Saga of the Old City

As the bandit’s weight moved off him entirely, Gord used his acrobatic skills to arch his back and spring erect. As the bewildered Bogodor struggled to his feet, Gord spat blood at him and mocked him through reddened lips.

“What’s the matter, Bogo-dope? You only able to wrestle old men and cripples? Or maybe you like tussling with little boys….”

His eyes red, Bogodor let out a howl of rage. He lost all plan of attack, wanting only to grab Gord and crush him to a bloody pulp. There wasn’t much room to maneuver within the circle of bandits, but Gord could leap. He somersaulted directly into the half-orc’s rush, and his feet came up just as Bogodor’s big belly arrived at the same place. The force of Bogodor’s charge easily reversed the momentum of Gord’s roll, and with his back firmly resting on the ground, his stiff legs acted as a lever to lift the charging bandit off his feet, even as inertia continued to carry him forward.

Gord used his own strength to assist the bandit on his way, and Bogodor, wind driven from his body by the belly-kick, arced over Gord’s head and came down with a jarring thud nearly six feet from where Gord now stood. The half-orc didn’t move. The onlookers were stu

There were a couple of grudging words of congratulation from the group, and someone slapped Gord on the back. Bogodor was now coming around, and already a few jibes were being aimed his way. Gord stood silently, poised. He looked at the bandit with no expression as Bogodor slowly got to his feet. The half-orc stared at him a moment, shook his head, and then shot Gord a half-grin.

“For a little smartass punk, you fight good,” the brute said. “We go at it again someday soon….”

Before anything else could be said, the chieftain stepped in and grabbed Gord by the shoulders. “Not bad, chum, not bad,” he said with a tinge of admiration in his voice, “but you’re not through yet! Fi

Fi

Gord knew he was in real trouble now. He watched Fi

A new arena-circle formed, and the bandits began cheering and calling out once again. Gord was handed a heavy staff and again shoved forward. The ring closed behind him, and Fi

Suddenly, several shrieks rang out from the circle of outlaws. Gord saw with shock that a crossbow bolt had suddenly sprouted from the chest of a man across from him. Another missile had left a scarlet trail across Fi

Gord immediately threw himself to the ground, instinctively wondering why he hadn’t heard the angry buzz of the bolt that hit Fi

Bolts still flew through the air even as the riders cantered toward the bandits with leveled lances. More bandits were slain or wounded by these missiles before the sharp lanceheads bit home. As a lancer thundered past where Gord was crouched, he stabbed the thick quarterstaff between the horse’s legs. The animal neighed in pain and stumbled forward, tail over head. The rider was thrown down, rolled upon by the horse, then thrust through with a spear from his intended target. A bolt took the bandit in the leg, and he, in turn, fell to the dirt.

Gord rolled for cover in the shadows, searching frantically for some weapon with which to defend himself. Already about half of the bandits were dead or seriously wounded, and only two of the lancers were down, at least one done for certain. The four still atop their steeds had discarded their long weapons in favor of sword and axe. Several more of the outlaw band fell, but one of the horsemen was struck full in the chest by a flail. The soldier had hardly hit the ground before two bandits fell upon him and finished the work.

“Here, chum!” The words reached Gord just as a blade-his own dagger!-buried itself in the tree trunk beside his head. The thrower was the chief of the company of bandits. Gord was grateful for the gesture-and also pleased that the fellow didn’t seem to notice how far the dagger had sunk into the tough bronzewood bole. As Gord tugged the weapon free with difficulty, the leader called out to him again.

“It ain’t much, but you better be good with it, ’cause we’re up to our ass in alligators!” With that, the chieftain darted beyond the clearing, probably aiming to stop the sniping cross-bowmen from doing further bloody target practice.

Gord moved to position himself where he could make effective use of the dagger. No sense in pitting himself face-to-face with the soldiers’ longer arms. From behind, or in a grappling melee, the blade would be deadly, but against longsword or great axe the disadvantage would be telling.

Only one of the men-at-arms was still horsed. Another fought beside his slain steed, broad-bladed sword swinging in vicious arcs. At least two of the crossbowmen had dropped their missile weapons to join their embattled fellows in the glen. Bogodor, armed with a huge morning star, stepped before their advance and with a mighty swing wounded one, despite his mail, before either could react. Then both soldiers countered with swords, and the half-orc was hotly defending himself from their cuts and thrusts as Gord crept closer to the action.

Bogodor might have been strong, but he wasn’t skilled at arms. In a minute he was bleeding, and in another he was down. The soldiers were good-but that didn’t prevent Gord from striking as soon as he got his blade within range of one soldier’s back. The supernaturally keen point of his dagger passed through the steel mesh of the foeman’s mail coat as if it were mere leather, and a second blow finished the job.

The dead man’s comrade had been heading off to assist the unhorsed soldier, who was now hard pressed defending himself against several of the bandits. The sounds of his partner’s demise made him turn back quickly, however. When he saw Gord taking the dead soldier’s sword, he raised his own brand and rushed to revenge his fallen mate. Gord barely had time to raise the newly gained sword and ward off the man’s opening stroke.

Gord found himself in a lengthy fencing match that tested his skills and abilities to their fullest. The soldier was better than he at swordplay, but Gord had the advantage of his dagger to ward and threaten. Both opponents were bleeding from small cuts-Gord more so than the armored foeman-but Gord was fast and agile, and far fresher than the mail-burdened swordsman opposing him. The soldier aimed a flurry of blows at Gord, and when this onslaught forced Gord to retreat, the fellow finally took the opportunity to unsheath his own poniard. Now the soldier thought the match to be balanced-or unbalanced, rather-in his favor, and he moved in for the kill.