hand snaps, the motion of the sword transitioning to a perpendicular
angle that meets her arm just above the elbow, severing it cleanly,
continuing further, into her side, and only through instinct and will
does she escape what would have been a fatal blow as she twists away
and falls, knife clattering to the ground. The old man has crawled
to the front gate, and he is struggling to his feet, wrenching at
the door, but those frail arms have no strength, and the warrior thrusts
his sword forward, through the old man's back, the body, the chest,
to the gate, and the tip of the sword meets the metal with a bell-like
clang. The old man goes rigid, and the warrior smells shit -- yes,
the bastard has relieved himself, a common reaction. The warrior pulls
the sword out, taking a moment to gaze incuriously at the black bits
of gore that have accumulated on the blade. The old man has
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crawled away from the door, over towards a clump of bushes at the
edge of the courtyard. He lays fingers on the coin-sized leaves, pulling
them toward his face, trying to wipe away imagined blood. The true
blood dribbles from his mouth and cakes the lipstick there.
Go ahead, he hacks. Go ahead.
The warrior stands over him. His wound just above his nose has opened
up. He tosses his head angrily, and droplets rain on the old man.
The old man is grinning even as his breaths grow more labored, and
he licks his lips.
No!
She is
upon the warrior, knife in her left hand, the blade aimed at the spot
where his heart would be,
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