Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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No. Notover. You don't have me Zaik-damned yet,sheep-fuckers — Twosolas barred Shkai'ra's
way. Fear vanished as combat-mind took over; the leg bore her weight, the blood was only a trickle, a
muscle wound. She could force strength out of it, tearing the sliced fibers wider, maybe—worry about
that later.
Neither of them was armored; one was an older man, white-haired, holding a head-high staff as if he
knew how to use it. The other was two meters of bad news; in his thirties and tanned brown, eyes slitted
and cool, sapphires against the skin. There was a paler band across his forehead, from the inner padding
rim of a helmet, worn for years. Some sort of light dress sword in his hand,not what he used normally,
but it was steel and sharp and had a point. The two Arkans looked at each other, at her, then spread out
on either side, old man to her left, young to her right. It had been about a full minute since she killed the
porter, enough time for most of the spectators to flee, notquite enough for help to arrive.
Fast or nothing, she thought, her mind moving with crystalline speed. Feint left, toward the oldsolas .
No fear in his face, only concentration; his shoulders looked thick enough to crack bones with the long
oak staff. It hummed toward her, waist-high, as the younger man closed in on her right. She leaped; not
straight up, that would have left her open to him when she landed. Forward, divingover it and to the old
man's left. Jackknifing in mid-air, shoulder-high, landing on crossed, forearms, tucking her head and
curving her spine. Nothing for it but sheer speed, pulling her feet in to hasten the spin, coming up out of it
and letting the point of the longsword draw her around in a blurring curve. The straight sword was less
suited to the drawing slash than her saber, and she felt her hand adjust as at a distance, abstract.
Soft drag of muscle against the steel, the brief hard pop of taut tendons. The oldsolas toppled backward
with a cry of shock. Shkai'ra surged forward, ramming the dagger in her left hand under his ribs through
the kidney, expelling her breath in ahunnhhh of effort as she tossed him off the blade and into the other
man's arms.
"Pah!" he screamed, face contorting.Father !
Shkai'ra lunged longline, right foot advanced behind her point, left back. Long limbs and a long sword,
the young man would have been spitted through the neck if he had not dropped the dying man and
whipped his blade around in a cross-parry. The longsword wentskringgg along the length of it and the
hilts locked; she stabbed up with the dagger, felt his hand slap down on her wrist, blocking. Their feet
stamped as they strained chest-to-chest, open mouths snarling. There was a glazed ferocity to his, a hint
of madness. More than that in the unnatural strength that squeezed her weapons in towards her body.
Her knees tensed, preparing to leap back, wrestling a strong man gone berserk with rage was abad idea.
Then something locked around her thighs, iron-strong.
The old man. Dying, but she would have to hammer in his skull or sever the limbs that gripped her.
Instead she threw herself backward. The youngersolas came with her; she twisted as she fell on her
back, but dodging the knee that would have driven the breath out of her body. His weight fell on her,
pinning her arms, and she could feel him shift as their bodies grappled for advantage. Ready to shift his
pinning grip to an elbow, freeing steel to kill her. There was a peculiar intimacy to the embrace, bodies
seeking to make death rather than life.
Only one thing to do, she thought, working her lips; the bandages were thin there. She turned her head
and thrust her mouth up onto his throat.
Tough, was her first thought. Thick neck, muscles like woven cable. She bit, trying to drive the teeth in,
and felt the windpipe slide outward a bit. A gasping grunt from the man above her, and she screamed