the town, might take an official’s interest in the brawl-though we dwarves tend to look first after our own.”