In the same brief time Gellor required to slay Felgosh the spell-binder and Greenleaf needed to send Staphloccus howling to the pits of Hades, Chert dispatched the four hapless mercenaries who came against him. The first blow from the barbarian's axe shattered his foeman's sword and went on to cleave him from collarbone to stomach. The three remaining swordsmen actually hindered each other in trying to score against their towering enemy, so although one delivered a slash to Chert's forearm and another drew blood from his leg, the hillman was only scratched. With a great shout Chert jerked the battleaxe free of the dead man's body and spun sidewise in a single, blurred motion.
Brool buzzed angrily as it arced to the right, and there its great blade cut through a guardsman's steel and leather chest protector. Then it was cutting back over the same course, and the wounded man was too slow to avoid it. His head rolled to join that of his comrade, while his corpse entangled itself with the mercenary nearest to it.
The other remaining sell-sword was the most skilled of the lot. As his companion struggled to free himself from the gory corpse, the mercenary shot forth his right arm in a thrust that should have pierced the barbarian's exposed right side. Chert wore both mail and a leather jack. Although the latter seemed ordinary, it was fashioned from the hide of a terrible devil-boar that had actually killed Gord and almost done for the massive hillman as well. The stuff was supernaturally tough and resilient. The armor beneath was also enchanted with a protective dweomer. As a result, the sword's point hardly scratched the stuff, although the force of the impact bruised Chert's flesh beneath its protection and made the hillman grunt in pain.
Despite that. Chert maintained his balance and sent the great axe spinning in an upward loop that circled behind and above his head and came down low. It struck the recovering sell-sword on the hip and sent him sprawling. Just as this fellow thought himself safe and able to successfully face the hulking axeman. Chert stepped in close and jammed Brool's spiked tip into the man's solar plexus. It punched through steel and sunk into the soft stuff beyond. The guardsman's wind whooshed out and he too sat down, then sprawled, again entangled with the headless body from which he had just freed himself.
"Relax, friend!" the barbarian said, grunting the last word, for he was swinging his battleaxe out and down with all of his power as he spoke. This time there would be no need for the sell-sword to worry about being encumbered by his dead comrade. Chert's great axe bit deep, and the guard joined that headless corpse in death.
Just as the hillman sent the fellow's black soul down to the pits, the single remaining mercenary struck. "Die!" he screamed, driving his sword point with all of his might where the flesh of the barbarian's neck showed between hauberk and helmet. Instinctively, Chert Jerked back, losing his grip on Brool in the process, but avoiding a hideous death from severed Jugular and trachea. Cat-quick reflexes notwithstanding, the guardsman's sword lashed out, and blood showed where its edge had sliced the hill-man's throat; a quarter of an inch more, and Chert would have no need of his axe ever again.
The grin of triumph on the mercenary's scarred face suddenly changed to a snarl of fear. Instead of falling, fountaining blood, dying, his opponent was suddenly upon him barehanded! Chert grabbed the sell-sword's right wrist as quickly as a falcon takes a dove from the air. With his gore-smeared right hand the hill man seized his foeman's throat and lifted him off his feet.
The fellow was tough, no doubt. Even as he felt his wrist being crushed, his windpipe being shut from the force of the iron-hard fingers there, he used his left hand to draw his dirk and strike at Chert's side. The blade failed to pierce Chert's armor, but the hill-man felt the stabbing steel well enough. Even as the mercenary jerked back his weapon to strike again, the barbarian surged ahead, slamming the man's head into the stone lintel with sufficient force to shatter his skull and kill him instantly. Dropping the lifeless body. Chert pulled the dagger from his thigh where the mercenary had driven it in his last, desperate attempt to live.
"You fought well enough." the hillman grunted as he tore oft" a strip of cloth from the dead man's tunic and used it to staunch the flow of blood from his only serious hurt, the deep puncture just below his right hip; the others were mere scratches to such a one as he. "Then again," the hillman added, giving the corpse a kick, "cornered rats do fight pretty well. But they are still rats." With that he turned and picked up his battleaxe.
While all of this was going on, Wilorne's razorsharp, barbed hook swished through empty air and entangled its chain around the nearby table leg. Fast as he was, the assassin couldn't let go quickly enough. The small, dark-haired man he had meant to snag with his weapon struck as fast as lightning. Up and across shot the dull-hued blade. Wilorne felt a sudden, sharp pain, and there was bright crimson on the sooty brand, more on his left arm, as he dropped the hook-and-chain's bladed end.
The assassin cursed his opponent under his breath, but he otherwise wasted no time or effort. A wounded arm was simply a reminder to be quicker, more careful. He would take special pleasure in slaying this man now. If he could snap the fellow's spine just right, the small man would be paralyzed but conscious. Then Wilorne would take his time finishing him off.
The gray-eyed young adventurer assessed his adversary carefully, circling to his right, watching for the wolf-toothed attacker to make his next move. Although Gord was armed with a longer sword, he chose not to rush in immediately. The hook-tipped chain was an assassin's weapon. His opponent would have hidden weapons, poison, all the tools of the killer's trade. Besides, there was speed and tremendous power in the slope-shouldered body of the black-garbed foe. Gord stayed back and used his sword's length to threaten and keep the fellow off balance.
There was a scream of pain from behind. Gord barely heard it and kept his attention fixed on the assassin. The fang-toothed killer must have thought that the sound had distracted Gord, however. As the last note of the cry died, his blood-washed left arm darted to his broad girdle, fingers thrust within Its inner side and grasping something therein. Out it came grasping a small bladder, and as the killer pulled the thing out his fingers squeezed and a stream of dust-like spores shot forth. The cloud was a deadly one, for where the spores found warmth and moisture they sent forth tiny rhizomes and fed, growing with Impossible vigor, sapping the unfortunate host, while the fungi's excreted waste ate away the living tissue, decomposing it for later use.
Because he was watching for such a move, Gord saw the hand and sidestepped to avoid what he Imagined would be some poisoned missile flung from the assassin's grasp. At the same time, Gord extended his right leg and arm, thrusting his sword ahead in a lunge that took Wilorne fairly. Although the wound only pierced the fleshy part of his side, that was sufficient to cause the assassin to drop the spore-laden bladder.
Reeling now from two hurts, Wilorne was unable to take full advantage of the situation. The spores had not done their expected work of blinding his opponent, but the hasty move to avoid them followed by the lunge had put Gord into a position from which he could not easily recover. Somehow, Wilorne managed to bring his small sword into play and slash the young thief's forehead. It was only a little cut, but the blood from it would certainly run Into Gord's eyes.
"Bloodied you, monkey!" It was a cry of satisfaction far out of proportion to the touch scored.