10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

Samlor’s right hand slammed his own dagger up and through the stranger’s ribcage till the crosshilt stopped at the breastbone. The cara- van master could have disarmed his opponent without putting a foot of steel through his chest, but reflex didn’t know that and instinct didn’t care.

The stranger-the dead man, now, with steel from his diaphragm to the back of his throat-lifted at the short, powerful blow. His head snapped back-his mouth was still smiling-and hammered the hoop which suspended the lamps. They sloshed and went out as the heavy oil doused their wicks.

“Star, keep behind-” Samlor ordered as the light dimmed and his right hand jerked down to clear his weapon from the torso in which he had just imbedded it. The stranger flopped forward loosely, but the blade remained stuck.

Somebody’s hurled beer mug smashed the lantern behind the bar. The Vulgar Unicorn was as dark as the bowels of hell.

Samlor ducked and hunched back against the bar while he tugged at his knife hilt with enough strength to have forced a camel to its knees.

There was a grunt and an oak-topped table crashed over. Somebody screamed as if he were being opened from groin to gullet-as may have been the case. Darkness in a place like this was both an opportunity and a source of panic. Either could lead to slaughter.

Samlor’s dagger wouldn’t come free. He hadn’t felt it grate bone as it went in, and it didn’t feel now as if the top were caught on ribs or the stranger’s vertebrae. The blade didn’t flex at all, the way it should have done if it were held at one point. It was more as if Samlor had thrust the steel into fresh concrete and were coming back a day later in a vain attempt to withdraw it.