Blood of Amber (12 page)

I raised myself enough to draw my blade and looked to my right.
 
There were no opened windows or doors in the immediately adjacent building, a darkened place, its front wall only about six feet away now.
 
But there was a gap between it and the buildings on either side, and geometry told me that the arrow had come from the open area ahead of me.

I rolled again, bringing myself up beside the low, roofed porch which ran the full width of the place.
 
I scrambled up onto it before I rose fully.
 
Staying near the wall I advanced, cursing the slowness silence demanded.
 
I was almost near enough to the opening to be able to rush any archer who might step out, before he could release another arrow.
 
The possibility of his circling and catching me from behind did pass through my mind, though, and I flattened myself against the wall, blade extended forward, and cast quick glances behind as I moved.
 
Frakir writhed into my left hand and hung ready.

If I reached the corner and no one emerged I was uncertain what I would do next.
 
The situation seemed to demand a magical offensive.
 
But unless the spells were already hung-and I’d been remiss in this-one can seldom spare the attention it requires in life-and-death situations.
 
I halted.
 
I controlled my breathing.
 
I listened.
 
.
 
.
 
.

He was being careful, but I heard faint sounds of movement from the roof, coming forward.
 
But this did not preclude another, or even several, being around the comer.
 
I had no idea how many persons might be involved in this ambush, though it was beginning to strike me as a little too sophisticated for a simple robbery.
 
In such a case, I doubted there would be only one.
 
And their forces might be split several ways.
 
I held my position, my mind racing.
 
When the attack came, it would be concerted, I was certain of that.
 
I imagined an archer around the corner, arrow pocked, waiting for a signal.
 
The one on the roof would most likely have a blade.
 
t guessed at blades for any others, too.
 
.
 
.
 
.

I pushed aside any questions as to who might be after me and how they had located me here-if it were indeed me, personally, whom they were after.
 
Such considerations made no difference at this point.
 
I would be just as dead were they random thugs seeking my purse as I would be if they were assassins, should they succeed in the present enterprise.

Again.
 
A sound from above.
 
Someone was directly overhead.
 
Any moment now.
 
.
 
.
 
.

With a shuffling noise and a great cry a man leaped from the roof to the street before me.
 
His shout was apparently the signal to the archer, also, for there was immediate movement at the comer of the building, accompanied by the sounds of rapid footfalls from the building’s other comer, to my rear.

Before his feet even struck the ground I had cast Frakir at the man from the roof with a command to kill.
 
And I was rushing the archer before he had even rounded the corner completely, my blade already swinging.
 
My cut passed through his bow, his arm and his lower abdomen.
 
On the minus side, there was a man with a drawn blade right behind him and someone was running toward me along the porch.

I placed my left foot upon the folding archer’s chest and propelled him backward into the man behind him.
 
I used the recoiling momentum from the push to spin, my blade sweeping through a wide, wild pang which I had to adjust immediately to stop a head cut from the man who had crossed the porch.
 
As I riposted to his chest and had my own cut parried I became peripherally aware of the one from the roof kneeling now in the street and tearing at his throat, in evidence that Frakir was doing her job.

The man somewhere to my rear made my back feel very exposed.
 
I had to do something fast or his blade would be in me within seconds.
 
So.
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
Rather than riposting, I pretended to stumble, actually gathering my weight, positioning myself.

He lunged, cutting downward.
 
I sprang to the side and thrust with a twisting movement of my body.
 
If he were able to adjust the angle of that cut as I moved I would feel it in seconds.
 
Dangerous, but I couldn’t see any other choice.

Even as my blade entered his chest I did not know whether he had connected with me.
 
Not that it mattered now.
 
Either he had or he hadn’t.
 
I had to keep moving until I stopped or was stopped.

I used my blade like a lever, turning him as I continued my counterclockwise movement, him at its center, hoping to position him between that fourth man and myself.

The maneuver was partly successful.
 
It was too late to interpose my skewered and sagging adversary fully, but in time at least to cause a small collision between him and the other.
 
Time enough, I hoped, as the other stumbled to the side, stepping down from the porch.
 
All I needed do now was wrench my blade free, and it would be one-on-one.

I yanked at it.
 
.
 
.
 
.

Damn, damn, damn.
 
The thing was wedged into bone and wouldn’t come free.
 
And the other man had regained his footing.
 
I kept turning the body to keep it between us while with my left hand I tried to free my most recent adversary’s own blade from his still-clenched right fist.

Ditto the damns.
 
It was locked in a death grip, his lingers like metal cables about the haft.

The man in the street gave me a nasty smile while moving his blade about, looking for an opening.
 
It was then that I caught the flash of the blue-stone ring he wore, answering my question as to whether it was me in particular who had been sought, here, tonight.

I bent my knees as I moved and positioned my hands low upon the dead man’s body.

Situations such as this are, for me, sometimes videotaped into memory a total absence of conscious thought and a great mass of instant perceptions-timeless, yet only subject to serial review when the mind indulges in later replay.

There were cries from various places along the street, from within and without.
 
I could hear people rushing in my direction.
 
There was blood on the boards all around me, and I recall cautioning myself not to slip on it.
 
I could see the archer and his bow, both of them broken, on the ground past the far edge of the porch.
 
The garroted swordsman was sprawled in the street, off to the right of the man who menaced me now.
 
The body I steered and positioned had become dead weight.
 
To my small relief I saw that no more attackers had emerged from anywhere to join the final man I faced.
 
And that man was sidestepping and feinting, getting ready to make his rush.

Okay.
 
Time.

I propelled the corpse toward my attacker with all my strength and did not wait to observe the result of my action.
 
The risk I was about to take granted me no time for such indulgence.

I dove into the street and did a shoulder roll past the supine figure, who had dropped his blade in trying to use his hands against Frakir.
 
As I moved I heard the sound of some impact followed by a grunt from above and somewhere to the rear, indicating that I had been at least partly on target when I’d pushed the dead man toward the other.
 
How effectively this would serve me still remained to be seen.

My right hand snaked out as I went by, catching the hilt of the fallen man’s blade.
 
I rolled to my feet, facing back in the direction from which I had come, extending the blade, crossing my legs and springing backward.
 
.
 
.

.

Barely in time.
 
He was upon me with a strong series of attacks, and I backed away fast, parrying wildly.
 
He was still smiling, but my first riposte slowed his advance and my second one stopped it.

I settled and stood my ground.
 
He was strong, but I could see that I was faster.
 
There were people near at hand now, watching us.
 
A few shouts of useless advice reached me.
 
To which of us it was directed, I could not say.
 
It didn’t matter, though.
 
He stood for a few moments as I began to press my attack, and then he began to give ground, slowly, and I was sure that I could take him.

I wanted him alive, though, which would make things a little more difficult.
 
That blue-stoned ring flashing and retreating before me held a mystery to which he had the answer, and I needed that answer.
 
Therefore, I had to keep pressing him, to wear him down.
 
.
 
.
 
.

I tried turning him, a little at a time, as subtly as I could.
 
I was hoping to press him into stumbling over the dead man to his rear.
 
It almost worked, too.

When his rear foot fell upon the arm of the sprawled man, he shifted his weight forward to maintain his balance.
 
In one of those instants of inspiration on which one must act immediately without thinking, he turned this movement into a rush, seeing that my blade was out of line in preparation for the heavy rush I was about to give him as he stumbled.
 
Wrong of me to have anticipated that much, I guess.

He beat my blade cross-body with a heavy swing, throwing his own weapon way out of line also and bringing us corps  corps, with him turning in the same direction I was facing and unfortunately providing him with the opportunity to drive his left fist into my right kidney with the full force of his momentum.

Immediately, his left foot shot out to trip me, and the impact of the blow as we came together showed me that he was going to succeed.
 
The best thing I could manage was to catch hold of my cloak with my left hand, spinning it out and dragging it back, entangling both our blades as we fell, while I tried hard to turn on the way down, so as to land on top of him.I did not succeed in falling upon him.
 
We came down side by side, still facing each other, and the guard of someone’s blade-my own, I think-hit me hard in the ribs on my left side.

My right hand was caught beneath me and my left was still tangled in my cloak.
 
His left was free, though, and high.
 
He clawed at my face with it, and I bit his hand but couldn’t hold it.
 
In the meantime, I finally managed to drag my own left hand free and I thrust it into his face.
 
He turned his head away, tried to knee me and hit my hip, then thrust stiff fingers toward my eyes.
 
I caught his wrist and held it.
 
Both of our right hands were still pinned and our weights seemed about equal.
 
So all that I had to do was squeeze.

The bones of his wrist crunched within my grip, and for the first time he cried out.
 
Then I simply pushed him away, rolled into a kneeling position and started to rise, dragging him up along with me.
 
End of the game.
 
I had won.

He slumped suddenly against me.
 
For a moment, I thought it a final trick, and then I saw the blade protruding from his back, the hand of the grim-faced man who had put it there already tightening to pull it out again.

“You son of a bitch!” I cried in English-though I’m sure the meaning came through-and I dropped my burden and drove my fist into the stranger’s face, knocking him over backward, his blade remaining in place.
 
“I needed him!”

I caught hold of my former adversary and raised him into the most comfortable position I could manage.

“Who sent you?” I asked him.
 
“How did you find me?”

He grinned weakly and dribbled blood.
 
“No freebies here,” he said.
 
“Ask somebody else,” and he slumped forward and got blood on my shirtfront.

I drew the ring from his finger and added it to my collection of goddamned blue stones.
 
Then I rose and glared at the man who had stabbed him.
 
Two other figures were helping him to his feet.

“Just what the hell did you do that for?” I asked, advancing upon them.

“I saved your damn life,” the man growled.

“The hell you did! You might have just cost me it! I needed that man alive!”