The man somewhere to my rear made my back feel very exposed. I had to do something fast or his blade would be in me within seconds. So. . . . Rather than riposting, I pretended to stumble, actually gathering my weight, positioning myself.
He lunged, cutting downward. I sprang to the side and thrust with a twisting movement of my body. If he were able to adjust the angle of that cut as I moved I would feel it in seconds. Dangerous, but I couldn’t see any other choice.
Even as my blade entered his chest I did not know whether he had connected with me. Not that it mattered now. Either he had or he hadn’t. I had to keep moving until I stopped or was stopped.
I used my blade like a lever, turning him as I continued my counterclockwise movement, him at its center, hoping to position him between that fourth man and myself.
The maneuver was partly successful. It was too late to interpose my skewered and sagging adversary fully, but in time at least to cause a small collision between him and the other. Time enough, I hoped, as the other stumbled to the side, stepping down from the porch. All I needed do now was wrench my blade free, and it would be one-on-one.
I yanked at it. . . .
Damn, damn, damn. The thing was wedged into bone and wouldn’t come free. And the other man had regained his footing. I kept turning the body to keep it between us while with my left hand I tried to free my most recent adversary’s own blade from his still-clenched right fist.
Ditto the damns. It was locked in a death grip, his lingers like metal cables about the haft.
The man in the street gave me a nasty smile while moving his blade about, looking for an opening. It was then that I caught the flash of the blue-stone ring he wore, answering my question as to whether it was me in particular who had been sought, here, tonight.
I bent my knees as I moved and positioned my hands low upon the dead man’s body.
Situations such as this are, for me, sometimes videotaped into memory a total absence of conscious thought and a great mass of instant perceptions-timeless, yet only subject to serial review when the mind indulges in later replay.
There were cries from various places along the street, from within and without. I could hear people rushing in my direction. There was blood on the boards all around me, and I recall cautioning myself not to slip on it. I could see the archer and his bow, both of them broken, on the ground past the far edge of the porch. The garroted swordsman was sprawled in the street, off to the right of the man who menaced me now. The body I steered and positioned had become dead weight. To my small relief I saw that no more attackers had emerged from anywhere to join the final man I faced. And that man was sidestepping and feinting, getting ready to make his rush.
Okay. Time.
I propelled the corpse toward my attacker with all my strength and did not wait to observe the result of my action. The risk I was about to take granted me no time for such indulgence.
I dove into the street and did a shoulder roll past the supine figure, who had dropped his blade in trying to use his hands against Frakir. As I moved I heard the sound of some impact followed by a grunt from above and somewhere to the rear, indicating that I had been at least partly on target when I’d pushed the dead man toward the other. How effectively this would serve me still remained to be seen.
My right hand snaked out as I went by, catching the hilt of the fallen man’s blade. I rolled to my feet, facing back in the direction from which I had come, extending the blade, crossing my legs and springing backward. . .
.
Barely in time. He was upon me with a strong series of attacks, and I backed away fast, parrying wildly. He was still smiling, but my first riposte slowed his advance and my second one stopped it.