The Magehound

He searched his benumbed mind for something profound to say and came up empty. "I have to get my horse," he said lamely.

"Well, good for you," she said approvingly. "I was afraid you'd want to look for Mbatu or some such foolishness."

"The wemic will likely find me. If he loses our trail, it would be logical for him to return to the place where we met. I left Cyric tied to a rail near the tavern."

She hoisted one eyebrow and sent him a sidelong look. "Cyric?"

"Yes. The stallion is named after-"

"I know who Cyric is, although frankly I'm surprised that you do. What did the horse do to earn a name like that?"

"Well, he is somewhat volatile."

"I'll bet." Her lips twitched. "You know, I thought all jordaini would be boring, seeing how you aren't allowed to add any color to your facts. It's nice to know that understatement isn't against your creed."

Her dry comment surprised a chuckle from Matteo. They fell into a comfortable pace as Tzigone wove a path through the streets.

Their shadows stretched out before them as they rounded a corner into yet another narrow street. The city was beginning to stir as the sunsleep hours passed. Though the sun was less direct, the heat did not noticeably lessen. Matteo noted that the day was in fact unseasonably warm. Heat rose in visible waves from the paved roads, distorting the scene ahead. A four-man patrol passed, their faces damp and eyes made surly by heat.

Matteo noticed the Tzigone was suddenly very interested in a shop window that offered fishing lures, small hammers, spools of wire, and other small metal devices. "You have reason to avoid the city guard?" he asked.

"They usually seem to think so," she replied cheerfully. "It seems only polite to oblige them."

The jordain was about to challenge that dubious logic when suddenly the shadows at the far side of the street blurred, commingled into an ominous haze by the oddly shaped bulk closing in rapidly.

Matteo thrust Tzigone aside and turned, sword in hand, instinctively placing himself between the girl and the wemic.

The lion-man reached over his massive shoulder. Steel hissed like a striking snake as Mbatu drew his massive blade. The wemic crouched and then leaped, bringing his sword around for a high, smashing attack.

Matteo lifted his borrowed sword to meet the brutal assault. The weapons met with a high metallic shriek. The jordain didn't attempt to absorb the mighty blow, but shifted his weight to his right foot and let the force of the attack carry the enjoined swords to the ground. Deftly he twisted aside and danced back, sliding his sword out from under the wemic's blade. He darted in again, thrusting low, a point far lower than he would choose for attacking a human.

The wemic parried and retreated, trying to work his sword back into position for a high attack. Matteo would have none of that. He pressed in, stabbing and thrusting again and again, forcing the wemic to keep the battle low.

Never had Matteo fought a wemic, but he discerned what the creature's best strategy would be. Once the blades were high, the wemic could bring his leonine forepaws into play. By Matteo's estimation, the claws on Mbatu's feet could disembowel a man in three quick strokes or tear out his throat in one.

Again and again the wemic tried to draw back, tried to disengage the blades long enough to maneuver into position for a killing stroke. Matteo pursued, always taking the offensive and looking for an opening of his own.

The battle went on and on. The heat of the sun was punishing, and his arms ached from the unfamiliar weight of the sword. As if in a daze, he heard Tzigone mutter something about the damned horse and not being able to find the militia the one time you actually wanted them. From the corner of his eye, he saw her hoist a bucket of rainwater and heave it in a shining arc toward him and the wemic.

A fleeting smile touched Matteo's lips as he shook water from his eyes. Oddly enough, he understood at once Tzigone's intent. The water cooled him off but did not distract or inconvenience him. On the other hand, Mbatu's glossy black mane hung wet and heavy about his face, and his ears turned back with familiar feline distaste.

The wemic turned a murderous golden stare upon Tzigone. "Bring her in alive," he muttered, as if to remind himself of an onerous duty.

An eager, familiar snort drew Matteo's eye to the far end of the street. Matteo's black stallion trotted purposefully toward the battle, his eyes gleaming weirdly. His reins hung loose, and splinters of wood were tangled in his mane. For the first time, Matteo understood what the stable hands meant when they swore that they never heard that snort but they expected to see it accompanied by a burst of sulfur-scented steam.