“Big coward kill little man with sword when little man got no ax.” I gave him two fingers to doubly amplify my feelings.
I hoped my simple syntax fitted the local linguistic profile because I wanted to make sure they all understood me. They must have, because Pigbreath dropped his sword and jumped towards me. I swung off my pack and stepped out into the mud. He had his arms out, fingers snapping, ready to grab and crush.
I ducked under them, tripped him as he went by to splat down into a puddle. He rose up, angrier than ever, balled his fists and came on more warily this time.
I could have finished it then and there and made life easier. But I had to display a bit of skill first so his mates wouldn’t think that his downfall had been an accident. I blocked his punch, grabbed and twisted his arm, then ran him into the wall with a satisfactory crunch.
The blood from his nose did not improve his temper. Nor did my flying kick that numbed one of his legs, a stab with my knee that crumpled the other. Legless, he dropped to his knees, then crawled towards me on all fours. By this time even the dullest of the audience knew who had won this fight. So I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, hit his throat with the edge of my hand and let him keep going backwards, splatting down unconscious in the mud. I picked up his discarded sword, tested the edge with my thumb-jumped about so suddenly and menacingly that the armed men stepped away without thinking. I kept the momentum going.
“I got sword now. You want it, you die for it. Or maybe lie smart bloke one of you what takes me to your boss, Svinjar. Guy what does dat gets this sword for free. Any takers?”
The novelty of the offer and their inherent greed warded off any attack for the moment.
“Get out of there and get behind me,” I called over my shoulder. “And do your best to radiate obnoxious intolerance.” Growling and gnashing their teeth my merry band emerged and lined up at my back.
“You give me sword I take you Svinjar,” an exceedingly hairy and musclebound specimen said. He was armed only with a wooden club so his greed was understandable.
“You take me Svinjar then you get sword. Move it.”
There was hesitation, dark looks, muttering. I swished the sword under their noses so they had to step back again. “I got something real nice in my pack for Svinjar. You betcha he kill any bloke stop him grabbing it soonest.”
Threats penetrated where blandishments hadn’t and we all moved off into the rainstorm. Along muddy tracks between collapsing hovels, to a small hill with a largish building made of logs, their bark still on, gracing the summit. I swung the sword so no one came too close, followed my guide up a stony path to the entrance with my weary musicians stumbling after. I was feeling a bit guilty about taking the Blastoff capsule. But things had developed too quickly to get some to the others. I stopped at the entrance and waved them through.
“In we go, safe haven at last. Take one of these as you pass and chomp it instantly. It is a super-upper that will restore you to the world of the living.”
My club-bearing guide pushed inside and hurried past the groups of men who lolled about the large room, to the man in the great stone chair next to the fireplace. “You my boss, boss Svinjar. We bring them like you say.” He swung about and stamped over to me. “Now you give sword.”
“Sure. Fetch.”
I threw it out the door into the rain, heard a yipe of pain as it bounced off one of his gang. He ran after it as I walked over and stood before the stone throne.
“You my boss, boss Svinjar. These guys my band. Make good music you betcha.”
He looked me up and down coldly, a big man with big muscles-as well as a big belly that hung over his belt. Tiny piggy eyes peered out through the thicket of bristly gray hair and beard. The pommel of a sword projected from a niche in the stone chair and he touched it with his fingers, slipping it out then letting it fall back.