Read Online Rebel of Antares by Alan Burt Akers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Burt Akers
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bales lay scattered about, with a two-wheeled handcart upended at one side. Tyfar stood peering about, looking this way and that, his sword snouting. Jaezila was nowhere to be seen. A hole in the floor between Tyfar and me puffed a little dust turning and floating and sinking.
“Jaezila!” I yelled.
Tyfar looked at the hole. I saw his face. The shock, the despair and then the anger flooded into that face of his. His rapier shook.
“I heard nothing, Jak! Nothing! She must have—”
“Yes.”
I ran to the hole, carefully, for the floorboards might be rotten, and looked down. Only darkness down there. Not a speck of light. Our blade comrade Jaezila had fallen down through a devilish trapdoor in the floor.
Tyfar edged closer. He gathered himself. He was going to throw himself down, without hesitation, gathering himself as a professional diver gathers himself before launching off a high cliff into a narrow slot of rock-infested water.
Before Tyfar took that plunge a figure rose from the cover of an upturned bale at his back. A blade glimmered. The figure screeched wildly and hurtled forward, the sword aimed directly for Tyfar’s back.
The trap had been sprung.
I cannot say if I shouted first or jumped first. Everything happened at once.
“Your back, Tyfar!” I leaped.
I leaped. “Your back, Tyfar!”
Whatever the order, Tyfar heard me and rolled away and I landed awkwardly on the edge of the trap and got my rapier up in time to parry that cowardly thrust.
The man was a superb swordsman, that was apparent in the first passage, and he pressed in again hard, silently, swirling his brown cloak with his left hand to dazzle me. I fended him off, feeling for a secure foothold at the trap edge.
“Jak!” Tyfar raged forward.
“Jaezila,” I shouted, “go on, go on!”
Tyfar hesitated no longer. Instead of leaping in to fight with me, as he had automatically begun to do, being a blade comrade, he jumped bodily down through the trap. I did not envy him the decision he had had to make, but he had made the right one. When there are three blade comrades and you have to choose which one to stand alongside in a fight to the death, all the gods must needs smile for you to choose right.
A second figure joined in against me, and this was the guide, bent over no longer, but young and lithe and, his staff cast away, boring in with a skillful flourish of a rapier fighter.
Circling, I cleared that dangerous trapdoor. I foined and then a thrust intended to skewer the guts of the first fighter scored all along his arm as he riffled the cloak. He let out a yell and staggered back; in that moment I stepped in and, most unbladesmanlike, hit the guide alongside the jaw with my left fist. He fell down.
“So that is how you damned Hamalese fight!” said a light voice at my side.
I didn’t hang around. I leaped away, ducking, and a blow from some solid gleaming object whistled past, missing me by the thickness of a copper ob.
“Gouge the rast’s eyes out, Valona!” yelped the man with the gashed arm. He started to come in again, the cloak now wrapped clumsily around wrist and arm to stanch the blood.
The girl who, after her first blow had missed, had sprung back to clear a space between us, lifted her rapier in her right fist. Her left arm was held down behind her back. For a moment we stood, fronting one another.
“I can take care of this Hamalese cramph, Erndor. Get after that corrupt prince! Stick him! He is the man we want.”
“Quidang!” said this Erndor. He ran and jumped down through the hole.
I said, “I admire your self-confidence, Valona. You Hyrklese hate Hamalese very deeply — or some of you.” I wanted to annoy her. I studied her as she stared in open anger and contempt upon me. She wore a loose blue tunic and her legs were bare. Her legs were very long and lovely. Her brown hair was fastened by a fillet. Her face was regular and beautiful, with widely spaced brown eyes, and the redness of her lips
“Jaezila!” I yelled.
Tyfar looked at the hole. I saw his face. The shock, the despair and then the anger flooded into that face of his. His rapier shook.
“I heard nothing, Jak! Nothing! She must have—”
“Yes.”
I ran to the hole, carefully, for the floorboards might be rotten, and looked down. Only darkness down there. Not a speck of light. Our blade comrade Jaezila had fallen down through a devilish trapdoor in the floor.
Tyfar edged closer. He gathered himself. He was going to throw himself down, without hesitation, gathering himself as a professional diver gathers himself before launching off a high cliff into a narrow slot of rock-infested water.
Before Tyfar took that plunge a figure rose from the cover of an upturned bale at his back. A blade glimmered. The figure screeched wildly and hurtled forward, the sword aimed directly for Tyfar’s back.
The trap had been sprung.
I cannot say if I shouted first or jumped first. Everything happened at once.
“Your back, Tyfar!” I leaped.
I leaped. “Your back, Tyfar!”
Whatever the order, Tyfar heard me and rolled away and I landed awkwardly on the edge of the trap and got my rapier up in time to parry that cowardly thrust.
The man was a superb swordsman, that was apparent in the first passage, and he pressed in again hard, silently, swirling his brown cloak with his left hand to dazzle me. I fended him off, feeling for a secure foothold at the trap edge.
“Jak!” Tyfar raged forward.
“Jaezila,” I shouted, “go on, go on!”
Tyfar hesitated no longer. Instead of leaping in to fight with me, as he had automatically begun to do, being a blade comrade, he jumped bodily down through the trap. I did not envy him the decision he had had to make, but he had made the right one. When there are three blade comrades and you have to choose which one to stand alongside in a fight to the death, all the gods must needs smile for you to choose right.
A second figure joined in against me, and this was the guide, bent over no longer, but young and lithe and, his staff cast away, boring in with a skillful flourish of a rapier fighter.
Circling, I cleared that dangerous trapdoor. I foined and then a thrust intended to skewer the guts of the first fighter scored all along his arm as he riffled the cloak. He let out a yell and staggered back; in that moment I stepped in and, most unbladesmanlike, hit the guide alongside the jaw with my left fist. He fell down.
“So that is how you damned Hamalese fight!” said a light voice at my side.
I didn’t hang around. I leaped away, ducking, and a blow from some solid gleaming object whistled past, missing me by the thickness of a copper ob.
“Gouge the rast’s eyes out, Valona!” yelped the man with the gashed arm. He started to come in again, the cloak now wrapped clumsily around wrist and arm to stanch the blood.
The girl who, after her first blow had missed, had sprung back to clear a space between us, lifted her rapier in her right fist. Her left arm was held down behind her back. For a moment we stood, fronting one another.
“I can take care of this Hamalese cramph, Erndor. Get after that corrupt prince! Stick him! He is the man we want.”
“Quidang!” said this Erndor. He ran and jumped down through the hole.
I said, “I admire your self-confidence, Valona. You Hyrklese hate Hamalese very deeply — or some of you.” I wanted to annoy her. I studied her as she stared in open anger and contempt upon me. She wore a loose blue tunic and her legs were bare. Her legs were very long and lovely. Her brown hair was fastened by a fillet. Her face was regular and beautiful, with widely spaced brown eyes, and the redness of her lips
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