Cimozjen gasped in pain as the sundered links skittered across the flagstone floor. His brow furrowed. “An enchanted blade?”
Pomindras chuckled.
Cimozjen took to the attack, executing his planned chop at the leading leg. Partway through the swing he rolled his wrist and changed the angle of attack upward, leading with the inside edge of the sword, aiming for Pomindras’s ear. But either Cimozjen was too old and slow, or Pomindras had seen the trick many times in the arena, because he ducked out of the way and raised his shield.
Cimozjen saw an actinic flash, felt a jarring bolt flash through his body, thumping painfully at his forearm and his knees. He felt the point of his sword dig into something, and he nearly lost his grip.
But there’d been no crash of metal.
Cimozjen stepped back, shaken and unnerved, his sword held out defensively. Pomindras slapped his shield upward at Cimozjen’s weapon. As soon as the gold rim of his shield contacted Cimozjen’s arm, another flash and charge of numbness blasted through him. Between the shock and the impact, he lost his grip on his sword, and he saw it fall from his fingers.
It didn’t slide across the boss of Pomindras’s shield. Rather it fell in, quickly becoming obscured by shadow and vanishing from sight altogether.
“Oops,” said Pomindras in amusement.
And as his foe moved the shield to the side, Cimozjen finally understood what made the shield so impenetrably black. It was a ring of gold-colored metal … encircling nothing.
Cimozjen retreated a few steps, shook his hand to restore feeling, and gripped his staff tightly, the bottom end toward Pomindras, the upper end held behind his ear. He slid his right hand to find the proper place.
Seeing Cimozjen disarmed gave Pomindras new confidence. He closed quickly, circling his sword in a taunting sort of manner. “Now I rip apart your chain mail piece by piece, Karrn.” He lunged, a lightning move that slipped past Cimozjen’s parry, carved a terrible slice into his arm, and sheared half of his chain sleeve away.
Sundered links of chain tinkled down the hall.
“And if you think your little stick is going to stop me-”
Cimozjen surged forward, raising the staff for an overhand swat. Pomindras raised his shield. Then with his thumb Cimozjen flipped a tiny switch embedded in the staff and a long, thin blade speared out of one metal-shod end, shattering the small piece of clay that camouflaged the hole. Instead of continuing his overhand attack, Cimozjen put his weight into plunging the spear downward, driving it completely through Pomindras’s foot just forward of the ankle.
Pomindras screamed and staggered, unable to move the injured foot.
“Oops,” said Cimozjen with a glower.
He yanked the spear to the side, pulling Pomindras’s leg to the side before the blade plowed through the flesh between the tarsal bones, slicing Pomindras’s foot lengthwise.
Pomindras fell, scraping down the walls as he scrabbled for traction, gasping in pain.
Seeing an opening, Cimozjen thrust with his spear at Pomindras’s unprotected torso. Pomindras cried out, shock and pain taking command of his every action. Cimozjen plunged his spear again and again, until he was certain that the son of Deneith would scream no more.
Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
The Quiet Touch of Death
Wir, the 4th day of Aryth, 998
That is a lot of weapons,” said Four.
Cimozjen shrugged. “It’s an armory for House Deneith. I’m not too surprised.” He scratched his head and began to poke around. “I wonder where the boy stashed my longcoat. I hope they kept it rather than sell it. I paid a lot of coin for that thing.”
“Cimmer! You’re alive!” Minrah bounded into the room and leaped into his arms. She snuggled into him, squeezing him as tightly as her small arms would allow.
Cimozjen hugged her back, laughing with relief, but also very aware of every nuance of her proximity, including the way her delicate fingers shifted their position on his back. She sighed contentedly, and the sound was as soft and beautiful as a summer brook.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she murmured, burrowing her head into his sweaty tunic.
“I would not let myself be defeated, not here,” he said.
“So how’d you like my plan?” she asked brightly, looking up at him with open, vulnerable, delighted eyes. “That was my idea. Pretty clever, huh?”
Cimozjen half-shrugged. “I guessed at it pretty quickly.”
“Guessed?” asked Minrah. She backed up, affronted, hands on hips. “He was supposed to whisper it to you! Why didn’t you tell him, Four?”
Cimozjen intervened. “It was so loud in the ring,” he said. “We could hardly talk to each other. But the ‘SI’ tattoo on his ear was a good idea, and Four dropped a few pretty good hints, as good as he could while shouting. But just to be safe, I jabbed him right here.” He rapped a knuckle on Four’s hammered-iron chest piece, which showed a new scratch across it. “I had to make sure it was no trick, and I figured if it was Four in disguise, I’d scratch his armor. If not, I’d draw blood.”
“That was a dangerous maneuver,” said Four. “I reacted on reflex. It was too similar to the other times I spent … out there. For a moment, I was engaged to kill you, but then I remembered your face in the tavern, and how I diverted my axe-”
“Let’s not travel any further down that road, shall we?” said Cimozjen. “We both survived, and Minrah brought Aurala’s army at the right time.”
“We timed it.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” said Four. “I saw the signal and told you it was time to end the fight.”
“My companions,” said Cimozjen with a gracious bow, “I am impressed.”
“So what’s this?” asked Minrah, reaching for the ebon shield that leaned against a stool next to Cimozjen. A spark flashed brightly, and she yanked her hand back. “Ow! Filth! What’s that evil trick?” she snapped, clutching her arm to her breast.
Cimozjen looked over his shoulder at the shield slung there. “A farewell gift to me from the late unlamented Pomindras, erstwhile commander of the Silver Cygnet.” He picked it up and held it by the straps with the inside facing Minrah. “Observe. On this side, a more or less normal wooden shield with arm straps. But on the other”-he turned it around-“a fiendishly clever device. The gold ring around the edge emits a potent electric shock. And the center … it’s just not there.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s nonexistent. Try to touch it. Go on, I’ve done it myself. So long as you avoid the ring, you’ll come to no harm.”
Minrah reached out tentatively with her other arm. She brushed her fingers at the black boss. “That’s odd,” she said. She reached closer. Closer. “There’s …”
“Nothing,” said Cimozjen, peering over the rim of the shield. “And from my perspective it looks as though your hand is reaching into the shield up to your wrist.”
Minrah yanked her hand out, studied her fingers, then leaned forward carefully and reached in again, well past her elbow. “How far does it go?”
“I’ve no idea at all,” said Cimozjen. “It may well go forever. It swallowed my sword, and I doubt I’ll ever get it back. Unless you want to crawl in and try to find it for me …”
“Buy yourself a new one,” said Minrah, pulling her arm out.
“I’ll make sure I’m armed before you drag me through another one of your wild plans,” he said with a chuckle.
“I’m sorry if it was hard on you, but we didn’t have much time left.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cimozjen.
Minrah pulled out an envelope from her bag. “Take a look at this. Two days ago Rophis delivered an invitation for me to come see him at the Deneith enclave tomorrow. It even includes a guarantee of safe passage, notarized by House Sivis.”
“Why would he want to meet with you?” asked Cimozjen. He took the paper.