But that was much easier said than done. Gellor's next stroke came at the same time that the bulging eyes of the man locked upon his own, and the smug expression was instantly cut short. Gellor's edge left a red line on the wizard's bare forearm, then the point again went home, and once more.
Back reeled Bastro Felgosh, although he sent darts of evil energy burning into his adversary even as he tried to escape the savage pain of the unrelenting longsword. The glittering gem fixed in the sword-wielder's eye socket followed him as the gaze of an adder follows a rabbit. At the chanting of the word "head," Gellor's sword point took the mage in the chest and pierced his black heart.
Meanwhile, Curley Greenleaf was engaged with the other evil spell-caster. The druid had expected just this sort of opponent — so, as Staphloccus went into a ritual calling that was aimed at immobilizing Green-leaf, the half-elf sent forth a spell of his own. So quickly did he finish his casting, so quietly, that the evil cleric had no idea what had occurred. Seeing the druid make the pass that brought forth some power, and discerning no result from it, Staphloccus assumed failure on the part of his foe. With a harsh note of triumph resounding in his last words, the priest of Nerull completed his own spell and paused for a moment, expectantly.
His misapprehension was quickly set straight by the staff that Greenleaf wielded. From its tip shot a long and razor-edged spearhead. Even as the spear came into being, the druid plied the weapon to good effect, cutting a crimson line from Staphloceus's belly to his chest. The cleric howled in pain and rage, now all too aware that his paralysis had failed to affect the druid. Again the priest thrust forth the miniature scythe he held, the dreaded symbol of his deity, thinking to cast his most potent spell upon Greenleaf and end the half-elf's existence then and there. Daneing nimbly to avoid the sharply tipped stall", Staphloccus brought up the unholy thing that was needed to manifest the sending he would use.
Then his eyes bulged, and he froze as if struck by his own power. The symbol of his dark god was now a bent and twisted parody. Staphloccus knew fear then, for he was powerless to bring any spell forth against the druid who had so desecrated his vile adornment.
"The Lord of Death rot you!" the priest screamed in rage as he hurled the useless symbol at Greenleaf and clawed desperately for the macelike weapon he had hidden under his cassock.
The druid didn't waste his breath in replying, only struck and struck again with the enchanted staff with its needle-pointed blade. The first follow tip blow merely served to wound the evil cleric a second time, but the next took Staphloccus in his hand and pinned it to his thigh. The priest screamed in pain then, for not only did the blade pierce flesh, but a terrible rush of vital energy shot from the metal and ran through his body. Staphloccus shuddered and collapsed as the energy burned where it met the negative force that he had drawn into himself to combat these enemies of the netherworld. In such manner Staphloccus went to his reward, screaming and pleading as he realized what his fate was to be.
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.
Gord did not worry about the little slash. In fact, he was glad that the wound was bleeding freely, and it was simple to use his left hand to flick the blood away before the stuff got near his eyes. "Three to one!" he countered as his lightless length of dweomered metal cut another red path along the already scarred visage that snarled menacingly at him. As he danced lightly back, Gord added, "And my blood flows freely, long-tooth. Your poison will have no bane!"
Wilorne was aware of the rest of the fight around them, and the fact that it was not going well for his fellows. Thrice wounded, with the deepest of the cuts sapping strength from him as it bled profusely, with two of his best tricks proven useless, the assassin was growing desperate. Wilorne no longer thought of the pleasure of killing his opponent slowly or using his hands to break the bones. This one was too able a fighter, too wily an adversary for anything other than death of a swift and sure nature.
To accomplish this end, the killer began a crab-wise movement, meanwhile drawing forth and displaying a flat, almost rectangular throwing knife. That made the smaller man cautious and brought him into mimicking the dancelike maneuvering that the assassin had plotted. "Eat this!" Wilorne screamed, making the knife throw obvious and clumsy. Then the assassin leaped in with the narrow-tongued sword he still held, aiming its deadly point squarely at Gord's groin. Head and upper body could be ducked, twisted, turned to avoid such a stroke; but the lower abdomen was most vulnerable.
Instead of dancing sideways to avoid the throwing knife, Gord crouched. He had seen the assassin moving to the right as he released the knife. That fact, and his acrobatic ability, saved him from the real peril, Wilorne's true attack. As the assassin lunged, Gord saw the danger of the low-held sword and from his crouch shot upward. The startled killer saw only a flash as the young adventurer sprang four feet into the air, legs pulled up to avoid Wilorne's low lunge.
The assassin's attack carried him forward to a point where he saw nothing of his adversary. Because of that, Wilorne didn't have the terrible knowledge of his impending death as Gord came down on his feet and whirled with his longsword ready. The sooty blade sunk easily through the assassin's armor, sliding between ribs as it penetrated, seeking his heart, driving on to force its tip a full foot beyond his chest.
"Now, dog-tooth, you can tell the devils that greet your whimpering soul that youVe met Blackheart-seeker," Gord said loudly as he placed his foot upon the dead man's back and yanked free the lightless blade. "Demon and deity both have made it for me thus...." The chaotic clangor of the melee had diminished as Gord spoke. He glanced around quickly, sword ready.
What he saw was reassuring. Chert was starting to clean Brool, Greenleaf and the one-eyed troubador were watching, Timmil was still holding a particular position as he recited some litany, and Allton was likewise engaged in a magical ritual. Gellor smiled grimly at him. The half-elf shot Gord a quick grin and then went to help Chert treat his wounds.
"What about the cut on your brow, Gord?" said Gellor.
"Nothing, my friend. A scratch." Gord didn't mention the poison that the free-flowing blood had kept from the wound. "A bit of bandage will be enough."
Gellor dipped his finger in a little pot of ointment and drew a greasy line on his comrade's forehead. "This salve will do better. I think," he said. "It'll stop the bleeding and begin speedy mending, too."