There were just the right amount of night birds’ calls and the hooting that might have been an owl he had not encountered before to tell him that trouble was not hard on his heels, but he knew it would be coming soon.
He judged he had less than an hour’s lead over his pursuers, and while he might have some tricks to slow them down they’d never come across, eventually they would overtake him. While keeping his attention on the task at hand, moving along the route he had mentally marked out on the way up to the elves’ stronghold, he also kept looking out for likely spots to set up an ambush. There was going to be a confrontation, so it might as well be on his terms.
Jim Dasher waited. He knew that at least one, or possibly two, elves were coming fast. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. His grandfather had spoken of his own grandfather, the legendary Jimmy the Hand, and had once mentioned his claim to possess a ‘bump of trouble’, an intuition that allowed him to anticipate pitfalls before actually coming upon them. Jim Dasher had no name for this gut feeling but he knew that on more than one occasion an anticipation of trouble had saved him from disaster.
‘The itch’, as his grandfather had called it, had begun a few minutes before, and Jim had stopped to listen. There was nothing he could hear, but somehow he had sensed a change out there, behind him, and he knew his pursuers were close.
He had no doubt he could ambush one elf and stand a fair chance – well, an unfair one, really — to best him. But a second bow or sword would almost undoubtedly mean his death or capture. Just in case there were two of them, he reached down to his belt and removed it. He had five secret pouches sewn inside it, which is why he had chosen a big rock as a weapon when facing the wolf-riders rather than use his belt as Kaspar had instructed. He deftly tore at the threads with his thumbnail, parting the fastenings used to secure two of the small compartments and set aside the vials he had secreted there. He then slid a small, thin and very lethal blade he had fashioned that was inserted into the belt just below the buckle – which also could be used as a cestus, a charming Quegan invention like a battle glove – and set that down next to the vials. He smiled at the image of Kaspar laying about him with his belt and thought that he should really get a special buckle made for the former Duke. Kaspar had been a thorn in the Kingdom’s side for years, though he really had been more of a problem for Roldem and Great Kesh, which meant he was a threat worth enduring for the Kingdom of the Isles, but since his exile and return, he had proved to be a valuable resource for the Conclave. Besides, Jim liked him. He could be a murderous thug, just like Jim, but there was an interesting, complex man there, one who appreciated hunting, good food and wine, and the company of bad women.
He put this belt around his waist, took the blade in his right hand, picked up the first vial with his left. He coated his blade with its contents, then tossed the empty container aside. Then he picked up the second vial and waited.
The two elves were upon him without further warning. His instincts told him that it was time to move, and without thought he did, and in just the right direction.
A sword blade cut into the tree trunk where Jim had crouched just moments before and that was all the opening he needed. He broke the vial between thumb and forefinger and flicked the contents into the elf’s eyes. In seconds the elf was on his knees clutching at his face and screaming in pain.
The second elf was the one called Sinda. He drew back his bow and let fly with an arrow. Jim didn’t think; he reacted, moving to his left, Sinda’s right, and forcing the elf to traverse his line-of-fire across his own body. That tiny adjustment saved Jim’s life, for the arrow sped by his neck, close enough for the fletching to slice a shallow cut in his skin. Jim rolled forward, ignoring the rocks and twigs that cut into him, and came up hard, his shoulder driving into Sinda’s stomach.
In close, the elf’s bow was useless and before he could get his belt-knife unsheathed, Dasher drove him to the ground, drew back his fist and struck him hard on the point of the jaw. The elf’s eyes went vacant for a fraction of a moment, but that was all the time Jim needed. He pinned the elf’s left arm under his knees and reached out and grabbed the other wrist with his left hand. He pressed his small blade hard enough against Sinda’s neck so that the elf could feel it and said, ‘If you wish to live, do not move! There’s poison on my blade and one cut will kill you swiftly.’
The elf was dazed but understood enough to go limp. After a second Jim said, ‘Good. Listen. I don’t have much time. Your friend has mossback venom in his eyes. You know what that means. You have perhaps an hour or two at most to get him to one of your healers. Now, you must decide what is more important, to kill me and let him die, or to save his life. You cannot do both. And killing me will not be easy. Can your people afford to lose two more warriors?’