a garden.
Hissing with terror, the thug backed into the far corner of the kitchen, against the door which led to the rooms above. He groped, found the door latch, shook it in a frenzy.
Useless. The shopkeeper had bolted the door from the other side.
Now the thug screamed, with terror and rage. Maurice ignored the sound completely. He advanced until he was almost within sword range. The thug swung his club franctically. The blows were short, by half a foot. Maurice didn't even bother to duck.
The hecatontarch turned his head very slightly. Just enough to ask Antonina:
"Is there anything you want to find out from this piece of shit?"
Antonina shook her head. Then, realizing that Maurice couldn't see her, said:
"No. He won't know anything."
"Didn't think so," grunted Maurice.
The thug swung the club again. This time, Maurice met the blow with a flashing sweep of his spatha. The club split in half. The shock of the blow knocked the stub out of the thug's hand.
He gasped. Gasped again, watching his hand amputated by another spatha-strike. Gasped again—started to gasp—watching the sword sweep toward his left temple. In a final despairing act, the thug threw up his left arm, trying to block the strike.
The spatha cut his arm off before it went halfway through his head. The thug dropped straight down onto his knees, like a pole-axed steer.
Maurice grunted, twisted the blade with his powerful wrist, and pulled it loose. The thug's body collapsed to the floor.
"Are there any left?" whispered Antonina.
The cataphract's chuckle was utterly humorless.
"Be serious, girl."
Maurice's eyes scanned the kitchen. A cold, grim gaze, at first. But, by the time those gray eyes reached Antonina, they were full of good cheer.
"Wish I'd met your pop," he said. "He must have been quite a guy."
Antonina laughed giddily.
"He was a complete scoundrel, Maurice! A worthless bum!"
Then, bursting into tears, she slid down the wall into a half-kneeling squat. She pressed the back of her hand—still holding
Hissing with terror, the thug backed into the far corner of the kitchen, against the door which led to the rooms above. He groped, found the door latch, shook it in a frenzy.
Useless. The shopkeeper had bolted the door from the other side.
Now the thug screamed, with terror and rage. Maurice ignored the sound completely. He advanced until he was almost within sword range. The thug swung his club franctically. The blows were short, by half a foot. Maurice didn't even bother to duck.
The hecatontarch turned his head very slightly. Just enough to ask Antonina:
"Is there anything you want to find out from this piece of shit?"
Antonina shook her head. Then, realizing that Maurice couldn't see her, said:
"No. He won't know anything."
"Didn't think so," grunted Maurice.
The thug swung the club again. This time, Maurice met the blow with a flashing sweep of his spatha. The club split in half. The shock of the blow knocked the stub out of the thug's hand.
He gasped. Gasped again, watching his hand amputated by another spatha-strike. Gasped again—started to gasp—watching the sword sweep toward his left temple. In a final despairing act, the thug threw up his left arm, trying to block the strike.
The spatha cut his arm off before it went halfway through his head. The thug dropped straight down onto his knees, like a pole-axed steer.
Maurice grunted, twisted the blade with his powerful wrist, and pulled it loose. The thug's body collapsed to the floor.
"Are there any left?" whispered Antonina.
The cataphract's chuckle was utterly humorless.
"Be serious, girl."
Maurice's eyes scanned the kitchen. A cold, grim gaze, at first. But, by the time those gray eyes reached Antonina, they were full of good cheer.
"Wish I'd met your pop," he said. "He must have been quite a guy."
Antonina laughed giddily.
"He was a complete scoundrel, Maurice! A worthless bum!"
Then, bursting into tears, she slid down the wall into a half-kneeling squat. She pressed the back of her hand—still holding