own sword in both hands and swung it again at Corum.
Corum ducked barely in time. He was horrified. His thrust had been clean and true, and the man had not died. He hacked at his opponent's exposed left arm, inflicting a deep cut. No blood spurted from the wound. The man seemed oblivious of it, slashing again at Comm.
Elsewhere in the darkness more of the hounds were bounding into the glade. Some merely sat on their haunches and watched the fight between the two men. Others set upon the war-horse whose breath steamed in the cold night air. His horse was tiring now, and would soon be dragged down by the frightful dogs.
Corum stared in astonishment at his foe's pale face, wondering what manner of creature this actually was. Not Kerenos himself, surely? Kerenos had been described as a giant. No, this was one of the Fhoi Myore minions, of whom he had heard. A hound-master, perhaps, to Kerenos's hunt. The man had a small hunting dirk at his belt, and the blade that he bore was not unlike a flensing cutlass used for stripping meat and hacking at the bones of large prey.
The man's eyes did not seem to focus on Corum at all, but on some distant goal. That was possibly why his responses were sluggish. Nonetheless, Corum was still winded from his fall and, if he could not kill his opponent, then sooner or later one of those clumsy blows would strike true and Corum would be slain.
Implacably, swinging the great cutlass from side to side, the white-faced warrior advanced on Corum, who was barely able to do more than parry the blows.
He was retreating slowly backwards, knowing that behind him, at the edge of the glade, waited the hounds. And the hounds were panting—panting in hot-breathed anticipation, their tongues lolling, as ordinary domestic dogs might pant when they anticipated food.
Corum could think of no worse fate at that moment than to become meat for the Hounds of Kerenos. He tried to rally, to carry the attack to his enemy, and then his left heel struck a hidden tree root, his ankle twisted, and he fell, hearing the note of a horn from the forest—a horn that could only belong to one considered the greatest of the Fhoi Myore, Kerenos. Now the dogs were up, moving in on him as he tried to struggle up, his sword raised to ward off the blows which the white-faced warrior rained upon him.
Again the horn sounded.
The warrior paused, cutlass raised, a dull expression of puzzlement appearing on his heavy features. The dogs, too, were hesitating, red ears cocked, unsure of what they were expected to do.
And the horn sounded for the third time.
Reluctantly the hounds began to slink back into the forest. The warrior turned his back on Corum and staggered, dropping his blade, covering his ears, moaning softly, as he, too, followed the dogs from the glade. Then, suddenly, he stopped. His arms dropped limply to his sides, blood suddenly began to spurt from the wounds Corum had inflicted.
The warrior fell upon the snow and was still.
Warily, uncertainly, Corum got to his feet. His war-horse plodded up to him and nuzzled him. Corum felt a pang of guilt that he had considered leaving the brave beast to its fate when he had climbed the tree. He rubbed its nose. Though bleeding from several bites, the horse was not seriously hurt, and three of the devil dogs lay dead in the glade, their heads and bodies smashed by the horse's hooves.
A quietness fell upon the glade then. Corum used what he considered only a pause in the attack to seek his fallen bow. He found it, near the broken branch. But the arrows and his two lances remained where he had hung them in the tree. He stood on tiptoe, reaching up with his bow to try to dislodge them, but they were too high.
Then he heard a movement behind him and turned, sword at the ready.
A tall figure had entered the glade. He wore a long, pleated surcoat of soft leather dyed a deep, rich blue. There were jewels on his slender
Corum ducked barely in time. He was horrified. His thrust had been clean and true, and the man had not died. He hacked at his opponent's exposed left arm, inflicting a deep cut. No blood spurted from the wound. The man seemed oblivious of it, slashing again at Comm.
Elsewhere in the darkness more of the hounds were bounding into the glade. Some merely sat on their haunches and watched the fight between the two men. Others set upon the war-horse whose breath steamed in the cold night air. His horse was tiring now, and would soon be dragged down by the frightful dogs.
Corum stared in astonishment at his foe's pale face, wondering what manner of creature this actually was. Not Kerenos himself, surely? Kerenos had been described as a giant. No, this was one of the Fhoi Myore minions, of whom he had heard. A hound-master, perhaps, to Kerenos's hunt. The man had a small hunting dirk at his belt, and the blade that he bore was not unlike a flensing cutlass used for stripping meat and hacking at the bones of large prey.
The man's eyes did not seem to focus on Corum at all, but on some distant goal. That was possibly why his responses were sluggish. Nonetheless, Corum was still winded from his fall and, if he could not kill his opponent, then sooner or later one of those clumsy blows would strike true and Corum would be slain.
Implacably, swinging the great cutlass from side to side, the white-faced warrior advanced on Corum, who was barely able to do more than parry the blows.
He was retreating slowly backwards, knowing that behind him, at the edge of the glade, waited the hounds. And the hounds were panting—panting in hot-breathed anticipation, their tongues lolling, as ordinary domestic dogs might pant when they anticipated food.
Corum could think of no worse fate at that moment than to become meat for the Hounds of Kerenos. He tried to rally, to carry the attack to his enemy, and then his left heel struck a hidden tree root, his ankle twisted, and he fell, hearing the note of a horn from the forest—a horn that could only belong to one considered the greatest of the Fhoi Myore, Kerenos. Now the dogs were up, moving in on him as he tried to struggle up, his sword raised to ward off the blows which the white-faced warrior rained upon him.
Again the horn sounded.
The warrior paused, cutlass raised, a dull expression of puzzlement appearing on his heavy features. The dogs, too, were hesitating, red ears cocked, unsure of what they were expected to do.
And the horn sounded for the third time.
Reluctantly the hounds began to slink back into the forest. The warrior turned his back on Corum and staggered, dropping his blade, covering his ears, moaning softly, as he, too, followed the dogs from the glade. Then, suddenly, he stopped. His arms dropped limply to his sides, blood suddenly began to spurt from the wounds Corum had inflicted.
The warrior fell upon the snow and was still.
Warily, uncertainly, Corum got to his feet. His war-horse plodded up to him and nuzzled him. Corum felt a pang of guilt that he had considered leaving the brave beast to its fate when he had climbed the tree. He rubbed its nose. Though bleeding from several bites, the horse was not seriously hurt, and three of the devil dogs lay dead in the glade, their heads and bodies smashed by the horse's hooves.
A quietness fell upon the glade then. Corum used what he considered only a pause in the attack to seek his fallen bow. He found it, near the broken branch. But the arrows and his two lances remained where he had hung them in the tree. He stood on tiptoe, reaching up with his bow to try to dislodge them, but they were too high.
Then he heard a movement behind him and turned, sword at the ready.
A tall figure had entered the glade. He wore a long, pleated surcoat of soft leather dyed a deep, rich blue. There were jewels on his slender
Similar Books
