The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Read Free

spontaneity of the attack caught him off his guard. He raised an arm to ward off the first clumsy overhand blow, and the wood of the cudgel smacked into his unarmored forearm. The dwarf’s follow-up came crossways and stripped Cimozjen of his staff.
    The dwarf continued his assault—reckless, untrained—with a series of wild swings. The rusty spikes of his club whistled through the deepening darkness as Cimozjen evaded the strikes, gauging his adversary’s skill and power.
    The lack of a response gave the dwarf more courage. He pushed himself harder and harder, trying to land a blow. Yet as he did so, his breath grew more labored. Cimozjen surmised that a tendency towards lassitude and debauchery had taken its toll on the dwarf’s constitution, or, more charitably, that he had perhaps a disease of the lungs that had precluded him from military service.
    “Looks like you should have thought to bring a weapon to the fight,” panted the dwarf. “You’re going to pay for that mistake.”
    He swung again, and the spikes on his bludgeon caught the edge of Cimozjen’s long leather coat, tearing several long rips in it and pulling it off one of his shoulders.
    Cimozjen retreated and took a second to inspect the damage. “I just bought this yesterevening,” he groused. He slipped one arm out of its sleeve and grabbed his coat near the hem. He started to shuck the other sleeve off.
    The dwarf swung again, and Cimozjen dodged, flustering with the coat and getting his hand twisted up in the leather sleeve. The dwarf followed through with a heavy back-handed strike to the midriff, but this time Cimozjen did not give ground. He stepped in, catching the head of the mace in his longcoat. He heard a popping sound as the spikes punctured the thin leather in several places, holding the weapon fast.
    Cimozjen whipped his coat around the weapon, swaddlingit in leather padding. A quick jerk yanked the weapon up, and Cimozjen was likewise able to snare the dwarf’s weapon hand with one long sleeve, trapping it in place while simultaneously freeing his other hand from his sleeve.
    With a gleam in his eye, Cimozjen used his weight and leverage to force the dwarf’s arm down, driving the thug slowly to the ground and a position of submission.
    “Tell me, lad,” said Cimozjen, gazing into the dwarf’s grimacing face, “shall we start this conversation anew, and let it take a more hospitable turn?”
    “Fine,” growled the dwarf, and he threw a heavy roundhouse punch with his sizeable left fist.
    Cimozjen had but an eye blink to reflect on the fact that he had used both of his hands to lock up only one of the dwarf’s. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the cold, wet ground. He started to rise to a sitting position, one leg curled and the other straight in front of him. There was something in his mouth, so he spit it out. Even as he did so, he realized that it was a piece of one of his front teeth, now lost in the dark of the filthy side street.
    The dwarf was frantically trying to unwrap his club from the shroud of Cimozjen’s raincoat, but, by the sound of it, the only success he was having was in ripping ever-greater holes in the garment. The tips of the spikes could be seen peeking out through the battered leather. He glanced over at Cimozjen rising, gave one last frantic jerk at the coat, and rushed forward to attack.
    Cimozjen didn’t even manage to get a knee underneath himself before the dwarf was upon him.
    I am so careless, thought Cimozjen, that a dwarf has a height advantage over me.

Chapter
T WO
    A Mutual Acquaintance
Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998
    T he dwarf struck an overhand blow. Still reeling from the punch, Cimozjen barely raised his shield arm in time. The other arm still propped him upright where he sat. The blow wracked his forearm with pain.
    The dwarf swung again, and Cimozjen managed to angle his arm. The club slid down his forearm and off, causing no harm to his body but bringing a new burning