“Abuse is never laudable,” Gord said in an even tone, looking squarely at the fellow.
Although Lurajal was smaller than Raug and the others, he was still taller than Gord and somewhat stockier. His brown skin was smooth and rippled with muscles when he moved, and he prided himself on his speed and power. Lurajal scowled at Cord’s words, staring at the young adventurer with hatred in his yellow-brown eyes, “Dogs, even wolfish ones, are but mutts and curs fit only for abuse. To strike or scorn them is a laudable act, dog!”
Tirrip froze at those words, but Raug and the others laughed and slapped one another. Gord didn’t bother looking at them, however, for his gaze was fastened on Lurajal. “Well, bragging is quite natural for a knave and coward quite unable to do anything but jabber so. You see before you the one you called cur, braggart! Strike—lest you are afraid, of course.”
He was a relative newcomer, so Lurajal had no idea as to the true merit of his antagonist. He had been told stories, of course, but they centered on Gord’s trickery and unexpected moves. He had tested himself against Raug and the rest of his group, and Lurajal had found himself but little weaker and far more agile and swift.
Lurajal knew that the little dog who dared to speak to him so, dared him to strike, would be no match at all compared to Raug and the rest. Better still, there would be no aid for him this time, either the Catlord himself or some of the humans who had previously been around to assist Gord out of trouble. Lurajal had heard plenty about how Rexfelis or Gord’s human friends had rescued him before, or else Raug or his cousins or fierce friends would have finished the dark little upstart once and for all. It would be Lurajal’s pleasure to accomplish that. With such thoughts flashing through his mind, the golden-eyed Lurajal leaped upon Gord.
The man’s body hit Gord with full force. Those witnessing the attack were certain that Lurajal’s spring had effectively taken his foe by surprise, overborne him, and that soon Gord would be fully at the mercy of the fierce yellow-eyed attacker—but would get precious little mercy from that one!
It did seem that way, but only for a moment. As Gord’s back hit the ground, his arms had come up so that his hands could lightly grip his antagonist’s rib-cage. As he fell, he had pulled his knees up to his chest. Then in the next instant, before Lurajal had fallen full upon him, Gord’s legs pistoned upward and out, thudded into Lurajal’s groin, then hooked to curl over his head, carrying Lurajal’s body along in that direction as Gord’s hands released their hold. Lurajal screamed in pain as the kick struck him. flew through the air, landed with a heavy thud on his back, and writhed on the ground, gasping, trying to regain his senses.
Gord finished his backward roll, used hands and feet to spring upright, then did a back flip high in the air. He was filled with pent-up rage, a white-burning fury that would not be quenched easily, but an anger that did not flame unchecked. Gord knew exactly what he was doing, how it should be done, and when to do it.
As he reached the apogee of his arcing back-spring, Gord tightened every muscle, made himself into a tight ball, and plummeted downward. Lurajal was directly beneath him. He aimed as he straightened his legs, so that both heels were together and thrusting spearlike for the prone man’s throat. Trachea and jugular were exposed. It would be over in an instant. Then the young acrobat altered his course slightly, perhaps through some innate reflex, and his feet struck Lurajal’s chest instead of the prone man’s neck. Ribs broke, but the blow wasn’t fatal as would have been the case had the thrusting heels struck the throat.
By throwing himself to the side and doing a shoulder roll, Gord completed his routine. A split-second afterward he was standing at his opponent’s head, looking down into the pain-wracked eyes of the groaning Lurajal.
“Not a dog’s work, is it, braggart? Never forget what brought this upon you—and never say it again, or next time I won’t spare you!” The fellow couldn’t speak, and there was blood coming from his mouth as he gasped for breath. Gord felt suddenly sorry, ashamed that he had handled the bullyish fellow so. In truth, Lurajal was blameless by no means, but he had been encouraged by Raug and the rest of his comrades. Gord turned his sorrow for Lurajal into anger at how the episode had begun in the first place.
“Now that you’ve gotten your dupe injured fighting your battle for you, Raug,” he said, staring hard at that one as he spoke, “perhaps you’ll be bold enough to step up and see if you can’t do better yourself.” Raug’s neck muscles bulged, and he was about to accept the challenge when Tirrip intervened.
“Leave be, cousin! That little killer is dangerous and an unfair fighter. Do not soil your hands on the likes of him—Lord Rexfelis will deal with him soon. He has just harmed one of our lordly peers, a relation of ours—and our liege lord’s as well, of course.” She turned to glare at Gord over her lovely, smooth shoulder. “You are a nothing! I hope Lord Rexfelis has you tied and flogged for what you just did!” Then she went off, tugging at Raug so that he had little choice but to follow. The others in the party glared, scowled, and muttered at Gord but then traipsed off after Tirrip and her cousin, leaving Gord to minister to the fallen Lurajal.
“Shit,” Gord said softly and without feeling behind it. Then he looked at his fallen opponent again. The fellow was nearly unconscious from pain, having tried to sit up and fallen back to groan helplessly on the trampled and blood-spattered sward.
“Lie still, man! Don’t try to move around on pain of life,” Gord said more gently. “You’re badly hurt, but it isn’t mortal unless you make it so. Here,” he said as much to himself as to Lurajal as he dug into his girdle, “I have a little bit of salve which will soothe the pain and perhaps even heal you somewhat.”
Lurajal tried to snarl, fight off the ministrations, but he was too weak. “But that doublet must come off first,” Gord went on, ignoring the attempted rejection. In a moment his long dagger was out and doing its work. Gord was very careful not to allow the magically keen blade to slice flesh, and he was gentle as he cut the garment away to expose the man’s chest. Where his heels had struck the skin was discolored, swollen, and there were abrasions too.
“Hold very still now. I shall be as quick and careful as possible—I don’t relish this any more than you do—but you need seeing to here and now. Later some priest or other will heal you, never fear.”
“Why are you doing this?” Lurajal was unable to understand this foe. First Gord could have killed him, but he had simply broken his ribs and incapacitated him, and then he had decided to aid him. It made no sense to the golden-eyed man, none at all. “I attacked you. I would have shown you no mercy, given no quarter….”
“What you did was no true fault of your own, Lurajal. Your fault was one many have—you listened to the wrong counsel and took it to be truth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am not surprised,” Gord said, carefully spreading the ointment. He got the stuff onto his fingertips and then smeared it gently upon the worst-looking places on Lurajal’s chest. As he worked, Lurajal’s breathing became easy, unlabored.
“What is that stuff?”
“A dweomered salve,” Gord replied, glancing a bit ruefully at the empty container. “I received it from a strange chap in Sha—a place I was forced to visit not long ago. What a shame it is all gone now,” Gord lamented again.
Lurajal could raise his head now, and his voice Was stronger too. “You are a nonesuch,” he said with a small shake of his head as he watched Gord tuck the empty box away. “I have heard of magical ointments of that sort, but none with such efficacy!”
“Hmmm,” the young thief said to acknowledge Lurajal’s comment. “I think it was gifted to me by the one who made the original, the very namesake for all lesser ones made after its fashion. That would explain much, including its potency, wouldn’t it?” His eyes met the golden brown of Lurajal’s.
“I do not apprehend of what you speak, Gord, but I do appreciate that you used some special gift to assure that I would live. Don’t you know th
at as one of the royal line I have no fear of injury or death?”
Now it was Gord’s turn to be puzzled. He helped Lurajal sit upright, then assisted the man to his feet a moment later when he indicated he was ready to stand. “Now,” Gord said, “what is this about not fearing injury or death?”
Managing a painful chuckle, Lurajal accepted Gord’s shoulder as a prop as the two walked slowly back toward the Catlord’s home. “I thought all denizens of this place were aware of the special prerogatives held by the descendants of Lord Rexfelis.”
“Well, I for one am not aware, although I am by no means a denizen of the Catlord’s realm.”
“Nor I, actually, although someday that may be otherwise. At the death of my own sire some few months back, I was called here by our liege so as to become acquainted with the place and its nobles and such.”
“And that gives you Immortality?”
Lurajal made another series of chucklings and gaspings. Between the pain of laughing and the attempts to suppress it to avoid the pain and so as to not offend Gord with it either, he had a difficult time of it for a while, so the two had traveled a fair distance farther before the golden-eyed fellow was able to explain again.
“I am not immortal, not at all. But I can heal rapidly enough—even without your help I’d have been able to drag myself back here by nightfall and be well in a day. And if I should meet death I am revived and made quick again—”
“Because of your cat’s-eye ring?”
It was again Lurajal’s turn for astonishment. “How do you know of mine own royal ring?” He stared at Gord for a second, then at his own unadorned fingers, then spotted the ring Gord wore. “It is remarkably similar to what you wear,” he said slowly, “only its jewel is of a different, finer sort.”
“Oh…”
“How came you to know of the ring?” Lurajal was not going to let that question pass.
“I think Tirrip might have mentioned it,” Gord suggested, not wishing to lie directly.
“That is a possibility. She too has one, of course, being of royal lineage also.” He seemed satisfied, and went on. “As to having new life bestowed, no, it is not the ring. The benison, as well as the gift of healing, is bestowed directly by Lord Rexfelis when he accepts one as one of his heirs. Tirrip, myself, Lowen, and the rest all have such a gift. It is a wonder that she didn’t mention that fact to you,” Lurajal concluded.
“About the rings…” Gord said suggestively, hoping that the fellow would be willing to discuss them further. However, before Lurajal could say more, a hail came from the buildings ahead. Lord Lowen, the seneschal, came hurrying out to meet them with four stout retainers, men who resembled the blond-maned castellan but were of less noble bearing and of slightly smaller stature as well.
“See that Lord Lurajal is comfortable in his own chambers,” the seneschal commanded after a cursory appraisal of the two. “Then report back to me.” The four bustled about to assist Lurajal, then off all five went as ordered. That ended Gord’s hopes of learning more about Rexfelis’ special rings.
“Now, Master—Sir Gord, I suppose—it wouldn’t do to have princelings brawling with common folk, would it?” the big man harrumphed. “I think you need to have some rest and time alone to reflect yourself. Please go to your quarters, and I will have some refreshments brought there directly.”
“Of course, Lord Lowen.”
“Splendid. I will speak with my liege of the matter. When that is done I will come and tell you what sentence you might expect, or what judgment is to be handed down.”
Gord was anxiously awaiting the second interview, as it were, with the seneschal, when he heard a sharp rapping at the huge slab of rosewood that closed his antechamber from the hall without. Gord jumped up, took a step, then stood still and composed himself. “Enter, please,” he said loudly.
The thick door with its gleaming panels of fine-grained wood swung inward, and through the portal stepped not Lord Lowen but Rexfelis himself. His face was graven, his eyes unsmiling. “You assaulted one of my own blood,” he said heavily.
“That is correct,” Gord replied.
“Have you any excuse?”
“None, Lord Rexfelis.”
“Do you plead for mercy?”
“No, Lord, that I will not stoop to. I have made my peace with Lord Lurajal, and I have settled my own thoughts as well. I am ready to accept your judgment squarely.”
“It is this,” the Lord of Cats said slowly. “You accepted a challenge from one who unjustly interfered in an affair not his own, you fought all too well, and then spared the instigator and his lot too, if I am a judge of such matters. Your conduct was correct, noble, and above reproach. Nonetheless, you did bodily harm to one of my blood, so I must mete out a fair punishment,” the Master of Cats said as he fixed his gaze upon the young adventurer.
Gord managed to return the look without wavering. “Which is?”
“You will offer apologies to all concerned—Lurajal, Raug, even Lady Tirrip. They will accept them, I will see to that. Then all of you will accompany me to my audience hall. There I will hold the ceremony necessary to make you an officer of my lands, a knight more or less, to put it into human terms.”
Gord was thunderstruck “I… I… It is a most undeserved honor, Lord Rexfelis,” he managed to stammer. “But… but why?”
“Lord Lowen pointed out that as long as you are here, you are likely to be at odds with Lord Raug and his lot—silly stuff, but typical of immature toms, I know. He suggested the honor, and I could not deny the sense in it. After all, there is no insult or injury when a peer accepts a challenge from another—even if that other be of royal lineage.”
Gord dropped to one knee, speaking his thanks freely. “It is a most royal and generous favor—”
“Up, up. Enough of that! Think you that I am unaware of your honors elsewhere? Your actions in Greyhawk have been of mixed sort, often dubious, but are you not also an honored member of that city now?”
“Well, yes, I suppose…”
“No supposing about it, sir, none at all. Think you not that we lords speak not with each other? Those of Balance commend you. He of All Shadows more than that! Well, now you have noble status on fully three planes, my fine young sir thief! Material, Shadow, and Catsreach all—you have justly deserved respect on all three. I am not to be outdone!”
In fact, Rexfelis was not to be outdone. When the apologies were finished, he personally led the train into the chamber where a ceremony full of pomp and ritual was duly conducted by various officials and presided over by Rexfelis. From his own hand he bestowed the honor upon Gord, making the young man a Leopard Guardian, Lone Chevalier Sentinel, Duke of Catsreach, Protector of All Felines, and so on and so forth.
When it was all finished, however, Tirrip and Raug and their coterie left with scarcely a word. With them went several others with whom Gord was virtually unacquainted, although he had seen them around and spoken briefly and formally with one or another on occasion. He shook his head, wondering what the outcome of all this would be.
Lurajal stood close by. He placed his hand on the young thief’s shoulder in comradely fashion. “Congratulations, Lord Gord,” he said with hearty warmth. “I bear no grudge, you know; I would call myself your friend, if you would take no offense.”
“Offense? Why, no, quite the contrary,” Gord said with a smile, and he extended his hand.
Lurajal shook it vigorously. “Then friends we are! You’ll need all you can get now, I think,” the fellow added. “Both tigers—long-toothed and short—are ranged against you, so too the ancient ones of liondom and the lions of the mountains. Old Lowen will take no such stance, but his sprat will certainly troupe with those others, Lynxkind is not in attendance, nor is the Royal House of Leopards—save that you hold honorary grant to a position therein. That will probably mean their support, should their number ever come to this court again. Thus fully five are certainly ranged against you, Gord.”
“Five what?�
��
“Five of the nine Royal Houses. There are three noble ones as well—Domesticus, Ocelotus, and Jaguarundis, my distant kin. The primordial demesnes belong to House Smilodon and Paleoleo. The ancestral fiefs are Tiger, Lion, Jaguar, and Catamount. Last, but not least, are the estates of Leopard, Cheetah, and Lynx. Each is ruled by a royal scion of our liege, Catlord Rexfelis.”
“I see…”
“And so much for lessons, my friend,” Lurajal said under his breath. “Here comes Lord Sergetta and his lady. Welcome them warmly, for he is the Prince of Cheetahs—you need all the support you can get.” So it went. In the end, the only ones who showed their friendship were Lord Lurajal and the lords of the cheetahs. Those of the house of Lynxkind arrived late and did stay at the festivities, but made no formal introduction of themselves.
It was like a game to Lurajal. The Lord of Jaguars was strong, honest, and sincere. He loved the intrigue; this was evident and plain to see. In short, Gord thought, his friend was a staunch ally but no sage, to put it kindly. Plain to see, it was Lurajal and Gord alone against the faction of Raug and Tirrip. The noble Sergettas were friendly, but not directly aligned. Lord Lowen was neutral, as were the nobles of the last of the nine houses. Some faction! Some intrigue!
“I would see my own land again,” Gord finally said aloud one day.
“What, Oerth? That place is a pesthole!”
“True enough, at least in part,” Gord admitted to his friend, “but it is a broad and many-faceted place. If the factions of one place are bothersome to you, you need simply ride somewhere else in the Flanaess or even beyond.”
Lurajal was unconvinced. “There is virtually no end to this plane of our liege lord’s—my plane, and yours now too, Gord!”
The young man smiled at Lurajal and then tilted his head slightly. “It is not home.”
Lurajal didn’t have a reply for that. Eventually he met Rexfelis at an opportune moment and mentioned to the Catlord the difficulties he and Gord were having. “Yes, prince,” he said in reply to the golden-eyed noble’s statements. “I am all too aware of the growing unease in my court which the hotheads are creating with their petty squabbles and grudges. It is time for you to return to your personal fief—only a short interlude, Lurajal, rest assured.”
[Gord the Rogue 05] - City of Hawks Page 33
