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his sword arm.
A wing beat and a leap had the Crow straddling the fallen man. Deudermont tried to roll up-
right, but the next peck hit him on the head, slamming him back to the floor.
Blood poured down from his brow across his left eye and cheek, but more than that, opaque li-
quid blurred the captain's sight as, thoroughly dazed, he faded in and out of consciousness.
Regis kept his head down, focusing solely on the task before him. Crawling on hands and kne-
es, picking each handhold cautiously but expediently, the halfling made his way up the steep ro-
of.
"Have to get to Deudermont," he told himself, pulling himself along, increasing his pace as he
gained confidence with the climb. He finally hit his stride and was just about to look up when he
bumped into something hard. High, black boots filled his vision.
Regis froze and slowly lifted his gaze, up past the fine fabric of well-tailored trousers, up past
a fabulously crafted belt buckle, a fine gray vest and white shirt, to a face he never expected.
"You!" he cried in dismay and horror, desperately throwing his arms up before his face as a
small crossbow leveled his way.
The exaggerated movement cost the halfling his balance, but even the unexpected tumble
didn't save him from being stuck in the neck by the quarrel. Down the roof Regis tumbled, dark-
ness rushing up all around him, stealing the strength from his limbs, stealing the light from his
eyes, stealing even his voice as he tried to cry out.
 The dwarf's swings didn't come any slower as he rejoined battle against Drizzt. And Drizzt qu-
ickly realized that the dwarf wasn't even breathing hard. Using his anklets to speed his steps,
Drizzt pushed the issue, scampering to the left, then right back around the dwarf, and out and
back suddenly as the furious little creature spun to keep up.
The drow worked a blur of measured strikes, and exaggerated steps, forcing the stubby-limbed
dwarf to rush every which way.
The flurry went on and on, scimitars rolling one over the other, morningstars spinning to keep
pace, and even, once in a while, to offer a devious counter-stroke. And still Drizzt pressed, rus-
hing left and back to center, right and all the way around, forcing the dwarf to continually rever-
se momentum on his heavier weapons.
But Athrogate did so with ease, and showed no labored breath, and whenever a thrust or parry
connected, weapon to weapon, Drizzt was reminded of the dwarf's preternatural strength.
Indeed, Athrogate possessed it all: speed, stamina, strength, and technique. He was as comple-
te a fighter as Drizzt had ever battled, and with weapons to equal Drizzt's own. The first mor-
ningstar kept coating over with some explosive liquid, and the second head leaked a brownish
fluid. The first time that connected in a parry against Icingdeath, Drizzt was sure he felt the sci-
mitar's fear. He brought the blade back for a quick inspection as he broke away, angling for a
new attack, and noted dots of brown on is shining metal. It was rust, he realized, and realized,
too, that only the mighty magic of Icingdeath had saved the blade from rotting away in his hand!
And Athrogate just kept howling, "Bwahahahaha!" and charging on with abandon.
Seeming abandon, because never, ever, did the dwarf abandon his defensive technique.
He was good. Very good.
But so was Drizzt Do'Urden.
The dark elf slowed his attacks and let Athrogate gain momentum, until it was the dwarf, not
the drow, pressing the advantage.
"Bwahahahaha!" Athrogate roared, and sent both his morningstars into aggressive spins, low
and high, working one down, the other up in a dizzying barrage that nearly caught up to the dod-
ging, parrying drow.
Drizzt measured every movement, his eyes moving three steps ahead. He thrust into the left,
forcing a parry, then went with that block to send his scimitar out wide but in an arcing move-
ment that brought it back in again, sweeping down at his shorter opponent's shoulder.
 Athrogate was up to the task of parrying, as Drizzt knew he would be, bringing his left-hand
morningstar flying up across his right shoulder to defeat the attack.
But it wasn't really an attack, and Icingdeath snuck in for a stab at Athrogate's side. The dwarf
yelped and leaped back, clearing three long strides. He laughed again, but winced, and brought
his hand down against his rib. When he brought that hand back up, both Drizzt and he understo-
od that the drow had drawn first blood.
"Well done!" he said, or started to, for Drizzt leaped at him, scimitars working wildly.
Drizzt rolled them over each other in a punishing alternating downward and straightforward
slash, keeping them timed perfectly so that one morningstar could not defeat them both, and ke-
eping them angled perfectly so that Athrogate had to keep his own weapons at a more awkward
and draining angle, up high in front of his face.
The dwarf's grimace told Drizzt that his stab in the ribs had been more effective than Athroga-
te pretended, and holding his arms up in such a manner was not comfortable at all. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]