without so much as knocking.
"Just what the fuck do you—"
The sword went a quarter-inch into his chest. Not a mortal wound, painful as it was, not even a particularly bloody one. But the courier could feel the steel tip grating against his chestbone. And the hand which held that sword was as steady as a rock.
The courier's eyes began with that hand, and followed the length of the sword to the place where it disappeared into his chest. Everything else was a blur.
In a frozen daze, the courier heard a voice. He did not make out the words. The sword-tip jabbed against his sternum, pressing him back against the doorframe. He stared down at it, transfixed by the sight.
The words were repeated. Hindi words. Their meaning finally penetrated.
"Are there any more couriers coming after you?"
He understood, but
"Just what the fuck do you—"
The sword went a quarter-inch into his chest. Not a mortal wound, painful as it was, not even a particularly bloody one. But the courier could feel the steel tip grating against his chestbone. And the hand which held that sword was as steady as a rock.
The courier's eyes began with that hand, and followed the length of the sword to the place where it disappeared into his chest. Everything else was a blur.
In a frozen daze, the courier heard a voice. He did not make out the words. The sword-tip jabbed against his sternum, pressing him back against the doorframe. He stared down at it, transfixed by the sight.
The words were repeated. Hindi words. Their meaning finally penetrated.
"Are there any more couriers coming after you?"
He understood, but