Tirrip was a lovely girl. No, she was a beautiful tiger who could take the form of a gorgeous woman. Well, perhaps she was something else, an intelligent being from another plane whose actual form was unknown, but which could be either that of tigress or woman when she was on the plane of the Catlord.
At any rate, Tirrip and Gord were intimate friends, and that had been the cause of some difficulty for the young adventurer. Her cousin, Raug, and several others of his group resented the relationship and disliked him. With effort, Gord had put the matter aside in his mind after several confrontations and contests with Raug and his friends. After all, Tirrip liked them well enough, so Gord set aside his mislike and ignored them studiously.
He was doing just this the day after his audience and drinking bout with Rexfelis, during a stroll with Tirrip. He and the pretty tiger-were walked slowly, hardly noticing or caring where they were, as she listened to the young man recount the matters he and the Catlord had spoken of, until they were suddenly interrupted.
“Hoy! It’s Tirrip! Come with us, cousin! We’re going on a hunt!”
Gord saw Raug and a half-dozen or so others at a little distance. The big fellow had pointedly ignored Gord’s presence, so as Tirrip called and waved a return greeting, the young thief looked away from the group as if they didn’t exist.
“Come on, Gord!” Tirrip said excitedly. “You can take leopard form and come along! Let’s join them!”
“I think not,” Gord replied slowly. “I wouldn’t find the company even slightly amusing. I’m surprised you would…”
“Oh, don’t be a silly dog,” she said, her voice still filled with enthusiasm. “Raug and the others are all right-honestly! I haven’t been out in the wilds hunting in ever so long, Gord. Please, let’s go. It would mean a lot to me, dearest.”
“You run along and join them,” Gord said with a detached tone. “They’re your kith and kin, after all, not mine,” he added with ice in his tone and a disdainful expression. “I’ll manage to amuse myself while you’re gone… Lady Cheeba has asked me to call upon her several times.”
At that Tirrip spun to face him, her face angry. She brought her hand around and slapped him on the face so quickly that Gord could not avoid the attack. “You are an insufferable cur!” Tirrip spat. “You’re jealous of my friends and sensitive about your size just because they jape because they’re all much bigger than you!”
Gord stepped back and looked at Tirrip in stony silence. He thought of several retorts, but something made him hold his tongue and remain silent still.
“Very well, Master Nobody!” Tirrip went on. “I shall join them and have fun as I like. I’m sick and tired of having to mope around with you all the time and bored with your talk of quests and heritage and destiny-bored to tears! Who cares about that anyway? The lineage and future of an orphan human lucky enough to have curried a little favor with Lord Rexfelis is fitting for a brief entertainment at a dull party, but It grows wearisome at other times. You are a boor… a churl… a… a nobody!”
“Now, dear lady Tirrip, that was well and nobly said!”
Gord jerked his head around to see who had spoken. While he and Tirrip had been exchanging heated words-while she was berating him, rather, and he had been giving it back to her through chilling stares-Raug and his comrades had approached. Certainly the group had been drawn by the slap and the loudly spoken rebukes she had delivered. The male who had congratulated Tirrip was called Lurajal.
“Abuse is never laudable,” Gord said in an even tone, looking squarely at the fellow.
Although Lurajal was smaller than Raug and the others, he was still taller than Gord and somewhat stockier. His brown skin was smooth and rippled with muscles when he moved, and he prided himself on his speed and power. Lurajal scowled at Cord’s words, staring at the young adventurer with hatred in his yellow-brown eyes, “Dogs, even wolfish ones, are but mutts and curs fit only for abuse. To strike or scorn them is a laudable act, dog!”
Tirrip froze at those words, but Raug and the others laughed and slapped one another. Gord didn’t bother looking at them, however, for his gaze was fastened on Lurajal. “Well, bragging is quite natural for a knave and coward quite unable to do anything but jabber so. You see before you the one you called cur, braggart! Strike-lest you are afraid, of course.”
He was a relative newcomer, so Lurajal had no idea as to the true merit of his antagonist. He had been told stories, of course, but they centered on Gord’s trickery and unexpected moves. He had tested himself against Raug and the rest of his group, and Lurajal had found himself but little weaker and far more agile and swift.
Lurajal knew that the little dog who dared to speak to him so, dared him to strike, would be no match at all compared to Raug and the rest. Better still, there would be no aid for him this time, either the Catlord himself or some of the humans who had previously been around to assist Gord out of trouble. Lurajal had heard plenty about how Rexfelis or Gord’s human friends had rescued him before, or else Raug or his cousins or fierce friends would have finished the dark little upstart once and for all. It would be Lurajal’s pleasure to accomplish that. With such thoughts flashing through his mind, the golden-eyed Lurajal leaped upon Gord.
The man’s body hit Gord with full force. Those witnessing the attack were certain that Lurajal’s spring had effectively taken his foe by surprise, overborne him, and that soon Gord would be fully at the mercy of the fierce yellow-eyed attacker-but would get precious little mercy from that one!
It did seem that way, but only for a moment. As Gord’s back hit the ground, his arms had come up so that his hands could lightly grip his antagonist’s rib-cage. As he fell, he had pulled his knees up to his chest. Then in the next instant, before Lurajal had fallen full upon him, Gord’s legs pistoned upward and out, thudded into Lurajal’s groin, then hooked to curl over his head, carrying Lurajal’s body along in that direction as Gord’s hands released their hold. Lurajal screamed in pain as the kick struck him. flew through the air, landed with a heavy thud on his back, and writhed on the ground, gasping, trying to regain his senses.
Gord finished his backward roll, used hands and feet to spring upright, then did a back flip high in the air. He was filled with pent-up rage, a white-burning fury that would not be quenched easily, but an anger that did not flame unchecked. Gord knew exactly what he was doing, how it should be done, and when to do it.
As he reached the apogee of his arcing back-spring, Gord tightened every muscle, made himself into a tight ball, and plummeted downward. Lurajal was directly beneath him. He aimed as he straightened his legs, so that both heels were together and thrusting spearlike for the prone man’s throat. Trachea and jugular were exposed. It would be over in an instant. Then the young acrobat altered his course slightly, perhaps through some innate reflex, and his feet struck Lurajal’s chest instead of the prone man’s neck. Ribs broke, but the blow wasn’t fatal as would have been the case had the thrusting heels struck the throat.
By throwing himself to the side and doing a shoulder roll, Gord completed his routine. A split-second afterward he was standing at his opponent’s head, looking down into the pain-wracked eyes of the groaning Lurajal.
“Not a dog’s work, is it, braggart? Never forget what brought this upon you-and never say it again, or next time I won’t spare you!” The fellow couldn’t speak, and there was blood coming from his mouth as he gasped for breath. Gord felt suddenly sorry, ashamed that he had handled the bullyish fellow so. In truth, Lurajal was blameless by no means, but he had been encouraged by Raug and the rest of his comrades. Gord turned his sorrow for Lurajal into anger at how the episode had begun in the first place.
“Now that you’ve gotten your dupe injured fighting your battle for you, Raug,” he said, staring hard at that one as he spoke, “perhaps you’ll be bold enough to step up and see if you can’t do better yourself.” Raug’s neck muscles bulged, and he was about to accept the challenge when Tirrip intervened.
“Leave be, cousin! That little killer is dangerous and an unfair fighter. Do not soil your hands on the likes of him-Lord Rexfelis will deal with him soon. He has just harmed one of our lordly peers, a relation of ours-and our liege lord’s as well, of course.” She turned to glare at Gord over her lovely, smooth shoulder. “You are a nothing! I hope Lord Rexfelis has you tied and flogged for what you just did!” Then she went off, tugging at Raug so that he had little choice but to follow. The others in the party glared, scowled, and muttered at Gord but then traipsed off after Tirrip and her cousin, leaving Gord to minister to the fallen Lurajal.
“Shit,” Gord said softly and without feeling behind it. Then he looked at his fallen opponent again. The fellow was nearly unconscious from pain, having tried to sit up and fallen back to groan helplessly on the trampled and blood-spattered sward.
“Lie still, man! Don’t try to move around on pain of life,” Gord said more gently. “You’re badly hurt, but it isn’t mortal unless you make it so. Here,” he said as much to himself as to Lurajal as he dug into his girdle, “I have a little bit of salve which will soothe the pain and perhaps even heal you somewhat.”
Lurajal tried to snarl, fight off the ministrations, but he was too weak. “But that doublet must come off first,” Gord went on, ignoring the attempted rejection. In a moment his long dagger was out and doing its work. Gord was very careful not to allow the magically keen blade to slice flesh, and he was gentle as he cut the garment away to expose the man’s chest. Where his heels had struck the skin was discolored, swollen, and there were abrasions too.
“Hold very still now. I shall be as quick and careful as possible-I don’t relish this any more than you do-but you need seeing to here and now. Later some priest or other will heal you, never fear.”
“Why are you doing this?” Lurajal was unable to understand this foe. First Gord could have killed him, but he had simply broken his ribs and incapacitated him, and then he had decided to aid him. It made no sense to the golden-eyed man, none at all. “I attacked you. I would have shown you no mercy, given no quarter…”
“What you did was no true fault of your own, Lurajal. Your fault was one many have-you listened to the wrong counsel and took it to be truth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am not surprised,” Gord said, carefully spreading the ointment. He got the stuff onto his fingertips and then smeared it gently upon the worst-looking places on Lurajal’s chest. As he worked, Lurajal’s breathing became easy, unlabored.
“What is that stuff?”
“A dweomered salve,” Gord replied, glancing a bit ruefully at the empty container. “I received it from a strange chap in Sha-a place I was forced to visit not long ago. What a shame it is all gone now,” Gord lamented again.
Lurajal could raise his head now, and his voice Was stronger too. “You are a nonesuch,” he said with a small shake of his head as he watched Gord tuck the empty box away. “I have heard of magical ointments of that sort, but none with such efficacy!”
“Hmmm,” the young thief said to acknowledge Lurajal’s comment. “I think it was gifted to me by the one who made the original, the very namesake for all lesser ones made after its fashion. That would explain much, including its potency, wouldn’t it?” His eyes met the golden brown of Lurajal’s.
“I do not apprehend of what you speak, Gord, but I do appreciate that you used some special gift to assure that I would live. Don’t you know that as one of the royal line I have no fear of injury or death?”
Now it was Gord’s turn to be puzzled. He helped Lurajal sit upright, then assisted the man to his feet a moment later when he indicated he was ready to stand. “Now,” Gord said, “what is this about not fearing injury or death?”
Managing a painful chuckle, Lurajal accepted Gord’s shoulder as a prop as the two walked slowly back toward the Catlord’s home. “I thought all denizens of this place were aware of the special prerogatives held by the descendants of Lord Rexfelis.”
“Well, I for one am not aware, although I am by no means a denizen of the Catlord’s realm.”
“Nor I, actually, although someday that may be otherwise. At the death of my own sire some few months back, I was called here by our liege so as to become acquainted with the place and its nobles and such.”
“And that gives you Immortality?”
Lurajal made another series of chucklings and gaspings. Between the pain of laughing and the attempts to suppress it to avoid the pain and so as to not offend Gord with it either, he had a difficult time of it for a while, so the two had traveled a fair distance farther before the golden-eyed fellow was able to explain again.
“I am not immortal, not at all. But I can heal rapidly enough-even without your help I’d have been able to drag myself back here by nightfall and be well in a day. And if I should meet death I am revived and made quick again-”
“Because of your cat’s-eye ring?”
It was again Lurajal’s turn for astonishment. “How do you know of mine own royal ring?” He stared at Gord for a second, then at his own unadorned fingers, then spotted the ring Gord wore. “It is remarkably similar to what you wear,” he said slowly, “only its jewel is of a different, finer sort.”
“Oh…”
“How came you to know of the ring?” Lurajal was not going to let that question pass.
“I think Tirrip might have mentioned it,” Gord suggested, not wishing to lie directly.
“That is a possibility. She too has one, of course, being of royal lineage also.” He seemed satisfied, and went on. “As to having new life bestowed, no, it is not the ring. The benison, as well as the gift of healing, is bestowed directly by Lord Rexfelis when he accepts one as one of his heirs. Tirrip, myself, Lowen, and the rest all have such a gift. It is a wonder that she didn’t mention that fact to you,” Lurajal concluded.
“About the rings…” Gord said suggestively, hoping that the fellow would be willing to discuss them further. However, before Lurajal could say more, a hail came from the buildings ahead. Lord Lowen, the seneschal, came hurrying out to meet them with four stout retainers, men who resembled the blond-maned castellan but were of less noble bearing and of slightly smaller stature as well.