10 – Aftermath by Asprin, Robert

But if he had done that, the knife that flicked through the air above his rolling body would instead have punched between his shoulder blades.

Some brawlers, like sharks in a feeding frenzy, don’t need a reason to kill; only a target.

“Star!” the caravan master bellowed as he hit, the shock of impact turning the word into more of a gasp than he had expected. His cloak and shoulder muscles had to break the fall, because his left hand, the downside hand, held the long knife that could be the margin of survival in the next instants.

The door of the tavern beside Samlor was blocked by two men, the larger holding the smaller and stabbing with mindless repetition. The only sound the victim made now was the squelch of his flesh parting before the steel.

A watchman had stepped from a door down the street. The lantern he raised did not illuminate figures, but its light wavered from metal in the hands of half a dozen men scurrying toward the altercation.

Samlor had heard that there were local militias raised from every few blocks of the Old City. They differed from street gangs in their expressed determination to keep order and protect their enclaves-but that didn’t mean it would be healthy for an outsider to fall into their hands after starting a brawl on their turf. Militiamen rarely saw the need for a trial when there was already a rope or a sword handy.

The squad marching toward the noise from the other direction was paid to enforce the law, but the priorities of the men comprising the unit tended to be more personal- They were regular army, and the quicker they silenced the trouble, the quicker they could get the fuck back to the patrol station where they didn’t have to worry about showers of bricks and roofing tiles.