Sea of Swords pod-4 Read online

  A lithe and quick-moving form rose up from a crouch behind a small banking to the side of them, silent as a ghost, and seeming almost to float, so quick were its feet moving, across the sloppy ground.

  Shining twin scimitars came out from under the folds of a gray cloak; a white smile and violet eyes greeting the charging trio.

  “ 'Ere, get him!” one thug cried and all three went at the drow. Their movements, two stabbing thrusts and a wild slash, were uncoordinated and awkward.

  Drizzt's right arm went straight out to the side, presenting Icingdeath at a perfect angle to deflect the sidelong slash way up high, while his left hand worked over and in, driving the concave side of Twinkle down across both stabbing blades. Down came Icingdeath as Twinkle retracted, to slam against the extended swords, and down and across came Twinkle, to hit them both again. A subtle dip and duck backward had the drow's head clear of the outraged thug's backhand slash, and Drizzt snapped Icingdeath up quickly enough to stick the man in the hand as the sword whistled past.

  The thug howled and let go, his sword flying free.

  But not far, for the drow was already in motion with his left hand. He brought Twinkle across to hook the blade as it spun free. What followed was a dance that mesmerized the three thugs. A swift movement of the twin scimitars had the sword spinning in the air, over, under, and about, with the drow playing a song, it seemed, on the weapon's sides.

  Drizzt finished with an over and about movement of Icingdeath that perfectly presented the sword back to its original owner.

  “Surely you can do better than that,” the smiling drow offered as the hilt of the sword landed perfectly in the hand of the stunned thug.

  The man screamed and dropped his weapon to the ground, turning around and running off.

  “It's the Drizzit!” another of them shouted, similarly following.

  The third, though, out of fear or anger or stupidity, came on instead. His sword worked furiously, forward in a thrust then back, then forward higher and in a roundabout turn back down.

  Or at least, it started down.

  Up came the drow's scimitars, hitting it alternately, twice each. Then over went Twinkle, forcing the sword low, and the drow went into a furious attack, his blades smashing hard, side to side against the overmatched thug's sword, hitting it so fast and with such fury that the song sounded as one long note.

  The man surely felt his arm going numb, but he tried to take advantage of his opponent's furious movements by rushing forward suddenly, an obvious attempt to get in close and tie up the drow's lightning-fast hands.

  He found himself without his weapon, though he did not know how. The thug lunged forward, arms wide to capture his foe in a bear hug, to catch only air.

  He must have felt a painful sting between his legs as the drow, somehow behind him, slapped the back side of a scimitar up between his legs, bringing him up to tip-toe.

  Drizzt retracted the scimitar quickly, and the man had to leap up, then stumble forward, nearly falling.

  Then Drizzt had a foot on the thug's back, between his shoulder-blades, and the dark elf stomped him facedown into the muck.

  “You would do well to stay right there until I ask you to get up,” Drizzt said. After a look at the wagons to ensure that his friends were all right, the drow headed off at a leisurely pace to follow the trail of the fleeing duo.

  * * * * * * * *

  Regis did a fine impression of a frightened child as he scrambled across the muck, arms waving frantically, and yelling, “Help! Help!” all the way.

  The two men Catti-brie had warned him of stood up to block his path. He gave a cry and scrambled out to the side, stumbling and falling to his knees.

  “Oh, don't ye kill me, please misters!” Regis wailed pitifully as the two stalked in, wicked grins on their faces, nasty weapons in their hand.

  “Oh, please!” said Regis. “Here, I'll give ye me dad's necklace, I will!”

  Regis reached under the front of his shirt, pulled forth a ruby pendant, and held it up by a short length of chain, just enough to send it swaying and spinning.

  The thugs approached, their grins melting into expressions of curiosity as they regarded the spinning gemstones, the thousand, thousand sparkles and the tantalizing way it seemed to catch and hold the light.

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  Catti-brie let go of the trotting horse, dropped her bow and quiver to the side of the road, and skipped out to the side to avoid the passing wagon and to square up against the large rogue and his huge axe.

  He came at her aggressively and clumsily, sweeping the axe across in front of him, then back across, then up and over with a tremendous downward chop.

  Nimble Catti-brie had little trouble avoiding the three swipes. The miss on the third, the axe diving into the soft ground, left her the perfect opportunity to score a quick kill and move on. She heard the more refined rogue's voice urging the horse on and saw the wagon rumble past, the other two highwaymen sitting on the driver's bench.

  They were Bruenor's problem now.

  She decided to take her time. She hadn't appreciated this one's lewd remarks.

  “Burn latch!” Bruenor grumbled, for the catch on his makeshift compartment, too full of mud from the wheels, would not budge.

  The wagon was moving faster now, exaggerating each bump, bouncing the dwarf about wildly.

  Finally, Bruenor managed to get one foot under him, then the other, steadying himself in a tight, tight crouch. He gave a roar that would make a red dragon proud, and snapped up with all his might, blasting his head right through the floorboards of the wagon.

  “Ye think ye might be slowin' it down?” he asked the finely dressed highwayman driver and the red-headed thug sitting beside him. Both turned back, their expressions quite entertaining.

  That is, until the red-headed thug drew out a dagger and spun about, leaping over the seat in a wild dive at Bruenor, who only then realized he wasn't in a very good defensive posture there, with his arms pinned to his sides by splintered boards.

  * * * * * * *

  One of the rogues seemed quite content to stand there stupidly watching the spinning gemstone. The other, though, watched for only a few moments, then stood up straight and shook his head roughly, his lips flapping.

  “ 'Ere now, ye little trickster!” he bellowed.

  Regis hopped to his feet and snapped the ruby pendant up into his plump little hand.

  “Don't let him hurt me!” he cried to the entranced man as the other came forward, reaching for Regis's throat with both hands.

  Regis was quicker than he looked, though, and he skittered backward. Still, the taller man had the advantage and would easily catch up to him.

  Except that the other rogue, who knew beyond any doubt that this little guy here was a friend, a dear friend, slammed against his companion's side and drove him down to the ground. In a moment, the two rolled and thrashed, trading punches and oaths.

  “Ye're a fool, and he's a trickster!” the enemy yelled and put his fist in the other one's eye.

  “Ye're a brute, and he's a friendly little fellow!” the other countered, and countered, too, with a punch to the nose.

  Regis gave a sigh and turned about to regard the battle scene. He had played out his role perfectly, as he had in all the recent exploits of the Companions of the Hall. But still, he thought of how Drizzt would have handled these two, scimitars flashing brilliantly in the sunlight, and he wished he could do that.

  He thought of how Catti-brie would have handled them, a combination, no doubt, of a quick and deadly slice of Cutter, followed by a well-aimed, devastating lightning arrow from that marvelous bow of hers. And again, the halfling wished he could do it like that.

  He thought of how Bruenor would have handled the thugs, taking a smash in the face and handing out one, catching a smash on the side that might have felled a giant, but rolling along until the pair had been squashed into the muck, and he wished he could do it like that.

  “
Nah,” Regis said. He rubbed his shoulder out of sympathy for Bruenor. Each had their own way, he decided, and he turned his attention to the combatants rolling about the muck before him.

  His new pet was losing.

  Regis took out his own weapon, a little mace Bruenor had crafted for him, and, as the pair rolled about, gave a couple of well-placed bonks to get things moving in the right direction.

  Soon his pet had the upper hand, and Regis was well on his way to success.

  To each his own.

  * * * * * * *

  She came ahead with a thrust, and the thug tore his axe free and set it into a blocking position before him, snapping it this way and that to intercept, or at least deflect, the stabbing sword.

  Catti-brie strode forward powerfully, presenting her self too far forward, she knew, at least in the eyes of the thug.

  For she knew that this one would underestimate her. His remarks when first he'd seen her told her pretty much the way this one viewed women.

  Taking the bait, the thug shoved out with his axe, turning it head-out toward the woman and trying to slam her with it.

  A planted foot and a turn brought her right by the awkward weapon, and while she could have pierced the man's chest with Khazid’hea, she used her foot instead, kicking him hard in the crotch.

  She skittered back, and the man, with a groan, set himself again,

  Catti-brie waited, allowing him to take the offensive again. Predictably, he worked his way around to launch another of those mighty—and useless—horizontal slashes. This time Catti-brie backed away only enough so the flying blade barely missed her. She turned as she came forward past the man's extended reach, pivoting on her left foot and back-kicking with her right, again slamming the man in the crotch.

  She didn't really know why, but she just felt like doing that.

  Again, the woman was out of harm's way before the thug could begin to react, before he had even recovered from the sickening pain that was likely rolling up from his loins.

  He did manage to straighten, barely, and he brought his axe up high and roared, rushing forward—the attack of a desperate opponent. Khazid’hea's hungry tip dived in at the man's belly, stopping him short. A flick of Catti-brie's wrist sent the deadly blade snapping down, and a quick step had the woman right up against the man, face to face.

  “Bet it hurts,” she whispered, and up came her knee, hard.

  Catti-brie jumped back then leaped forward in a spin, her sword cutting across inside the angle of the downward-chopping axe, the fine blade shearing through the axe handle as easily as if it was made of candle wax. Catti-brie rushed back out again, but not before one last, well-placed kick.

  The thug, his eyes fully crossed, his face locked in a grimace of absolute pain, tried to pursue, but the down cut of Khazid’hea had taken off his belt and all other supporting ties of his pants, dropping them to the man's ankles.

  One shortened step, and another, and the man tripped up and tumbled headlong into the muck. Mud-covered, waves of pain obviously rolling through his body, he scrambled to his knees and swiped at the woman as she stalked in. Only then did he seem to realize he was holding no more than half an axe handle. The swing fell way short and brought the man too far out to the left. Catti-brie stepped in behind it, braced her foot on the brute's right shoulder, and pushed him back down in the muck.

  He got up to his knees again, blinded by mud and swinging wildly.

  She was behind him.

  She kicked him to the muck again.

  “Stay down,” the woman warned.

  Sputtering curses, mud, and brown water, the stubborn, stunned ruffian rose again.

  “Stay down,” Catti-brie said, knowing he would focus in on her voice.

  He threw one leg out to the side for balance and shifted around, launching a desperate swing.

  Catti-brie hopped over both the club and the leg, landing before the man and shifting her momentum into one more great kick to the crotch.

  This time, as the man curled in the fetal position in the muck, making little mewling sounds and clutching at his groin, the woman knew he wouldn't be getting back up.

  With a look over at Regis and a wide grin, Catti-brie started back for her bow.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Desperation drove Bruenor's arm and leg forward, hand pushing and knee coming up to support it. A plank cracked apart, coming up as a shield against the charging dagger, and Bruenor somehow managed to free his hand enough to angle the plank to knock the dagger free of the red-haired man's hand.

  Or, the dwarf realized, maybe the thug had just decided to let it go.

  The man's fist came around the board and slugged him good in the face. There came a following left, and another right, and Bruenor had no way to defend, so he didn't. He just let the man pound on him while he wriggled and forced both of his hands free, and finally he managed to come forward while offering some defense. He caught the man's slugging left by the wrist with his right and launched his own left that seemed as if it would tear the thug's head right off.

  But the ruffian managed to catch that arm, as Bruenor had caught his, and so the two found a stand-off, struggling in the back of the rolling and bouncing wagon.

  “C'mere, Kenda!” the red-headed man cried. “Oh, we got him!” He looked back to Bruenor, his ugly face barely an inch from the dwarfs. “What're ye gonna do now, dwarfie?”

  “Anyone ever tell ye that ye spit when ye talk?” the disgusted Bruenor asked.

  In response, the man grinned stupidly and snorted and hocked, filling his mouth with a great wad to launch at the dwarf.

  Bruenor's entire body tightened, and like a singular giant muscle, like the body of a great serpent, perhaps, the dwarf struck. He smashed his forehead into the ugly rogue's face, snapping the man's head back so that he was staring up at the sky, so that, when he spit—and somehow, he still managed to do that—the wad went straight up and fell back upon him.

  Bruenor tugged his hand free, let go of the man's arm, and clamped one hand on the rogue's throat, the other grabbing him by the belt. Up he went, over the dwarf's head, and flying off the side of the speeding wagon.

  Bruenor saw the composure on the face of the remaining ruffian as the man set down the reins and calmly turned and drew out his fine rapier. Calmly, too, went Bruenor, pulling himself fully from the compartment and reaching back in to pick up his many-notched axe.

  The dwarf slapped the axe over his right shoulder, assuming a casual stance, feet wide apart to brace him against the bouncing.

  “Ye'd be smart to just put it down and stop the stupid wagon,” he said to his opponent, the man waving his rapier out before him.

  “It is you who should surrender,” the highwayman remarked, “foolish dwarf!” As he finished, he lunged forward, and Bruenor, with enough experience to understand the full measure of his reach and balance, didn't blink.

  The dwarf had underestimated just a bit, though, and the rapier tip did jab in against his mithral chest-piece, finding enough of a seam to poke the dwarf hard.

  “Ouch,” Bruenor said, seeming less than impressed.

  The highwayman retracted, ready to spring again. “Your clumsy weapon is no match for my speed and agility!” he proclaimed, and he started forward. “Hah!”

  A flick of Bruenor's strong wrist sent his axe flying forward, a single spin before embedding in the thrusting highwayman's chest, blasting him backward to fall against the back of the driver's seat.

  “That so?” the dwarf asked. He stomped one foot on the highwayman's breast and yanked his weapon free.

  * * * * * * * *

  Catti-brie lowered her bow, seeing that Bruenor had the wagon under control. She had the rapier-wielding highwayman in her sights and would have shot him dead if necessary.

  Not that she believed for a moment that Bruenor Battlehammer would need her help against the likes of those two.

  She turned to regard Regis, approaching from the right. Behind him came his obedien
t pet, carrying the captive across his shoulders.

  “Ye got some bandages for the one Bruenor dropped?” Catti-brie asked, though she wasn't very confident that the man was even alive.

  Regis started to nod, but then shouted, “Left!” with alarm.

  Catti-brie spun, Taulmaril coming up, and noted the target. The man Drizzt had dropped to the mud was starting to rise.

  She put an arrow that streaked and sparked like a bolt of lightning into the ground right beneath his rising head. The man froze in place, and seemed to be whimpering.

  “Ye would do well to lie back down,” Catti-brie called from the road.

  He did.

  * * * * * * * *

  More than two hours later, the two escaping rogues crashed through the brush, the one break through the ring of boulders that concealed their encampment. Still stumbling, still frantic, they pushed past the horses and moved around the stolen wagon, to find Jule Pepper, their leader, the strategist of the outfit and also the cook, stirring a huge caldron.

  “Nothing today?” the tall black-haired woman asked, her brown eyes scrutinizing them. Her tone and her posture revealed the truth, though neither of the rogues were smart enough to catch on. Jule understood that something had happened, and likely, nothing good.

  “The Drizzit,” one of the rogues spurted, gasping for breath with every word. “The Drizzit and 'is friends got us.”

  “Drizzt?” Jules asked.

  “Drizzit Dudden, the damned drow elf,” said the other. “We was takin' a wagon—just a woman and her kid—and there he was, behind the three of us. Poor Walken got him in the fight, head up.”

  “Poor Walken,” the other said.

  Jule closed her eyes and shook her head, seeing something that the others apparently had not. “And this woman,” she asked, “she merely surrendered the wagon?”

  “She was puttin' up a fight when we runned off,” said the first of the dirty pair. “We didn't get to see much.”

  “She?” Jule asked. “You mean Catti-brie? The daughter of Bruenor Battlehammer? You were baited, you fools!”

  The pair looked at each other in confusion. “And we're payin' with the loss of a few, don't ye doubt,” one finally said, mustering the courage to look back at the imposing woman. “Could'a been worse.”