Simon could hear the devil's breathing right by his ear. Frantic, he jerked his head forward and drove it back, ramming the back of his head into his attacker's face, slamming the enemy's head against the stone floor. Simon felt stunned, but the other must have been stunned, too. He heard a whispered gasp.
How can the devil be so silent?
He heard men speaking above him and feet shuffling around him, but despite his command, no swords were jabbing downward. They were afraid of stabbing him, even though he was wearing mail.
He arched his body and brought all his mailed weight down hard. He felt the edge of the enemy's dagger scrape across the chain around his neck. A bolt of terror shot through him. If not for that medallion, he would be bleeding to death right now. Simon thrust his steel-encased elbows into his enemy's ribs. The gasp was louder this time, and with a violent heave he freed himself.
He twisted over, arms reaching to wrap around his enemy.
I have to pin him down. I cannot let him get loose in this room again.
But the knees below him drew up and the feet kicked against him, throwing him back.
"Right in front of me!" Simon cried. "Get him!" And then he realized despairingly that none of the armed men on his side could understand him.
And no one, it seemed, had flint and steel to strike a light. He knew he was carrying none. Such a simple thing, yet tonight its lack might be his death.
His foot kicked something that rang against the stone floor. His sword. He swooped down on it, seized it, and thrust blindly straight ahead. The point struck a stone wall, and he felt the blade bend. He checked his thrust just in time to keep the scimitar from breaking.