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