Читать «Centaur Aisle» онлайн - страница 186

The Avars, no cowards, came at them enthusiastically. They were of a wild Turk nomad tribe, according to Amolde’s secondhand information, dissatisfied with their more settled recent ways, and these mercenaries were the wildest of the bunch. Their swords were long, single-edged, and curved, made for vigorous slashing, in contrast with Dor’s straight double-edged sword. Here in the somewhat confined region of the dungeon, the advantage lay with the defenders.

Omen cut great arcs with his curved blade, keeping the ruffians at bay, and Dor stabbed and cut, severing an Avar’s hand before the soldiers teamed respect. Dor’s sword was not magic now; he had to do it all himself. But he had been taught the rudiments of swordplay, and these now served him well.

Several bats shot out of the tunnel and flew over the heads of the Avars, who mostly ignored them. One bat, as if resentful of this neglect, hovered in the face of the Avar leader, who sliced at it with his sword. The bat gave up and angled out of the chamber.

But swordplay was tiring business, and Dor was not in shape for it. His arm soon felt leaden. Omen, too, was in a poor way, because of his long imprisonment. The Avars, aware of this, pressed in harder; they knew they would soon have the victory.

One charged Dor, blade swinging down irresistibly. Dor tried to step aside and counter, but slipped on blood or oil and lost his footing; the blade sliced into his left hip. Dor fell helplessly headlong.

“Omen!” he cried. “Flee into the tunnel! I can no longer guard your back!”

“Xnt zqd gtqs!” Omen exclaimed, whirling.

The Avars, seeing their chance, charged. Omen’s blade flashed in another circle, for the moment daunting them, while Dor fought off the pain of his wound and floundered for his lost sword. His questing fingers only encountered something mushy; a spoiled chocolate pie from the dead pie tree.

Two Avars stepped in, one countering King Omen while the other ducked low to slice at Omen’s legs. Dor hefted the pie and smashed it into the Avar’s face. It was a perfect shot; the man dropped to his knees, pawing at his mud-filled eyes, while the stink of rotten pie filled the chamber.

King Omen, granted this reprieve, dispatched the remaining Avar.

But already another was charging, and Dor had no other pie within reach. Omen hurled his sword at the bold enemy, skewering him, then bent to take hold of Dor and haul him back to the tunnel.

“This is crazy!” Dor cried. Despite the peril of their situation, he noticed that Omen, too, had been wounded; a slash on his left shoulder was dripping bright blood, and it was mixing with the gore from Dor’s own wound. “Save yourself!”

Then the Avars were closing for the final assault, knowing they faced two unarmed and injured men, taking time to aim their cuts.

Even if Omen got them to the tunnel, he would be doomed. He had been a fool to try to save Dor-but Dor found himself rather liking the man.