DW02 Dragon War by Mark Acres

Bagsby had never really had a good look at anything except the man’s face and legs.
    He stood up straight and began threading his way down the street, sidestepping to avoid three goats driven by a nomad in his black desert clothes, jumping aside again to avoid a nobleman on horseback who rode straight down the middle of the street, little caring whom or what his horse stepped upon. Overhead, the fat crow cawed once, gleefully, but the sound was drowned by the perpetual noise of Laga—to all sets of ears save one.
    Bagsby continued walking, only half-noticing where he was going. Now he had no money; he’d have to revert to stealing in a town full of thieves, and wary of thieves’ tricks. He heard the voice behind him just an instant before the cold, clammy hand tried to clutch the back of his neck.
    “Bagsby,” the low voice grumbled.
    With reflexes trained by a lifetime, Bagsby dove forward into the muck of the street, somersaulting. The dead hand scraped harmlessly down the back of his tunic as he spun in the air. He came to his feet, whirled around, and saw the man drawing back a great broadsword with his one remaining hand. Bagsby ducked the blow, heard the blade swish just above his hair, and felt the wind of its passing. He jumped back, spun, and ran.
    “Bagsby!” the figure shouted, lumbering awkwardly after him, the sword arm raised to strike if the soldier could only close the range. Bagsby called on his aching calves for another burst of speed. He turned at the first junction he came to, bounced off a fat woman trundling a cart of baubles down the middle of the narrow lane, stumbled over the ragged children who tugged at the hem of her dress, and blundered on ahead through the milling crowd—most of them moving in the opposite direction and laden with piles of sweet fruits. He ducked past a fruit vendor’s small white shack, then stopped cold in front of the three-foot wall that sealed any exit from the alley. Dead end! A large crow landed on the edge of the wall, looking down at Bagsby, cocking its head and cawing.
    Bagsby turned again. The thing was already coming toward him, hurling people and their goods aside as though they were dolls. The thing possessed the strength of a giant, Bagsby thought. No good way out—there was a second-story window, but nothing to serve as a platform to leap up to it, and the wall was too high and smooth to scale without a running start.
    Bagsby drew both his daggers. If he couldn’t run, then he would fight. People were screaming now as the one-handed soldier advanced and swung his sword in great, broad strokes to clear bystanders from his front and sides. He slashed at men and women alike but never took his eyes from his intended prey.
    Bagsby braced himself in a wide-legged stance—knees bent, weight on the balls of his feet, and arms partly extended to his sides—ready to spring in any direction.
    The last of the crowd cleared the space between Bagsby and his foe. He stared now at the man, who seemed no different than a hundred other soldiers, guards, watchmen, and cutthroats that he had fought successfully before. And yet, and yet.... His eyes lighted on the livery on the man’s tunic, half hidden beneath the links of his chain armor. Bagsby had seen that insignia before, he had fought men with that insignia before, but where? His mind raced as his opponent moved slowly forward, his gait ragged, like a man wading in thick water against a heavy current. Lundlow Keep! The guards at Lundlow Keep had worn that insignia, Bagsby suddenly knew. Could this man—this incredibly strong man—have followed him all the way from there?
    No time to wonder now, Bagsby realized. The shorter man began to circle as the larger foe approached. If he could get the man turned around, if he could get an opening to run back down the alleyway....
    But Bagsby saw that plan would never work. The crowd, its alarm passing, was already formed across the width of the street, packed densely in