strategy would be. Once the blades were high, the wemic could bring his leonine forepaws into play. By Matteo’s estimation, the claws on Mbatu’s feet could disembowel a man in three quick strokes or tear out his throat in one.
Again and again the wemic tried to draw back, tried to disengage the blades long enough to maneuver into position for a killing stroke. Matteo pursued, always taking the offensive and looking for an opening of his own.
The battle went on and on. The heat of the sun was punishing, and his arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the sword. As if in a daze, he heard Tzigone mutter something about the damned horse and not being able to find the militia the one time you actually wanted them. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hoist a bucket of rainwater and heave it in a shining arc toward him and the wemic.
A fleeting smile touched Matteo’s lips as he shook water from his eyes. Oddly enough, he understood at once Tzigone’s intent. The water cooled him off but did not distract or inconvenience him. On the other hand, Mbatu’s glossy black mane hung wet and heavy about his face, and his ears turned back with familiar feline distaste.
The wemic turned a murderous golden stare upon Tzigone. “Bring her in alive,” he muttered, as if to remind himself of an onerous duty.
An eager, familiar snort drew Matteo’s eye to the far end of the street. Matteo’s black stallion trotted purposefully toward the battle, his eyes gleaming weirdly. His reins hung loose, and splinters of wood were tangled in his mane. For the first time, Matteo understood what the stable hands meant when they swore that they never heard that snort but they expected to see it accompanied by a burst of sulfur-scented steam.
Matteo spun to place Cyric at his back. He sent a quick glance toward the watchful Tzigone, hoping beyond hope that she might discern his battle strategy. To his surprise, she nodded and edged down the street toward Mbatu. She pulled a long knife from her boot and went into a crouch.
When the clatter of the stallion’s approach stopped, Matteo danced back a couple of steps. The wemic saw his opening at last and lifted his sword high. Matteo moved with him, raising his sword in anticipation of the parry. As he expected, the wemic reared up and unsheathed his claws.
Tzigone threw herself forward, knife leading, and plunged her blade into the wemic’s flank. Mbatu let out a roar of pain and instinctively twisted toward the new threat. But he could not halt the momentum of his own blow, and his great sword descended in a killing arc. Matteo tossed aside his borrowed sword and rolled clear.
His timing proved to be nearly perfect. Cyric had also reared up, and his hooves slashed out at the wemic. One hoof grazed Matteo’s shoulder painfully, but the other found the wemic’s skull with a sickening thud. The wemic’s head snapped back and he dropped to the cobblestone. He lay still, a steady trickle of blood matting his long black hair.
For a moment the street was silent, but for the whuffling, almost mirthful sound of the stallion’s breath.
Matteo rolled to his feet and came over to pat Cyric’s black neck. Tzigone tugged her knife free with a quick jerk and circled around to crouch by the wemic’s head. She lifted one eyelid, then the other, staring into each orb intently.
“He lives,” she said shortly. “No need to look over your shoulder, though. He won’t remember any of this.”
“You sound very certain of that,” Matteo said warily. The tone of her voice held an odd resonance, one very similar to that he discerned in wizards after a spellcasting. “Speak forthrightly. Did you work magic on the wemic?”
“Me? A wizard?” She let out a short, derisive sniff. Rocking back on her heels, she rose in a swift, fluid movement. “The wemic is having a bad day. He’s been hit on the head twice already, and it’s only just past highsun. If things continue apace, by sunset he’ll be
Again and again the wemic tried to draw back, tried to disengage the blades long enough to maneuver into position for a killing stroke. Matteo pursued, always taking the offensive and looking for an opening of his own.
The battle went on and on. The heat of the sun was punishing, and his arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the sword. As if in a daze, he heard Tzigone mutter something about the damned horse and not being able to find the militia the one time you actually wanted them. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hoist a bucket of rainwater and heave it in a shining arc toward him and the wemic.
A fleeting smile touched Matteo’s lips as he shook water from his eyes. Oddly enough, he understood at once Tzigone’s intent. The water cooled him off but did not distract or inconvenience him. On the other hand, Mbatu’s glossy black mane hung wet and heavy about his face, and his ears turned back with familiar feline distaste.
The wemic turned a murderous golden stare upon Tzigone. “Bring her in alive,” he muttered, as if to remind himself of an onerous duty.
An eager, familiar snort drew Matteo’s eye to the far end of the street. Matteo’s black stallion trotted purposefully toward the battle, his eyes gleaming weirdly. His reins hung loose, and splinters of wood were tangled in his mane. For the first time, Matteo understood what the stable hands meant when they swore that they never heard that snort but they expected to see it accompanied by a burst of sulfur-scented steam.
Matteo spun to place Cyric at his back. He sent a quick glance toward the watchful Tzigone, hoping beyond hope that she might discern his battle strategy. To his surprise, she nodded and edged down the street toward Mbatu. She pulled a long knife from her boot and went into a crouch.
When the clatter of the stallion’s approach stopped, Matteo danced back a couple of steps. The wemic saw his opening at last and lifted his sword high. Matteo moved with him, raising his sword in anticipation of the parry. As he expected, the wemic reared up and unsheathed his claws.
Tzigone threw herself forward, knife leading, and plunged her blade into the wemic’s flank. Mbatu let out a roar of pain and instinctively twisted toward the new threat. But he could not halt the momentum of his own blow, and his great sword descended in a killing arc. Matteo tossed aside his borrowed sword and rolled clear.
His timing proved to be nearly perfect. Cyric had also reared up, and his hooves slashed out at the wemic. One hoof grazed Matteo’s shoulder painfully, but the other found the wemic’s skull with a sickening thud. The wemic’s head snapped back and he dropped to the cobblestone. He lay still, a steady trickle of blood matting his long black hair.
For a moment the street was silent, but for the whuffling, almost mirthful sound of the stallion’s breath.
Matteo rolled to his feet and came over to pat Cyric’s black neck. Tzigone tugged her knife free with a quick jerk and circled around to crouch by the wemic’s head. She lifted one eyelid, then the other, staring into each orb intently.
“He lives,” she said shortly. “No need to look over your shoulder, though. He won’t remember any of this.”
“You sound very certain of that,” Matteo said warily. The tone of her voice held an odd resonance, one very similar to that he discerned in wizards after a spellcasting. “Speak forthrightly. Did you work magic on the wemic?”
“Me? A wizard?” She let out a short, derisive sniff. Rocking back on her heels, she rose in a swift, fluid movement. “The wemic is having a bad day. He’s been hit on the head twice already, and it’s only just past highsun. If things continue apace, by sunset he’ll be
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