“The inn’s stable wasn’t all that bad, Johauna,” the dwarf said suddenly, perhaps to break the gloomy silence that had fallen on the pair.
Jo was grateful for the chance to talk. Kelvin was beginning to spook her. “Wasn’t that bad?” she exclaimed nervously. “Why, did you see what was in that one nag’s stall? Did you?”
As they crossed a street, the dwarf’s good eye whirled white in the light of a shuttered street lamp. “No …” he murmured.
Jo nodded vigorously. “It’s a good thing you didn’t, Braddoc. You would have been appalled. There was barely a fistful of corn mixed in with rice—rice, mind you! That’s no way to feed a fine challenger like that. The rice’ll expand and give him colic if his owner runs him hard tomorrow.”
“You called the stallion a nag a moment ago,” Braddoc said. An undercurrent of humor laced his words, and Jo spotted a gentle smile on his lips.
“Well, the horse will be a nag after a night in that stable,” Jo retorted. “Either the rice or the sea hay the innkeeper put down for bedding—” Jo sniffed and then almost gagged. They were nearing a rendering hall. The smell of processed fat, entrails, and rotting animal parts rose in the wet air. Jo hurried her pace still more.
“Even so, you might have let us stable the animals there—we could have taken care of them ourselves, you know,” Braddoc rumbled. The dwarf stepped into a deceptively small puddle and sank suddenly up to his knee. He jumped out quickly and cursed under his breath. He shook his wet leg and swore once more.
“What? And have that place charge us three times as much as an honest hostel would?” Jo demanded. She touched the knot of coins in her belt pouch, which she had securely fastened and concealed in the small of her back. She had caught many a cutpurses’ act in Specularum. The young woman shook her head vehemently. “I’m not going to spend Sir Graybow’s money by throwing it out the window at an inn like that—”
Sudden shouts, accompanied by the clang of steel on steel, interrupted Jo. She and the dwarf stopped abruptly, their hands leaping to their weapons; Jo was thankful she and Braddoc had stopped short of the lamplight. The sounds came from some distance away, though how far was difficult to say with the muffling rain. The shouts seemed to be coming from a dark alley. Jo wrinkled her nose. Next to the rendering hall, of course, she thought. She looked at Braddoc, who fixed his good eye on her and shrugged.
Sure, Braddoc, leave the decision up to me! she thought with a touch of dismay. Jo loosened one of the two tabs holding Wyrmblight into place. Her bow was back at the inn, but she also had her knife if the fight were in quarters too tight for Wyrmblight. The Immortals know I haven’t mastered use of the great sword yet, Jo thought wryly, but maybe the thugs’ll be scared by it and back off.
It was then that Jo knew what she was going to do. Her first impulse had been to run, to leave the hapless person to his or her problems. But that was a reflex she’d learned from the streets of Specularum. She was a squire now’ in the Order of the Three Suns. No, Jo thought firmly as she unleashed Wyrmblight. Briefly her finger stroked the blade’s sigils, and she thought: The path to righteousness, to the Quadrivial, lies down that alley. She touched Braddoc’s shoulder and pointed for him to take the left. Jo slid toward the right, keeping her back to the wall of the rendering hall.
Little light filtered through the rainy gloom into the alley. Fortunately, the way was clear of debris. Jo sidled down the alley, her fingers touching the coarse saw-cut boards of the building behind her for reassurance. She could just make out Braddoc’s form less than five steps away. His battle-axe glinted once or twice. A faint light spilled into the alley from around the back corner of the rendering hall, and Jo and Braddoc stopped just short of the light.
From around the corner came shouts, curses, and cries of pain mingled with the sounds of clashing weapons and armor. Jo paused, trying not to breathe the foul air. She wiped a few dripping strands of hair from her face and wished the rain would stop. Jo was close enough to make out words, and she heard one man yell, “Scurvy dog—!” before the sickening thud of a club against flesh cut the words short. His curse ended in a cry of distress. Jo waved her hand at Braddoc, and then she and the dwarf stepped around the corner and into the light.
The tableau that met Jo’s eyes was one she had seen many times in Specularum. Three men surrounded a fourth. They were one of two things. Thieves? she thought quickly No, not in this part of town—nothing to steal. Thugs then—thugs sent to do some sort of “persuasion.”
The man in the center had fallen to his knees and was doubled over in pain. His sword lay in the slick mud, rain splattering down upon it and burying it. He reached out to grab it. One of the other men—a big, burly brute of a man, naked from the waist up—hit the injured man’s hand with a cudgel; Jo thought the beast was half ogre. The wounded man screamed, and the two other men surrounding him raised their weapons. One carried a heavy, ironbound staff, while the other had a sword.
Jo and Braddoc charged forward. Jo drew Wyrmblight in a flashing arc over her head and shouted shrilly toward the half-ogre, “Come on, you mole-brained monster!” Braddoc meanwhile positioned himself between the injured man and the two human thugs. One of them pushed the other and yelled, “Run!” He leaped away, but tripped on the injured mans sword and sprawled to the muddy ground.
The other ruffian jumped toward his comrade, warding Braddoc away with his brandished sword. The dwarf’s teeth gleamed fiercely as he stepped nearer to the sword’s tip. Scrambling to get up, the fallen thug ran headlong from the scene as his comrade swung his sword to engage the dwarf. Braddoc attacked, smashing the sword back with a solid swing of his axe and following through with a jab to the belly. The man stumbled backward a pace before returning the blow, his teeth gritted in a grim smile. Braddoc narrowly deflected the sword with the head of his axe and fell back to regroup, his hands stinging. He was just deciding to swing low for the bandit’s vulnerable legs when he ran briefly against the half-ogre’s tree-trunk calf.
Looking up, Braddoc saw with a startled gasp that Jo was swinging Wyrmblight in a horizontal arc toward the half-ogre’s exposed belly. But the beast man was more nimble than he looked. In one quick motion, the half-ogre backed up and kicked the dwarf away from his foot as though he were kicking a small dog. As Braddoc crashed into a pile of crates on the opposite side of the alley, the tip of Wyrmblight cut shallowly into the half-ogre’s fleshy stomach. Ignoring the gash, the nearly naked monster stepped toward Jo. He was close to eight feet tall and covered with coarse, wiry hair. Golden hoops dangled from his nose and ears. He snarled, and short tusks gleamed in the lamplight.
The half-ogre swung the cudgel and almost caught Jo across the jaw. She ducked just in time, nearly falling on the slick mud of the alley. The rain seemed to be tapering off, and she hoped that would prove a blessing. The brute is fast, she thought as she spun away from a second blow. So much for tales of slow, stupid ogres!
Catching a foothold on the slick cobbles, Jo swung Wyrmblight in a high, overhand arc. Again, the ogre stepped back to avoid the blow, but Jo had anticipated that. The razor-sharp tip of the sword dug easily into the top of the bulging belly and exited underneath. Blood spurted from the wound and hit Jo. A sudden wave of sick excitement swept over her, and she wanted to strike the ogre again. She felt momentarily repulsed at her own blood-lust, then pushed the thought aside. She swung Wyrmblight horizontally, aiming to split the brute’s belly with one blow.