He spoke no further, for ’twas at this very moment that an extraordinary event came to pass. So extraordinary, in fact, that the entire Alfredae clan rushed as one louse to observe the scene. And so it was that the Alfredae, who were more knowledgeable upon the subject of Shelyid than any intelligences on earth (were we not, after all, blood of his blood?) observed, from divers perches and vantage points upon his brow, his scalp, his ears, and whatnot, what was—all were agreed on this point—the most unexpected and astonishing behavior ever exhibited by the misbegotten gnome.
For the first time in his life, Shelyid lost his temper.
Lost it, moreover, not as one carelessly misplaces a glove, easily found after a moment’s thought. Lost it, not as one forgets a familiar name, and suffers a few minutes of minor embarrassment. Lost it, not as one loses one’s way in an unfamiliar city, and spends an unpleasant hour retracing one’s steps. Lost it, not as the shepherd loses the stray sheep, and spends an arduous day clambering about the hillside until the lamb is recovered. Lost it—well, I could go on in this pleasant literary vein for some time, but let me just conclude by saying that the gnome Shelyid lost his temper much as Dispater, Archduke of Hell, lost the keys to Paradise and the hope of eternal salvation.
He sprang to his feet before the astonished Ignace, who stepped back a pace. Then, garbling incoherently, the dwarf drew from some fold of his tunic the small poignard given him by Rascogne de Sevigneois. No sooner drawn than utilized! For the apprentice immediately attempted many maniacal gashings of the agent’s throat, stomach, chest, indeed, whatever portion of the rapidly receding Ignace’s body was closest at hand.
“Shelyid!” cried the wizard. “Desist! Desist, I say! Desist at once!”
But the dwarf evidenced no inclination to obey his master. Such, at least, seemed the only reasonable interpretation of his replies, of which “I’ll drink his blood!” was the least profane.
Truth to tell, the agent’s predicament soon became extreme. Early in the contretemps, Ignace waved his own blade cunningly, demonstrating both by stance and surefooted poise his expertise in the skill of knifery. But to no avail! For the dwarf, responding at first with a clumsy attempt to exercise the lessons imparted by Rascogne—the which succeeded only in causing him to trip over his own feet—eschewed then and thereafter all subtlety and maneuver. Pitiful and wretched gnome, inept in this as in all things! Instead did he rely thenceforth entirely on the uncouth force of his fury, a wild and witless hacking, stabbing, chopping, hewing and suchlike incompetencies, the which rapidly succeeded in disarming (I should say, disblading, for Ignace’s quick reflexes prevented the actual loss of his arm at the same moment as his knife went flying) the now-less-than-cocksure agent.
Then, piling error upon error, the crazed dwarf advanced in utter confusion, while, for his part, Ignace retreated in a most clever and adept manner, interposing ‘twixt his body and Shelyid’s blade all manner of chairs and footstools, the which adroitness, however, availed him but little, for the now-howling-like-a-banshee apprentice did rapidly transform these shields into so much firewood, mostly suitable only for kindling.
Backed into a corner, the now-less-belligerent agent escaped by slithering like an eel between Shelyid’s legs. Abandoning all thought of armor and shields, Ignace now drew upon that deep reservoir of tactical subtlety which derives from a lifetime of experience in tavern set-tos and alehouse disputes, and essayed the time-honored tactic of fleeing like an antelope.
Alas, it soon became clear that here as well the agent’s well-honed experience was moot, for the now-baying-like-Baalzebub’s-hellhound apprentice tracked down Ignace and flushed him from every hiding hole with the same single-minded determination shown by the wolf in pursuit of the hare, not excepting the disgraceful exhibition of the gaping jaws and the lolling tongue.
Yet the tricky little agent retained his capacity to think and plan, demonstrating yet again the qualitative difference between the experienced combatant and the emotion-ridden and easily-maddened amateur brawler, even in those rare instances where the professional finds himself at a momentary disadvantage. For the now-clearly-irresolute Ignace drew upon that selfsame cool professionalism and put to use his one remaining edge over Shelyid, I speak, of course, of his moderate advantage in height.