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unconcealed interest.
"We'd appreciate it if you'd come along with us." This request was made by a
stocky blond fellow in the middle of the group. His beard seemed to continue
right down into his naked chest, as did the drooping mustache. In fact, he
displayed so much hair that Jon-Tom wondered in the darkness if he really was
human and not one of the other furry local citizens.
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That led him to consider the unusual homogeneity of the group. Up till now,
every gathering of locals he'd encountered, whether diners or merchants,
sailors or pedestrians, had been racially mixed.
He looked backward. The lot who'd been trailing them had spread out to block
any retreat back up the street and yes, they were also wholely human, and
similarly armed.
"That's nice of you," Caz said, replying to the invitation, "but we have other
plans of our own." He spoke for all his companions. Jon-Tom casually swung his
staff around from his back, slipped the duar out of the way. Talea's hand
dropped to her sword. There was some uneasy shuffling among the humans
confronting them.
"I'm sorry. We insist."
"I wish you would encyst," said Flor cheerfully, "preferably with something
cancerous."
The insult was lost on the man, who simply blinked at her. Both clusters began
to crowd the travelers, edging in from front and back.
There was a light metallic sound as Talea's sword appeared in her hand. "First
one of you rodents lays a hand on me is cold meat."
In the dim light from the oil lamps Jon-Tom thought she looked lovelier than
ever. But then, so did Flores Quintera.
She'd assumed an amazonian stance with her own short sword and mace held
expectantly in front of her, the light gleaming off the saw teeth lining the
steel.
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"Ovejas y putas, come and take us... if you can."
"Ladies, please!" protested Caz, aghast at the manner in which his attempted
diplomacy was being undermined from behind. "It would be better for all of us
if... excuse me, sir." He'd been glancing back at Talea and Flor but had not
lost sight of their opponents. One of them had jumped forward and attempted to
brain the rabbit with a small club, whereupon Caz had hopped out of the way,
offered his apologies, and stuck out a size twenty-two foot. His assailant had
gone tumbling over it.
"Dreadfully sorry," murmured Caz. His apology did nothing to stem the rush
which followed as the two groups of encircling humans attacked.
The narrowness of the street simplified defensive tactics. The set-upon
arranged themselves back to back in a tight circle and hacked away at their
antagonists, who threw themselves with shocking recklessness against swords
and knives. The light and sweat and screaming swam together around Jon-Tom.
The duar was a heavy weight bouncing under his arm as the blunt end of his
staff-club sought out an unprotected face or groin.
It occurred to him that a little magic might have frightened off their
assailants. He cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. It was too late
now for singing. He couldn't stop defending himself long enough to swing the
duar around.
Three frustrated attackers were trying to get beneath his enormous reach. He
held them off with the club. One slipped underneath the staff and raised a
mace.
Jon-Tom thumbed a stud on the staff and flipped it around in an arc as he'd
been shown. The spring-loaded spearpoint sliced across the mace-wielder's
thighs. He collapsed, moaning and holding his legs.
Something dark covered Jon-Tom's eyes as he was hit from below and behind.
Flailing wildly with the staff, he went over backward. The staff intercepted
something yielding, which yelped once.
A heaviness pressed down on his senses as well as his eyes. Then everything
turned to mush, including the noise of fighting. His thoughts swam sluggishly
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as though he were trying to think through Jell-O. Dimly he could still make
out shrieks and screams from the continuing battle, but they sounded faint and
far away. He recognized the high-pitched challenge of Talea alternating with
Mudge's taunts and curses. Flor was yowling war cries in an interesting
mixture of
English and Spanish. The last sight he'd glimpsed before the black cloth or
bag or whatever it was had been slipped over his head showed a starlit sky
mottled with clearing rain clouds and a sickle moon beaming bluely down
between peaked roofs that overhung the street like cupped hands. He hoped they
were formed in prayer for him.
Then even that wish faded, along with the remnant of his consciousness....
XX
At first he thought a fly had somehow tumbled into his brain. It was beating
against the sides, trying to get out. When the fly-feeling gave way to a
certainty that the buzzing came from elsewhere, he opened his eyes and hunted
for its source.
An oil lamp burned on a simply hewn wood table. A gruff announcement came from
someone unseen.
"He's awake!"
This was followed by the pad-padding of many feet. Jon-Tom struggled to a
sitting position. Gravity, or something, tried to pull off the back of his
head.
He winced at the pain. It slowly dribbled away, down his neck and into
oblivion.
He discovered he was sitting on the edge of a cot. In the dim lamplight he
could now make out the familiar shapes of his staff and duar leaning against
the far wall of the room.
Flanking his possessions were two of the humans who'd attacked him. One wore a
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01%20-%20Spellsinger.txt bandage across his forehead and over one ear. The
other exhibited a deep purple bruise and knot over his right eye. His mouth
also showed signs of having been cut.
Normally an execptionally pacific person, Jon-Tom experienced an
uncharacteristic surge of pleasure at this evidence of the damage he and his
companions had done. He'd made up his mind to make a rush for the club-staff
when a door opened on his left and half a dozen people marched in.
Leaning forward, he was disappointed to discover he could see nothing past the
door except a dimly lit corridor, though he could hear distant conversation.
The new arrivals stationed themselves around the room. Three of them took up
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