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

through the mouthful of tough rubbery flesh, pouring every ounce of herself into her clamping jaws. Both
came up off the ground as her back curved, convulsing, the cords standing out in her neck; she jerked
her head from side to side. Pain in her jaw, as if the big muscles that ran from the hinge to the temple
were about to rip loose from the bone. Skin tore under her teeth, and her mouth was full of the salt and
iron of blood. Suddenly he was trying to pull away, there was a shifting and turning of weights, then she
was lying across him. The windpipe collapsed like a cylinder made of stiff paper, and one of the big veins
beside it split open between her teeth.
Thesolas writhed, and the blood gushed fast enough that she breathed some, had to spit and gag; more
poured warm and stinging down over her face and neck and chest, soaking the cotton drill fabric of her
tunic. With a grunt of disgust she reached down and hammered the pommel of her sword on the back of
the old man's head, athock-thock-thock sound until the leather-thong arms relaxed. Her lungs felt tight
as she forced herself not to pant, and there was a ringing in her ears. It was almost enough to cover the
pounding sound of hobnailed sandals and blowing whistles, as the Watch ran into the courtyard.
There were two of them, armed; barbed javelins, short swords, truncheons, and they had openface
helmets and mail shirts enameled with the usual Imperial scarlet. Not as bright as the blood that coated
Shkai'ra from sodden bandages to knees, nor as vivid red as the slick pool they skidded in as they
braked to a stop, eyes blinking as they took in the carnage that littered the courtyard pavement. Some of
the bodies were still thrashing and moaning as Shkai'ra rose, the sword dripping in her hand, the white
snarl of her teeth the only thing not red. One of them jabbed with his spear, as much to fend her off as to
strike. She uncoiled from the ground with the hilt in both hands, cut sideways, and the barbed spearhead
fell in one direction, backswing and took him across the side of the neck. The man collapsed like a
puppet with its strings cut, and she lunged across him at the other. The strike missed: he was running as
fast as he could, away. Shkai'ra turned and almost fell as the pain in her leg struck again, then limped
quickly across the courtyard! There was a nest of tenements and alleys over there; she'd cased the place
before coming to the Edifice. She spared a glance down at herself; the blood was beginning to clot,
sticky on the hilt of the longsword.I'd better get off the streets and get some new clothes , she
thought. Even in a big city, this was a little much for a main avenue.
XX
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Just because she thought "I'm dead" doesn't mean she is. It happened all the time in fights; then one
would find oneself-saved by something that seemed miraculous at the time, but commonplace later. But
the ghost-pain in Megan's leg could not have come from a fearful thought.She must be wounded. How
badly ?
She leaned back against her elbows, passing on the flask of beer, and stared into the fire. Even in the
more regimented parts of camp, evening campfires evolved out of some unspoken group decision; some
cook-fires would be doused and others brightened for people to gather around, without a word about
whose turn it was to host. Her fire, in the secure section, seemed to be the one tonight.
Sova was with the Slaughterers, under oath to return at midnight sentry-change. This crowd was mostly
Yeolis, with others, specializing in who knew what aspect of war, sprinkled throughout. A Yeoli woman
had a harp, war-strung with expensive steel strings, and a dark, heavyset Brahvnikian with a
mustache—what was his name?—had brought… afahlut , he called it, an instrument like a fife or a pipe
but with bellows that he pumped under his arm.