Read Online The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 by Cristopher Stasheff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cristopher Stasheff
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Science Fiction - General, Fiction - Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, Gallowglass; Rod (Fictitious character), Warlocks, Gallowglass; Rod (Fictitious c
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into its scabbard.
The big sergeant was practicing quick one-two-three blows with his quarterstaff.
'Have at it!' Sir Mans called, and the big sergeant stepped forward, knees bent, quarterstaff on guard. Rod followed suit. Then he was in the middle of an oaken rain, blows from the sergeant's staff drubbing about his head and shoulders, seeking an opening, a half second drop of Rod's guard.
Rod set his jaw and matched the sergeant's pace, catching the blows as quick as they came - just barely. His stomach sank as he realized he was on the defensive.
He blocked a swing at his shin, caught the rebound toward his head, swung the lower end of his staff to catch the answering blow at his belly - but the blow never came. It had been a feint. Frantically, he tried to recover to guard his head, but the sergeant had gained his half second opening. Rod saw the heavy oak staff swinging at him out of the corner of his eye.
He sank back, rolling with the blow. It cracked on his skull like a thunderclap. The room darkened, filled with dancing motes of light; there was a roaring in Rod's ears.
He gave ground, blocking the sergeant's blows by sheer reflex, and heard the onlooking soldiers yell with triumph.
Won't do at all, Rod's thoughts whirled. He'd been trained at quarterstaff; but he hadn't had a bout in a year, whereas the sergeant had all the skill of a devout hobbyist. It was just a game to him, probably, as the swordplay had been to Rod. The sergeant was in the driver's seat, and he knew it.
There was one chance. Rod leaped back, his hands slipping to the middle of the staff. It began to turn end-over-end, twirling like a baton. Rod set his jaw and put some muscle into it. His staff leaped into a whirling, whining blur.
It was French single-stick play, le moullnet. The sergeant probably knew it as well as Rod; but chances were he wasn't any better practiced at it than Rod was. It was rather exotic form, unless you were French. And with a name like Sergeant Hapweed...
Sir Mans and Co. gaped. The sergeant stepped back, startled. Then a wariness came into his face, and his staff jumped into a whirl. So he knew the style. But he wasn't a master; in fact, Rod had the advantage. The sergeant's staff was a blur, but a quiet blur. Rod's staff was doing a very nice imitation of a buzz saw. He had the edge on the sergeant in angular velocity, and consequently greater striking power.
Sergeant Hapweed knew it too; the muscles of his neck knotted as he tried to speed up his swing.
Now! Rod leaped forward. His staff snapped out of its whirl, swinging down counter to the rotation of the sergeant's.
The sticks met with a crack of a rifle and a shudder that jarred Rod's back teeth. He recovered a half second ahead of the sergeant and brought his staff crashing down on the sergeant's in two quick blows, knocking the other's staff out of his hands.
Rod straightened, drawing a deep breath and letting the tension flow out of him as he grounded the butt of his staff.
The sergeant stared at his hands, numb.
Rod reached out and tapped the man's temple gently with the tip of his staff. 'Bang! You're dead.'
'Hold!' cried Sir Mans, making things official. Rod grounded his staff again, and leaned on it.
Sir Mans scowled at Rod, eyes bright under bushy eyebrows. Rod gave him a tight smile.
Sir Mans nodded slowly. 'Shall I try you with a longbow?'
Rod shrugged, bluffing. With a crossbow, maybe. But a longbow... A deep, skirling laugh rolled from the rafters. The Master of the Guard and all his men jumped. Big Tom fell on his knees, arms flung up to protect his head.
Rod's head snapped out, eyes searching for the source of the laugh. On one of the great oaken beams crossing the hall sat a dwarf, drumming his heels against the wood. His head was as large as Rod's, his shoulders broader, his arms and legs as thick as Rod's. He looked as though someone had taken a big, normal man and edited out three feet here and there.
He was barrel-chested,
The big sergeant was practicing quick one-two-three blows with his quarterstaff.
'Have at it!' Sir Mans called, and the big sergeant stepped forward, knees bent, quarterstaff on guard. Rod followed suit. Then he was in the middle of an oaken rain, blows from the sergeant's staff drubbing about his head and shoulders, seeking an opening, a half second drop of Rod's guard.
Rod set his jaw and matched the sergeant's pace, catching the blows as quick as they came - just barely. His stomach sank as he realized he was on the defensive.
He blocked a swing at his shin, caught the rebound toward his head, swung the lower end of his staff to catch the answering blow at his belly - but the blow never came. It had been a feint. Frantically, he tried to recover to guard his head, but the sergeant had gained his half second opening. Rod saw the heavy oak staff swinging at him out of the corner of his eye.
He sank back, rolling with the blow. It cracked on his skull like a thunderclap. The room darkened, filled with dancing motes of light; there was a roaring in Rod's ears.
He gave ground, blocking the sergeant's blows by sheer reflex, and heard the onlooking soldiers yell with triumph.
Won't do at all, Rod's thoughts whirled. He'd been trained at quarterstaff; but he hadn't had a bout in a year, whereas the sergeant had all the skill of a devout hobbyist. It was just a game to him, probably, as the swordplay had been to Rod. The sergeant was in the driver's seat, and he knew it.
There was one chance. Rod leaped back, his hands slipping to the middle of the staff. It began to turn end-over-end, twirling like a baton. Rod set his jaw and put some muscle into it. His staff leaped into a whirling, whining blur.
It was French single-stick play, le moullnet. The sergeant probably knew it as well as Rod; but chances were he wasn't any better practiced at it than Rod was. It was rather exotic form, unless you were French. And with a name like Sergeant Hapweed...
Sir Mans and Co. gaped. The sergeant stepped back, startled. Then a wariness came into his face, and his staff jumped into a whirl. So he knew the style. But he wasn't a master; in fact, Rod had the advantage. The sergeant's staff was a blur, but a quiet blur. Rod's staff was doing a very nice imitation of a buzz saw. He had the edge on the sergeant in angular velocity, and consequently greater striking power.
Sergeant Hapweed knew it too; the muscles of his neck knotted as he tried to speed up his swing.
Now! Rod leaped forward. His staff snapped out of its whirl, swinging down counter to the rotation of the sergeant's.
The sticks met with a crack of a rifle and a shudder that jarred Rod's back teeth. He recovered a half second ahead of the sergeant and brought his staff crashing down on the sergeant's in two quick blows, knocking the other's staff out of his hands.
Rod straightened, drawing a deep breath and letting the tension flow out of him as he grounded the butt of his staff.
The sergeant stared at his hands, numb.
Rod reached out and tapped the man's temple gently with the tip of his staff. 'Bang! You're dead.'
'Hold!' cried Sir Mans, making things official. Rod grounded his staff again, and leaned on it.
Sir Mans scowled at Rod, eyes bright under bushy eyebrows. Rod gave him a tight smile.
Sir Mans nodded slowly. 'Shall I try you with a longbow?'
Rod shrugged, bluffing. With a crossbow, maybe. But a longbow... A deep, skirling laugh rolled from the rafters. The Master of the Guard and all his men jumped. Big Tom fell on his knees, arms flung up to protect his head.
Rod's head snapped out, eyes searching for the source of the laugh. On one of the great oaken beams crossing the hall sat a dwarf, drumming his heels against the wood. His head was as large as Rod's, his shoulders broader, his arms and legs as thick as Rod's. He looked as though someone had taken a big, normal man and edited out three feet here and there.
He was barrel-chested,
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