“Come on, lads!” he bellowed. “I’ve got the bitch trapped!” He waved his club triumphantly.
Antonina backed against the stove and seized both of the remaining knives. She flipped one of them end-for-end. Now holding it by the blade, she made a throwing motion. The club-wielding man in front of her drew back, flinching.
It was a feint. She half-turned and threw the knife at another thug coming through the kitchen door.
That knife, however, was too blade-heavy for a good throw. The thug howled from the pain—the haft bruised his chest badly—and staggered back out of sight. But Antonina knew that he was not even disabled.
Despairing, she turned back to face her immediate opponent.
I didn’t think there’d be so many.
She pushed all despair aside. She didn’t expect to survive, but she would sell her life dearly.
From the outer room, Antonina heard a sudden shouting uproar. Cries of triumph, she assumed, but ignored them. Her attention was completely fixed on her assailant in the kitchen.
The thug in front of her danced back and forth, snarling and waving his club. For all the man’s bravado, Antonina realized that he was also very frightened. She had slaughtered a number of his fellows, after all. And—like the fat shopkeeper—the street tough recognized the expert way she was holding her knife.
He cocked his head, without taking his eyes from her. “Come on!” he bellowed. “Damn you—I’ve got her trapped!”
Antonina stepped forward. Her knife waved, feinted, probed. The thug backed against the wall, swinging his club wildly. Antonina kept her distance, looking for an opening.
Again, the thug shouted.
“What the hell are you waiting for, you assholes?”
From the door, a cold voice answered.
“They’re waiting for Satan.”
Antonina gasped. Her eyes sped to the door. She staggered back against the other wall, almost collapsing from relief.
The thug’s eyes followed hers. An instant later, all color left his face.
Maurice stalked into the kitchen. His helmet was covered with blood. A piece of a brain slid off his blood-soaked half-armor. The spatha in his right hand dripped blood. His face was spattered with blood. Blood trailed from his gray beard.
For all the world, he didn’t look like a man so much as a killing machine. A thing of iron, not flesh. His eyes, too, were gray. They gleamed out of his gore-covered face like two rivets.
Maurice circled the pile of bodies and the upended table in the middle of the kitchen. His steps were relaxed, almost casual, as if he were strolling through a garden.
Hissing with terror, the thug backed into the far corner of the kitchen, against the door which led to the rooms above. He groped, found the door latch, shook it in a frenzy.
Useless. The shopkeeper had bolted the door from the other side.
Now the thug screamed, with terror and rage. Maurice ignored the sound completely. He advanced until he was almost within sword range. The thug swung his club franctically. The blows were short, by half a foot. Maurice didn’t even bother to duck.
The hecatontarch turned his head very slightly. Just enough to ask Antonina:
“Is there anything you want to find out from this piece of shit?”
Antonina shook her head. Then, realizing that Maurice couldn’t see her, said:
“No. He won’t know anything.”
“Didn’t think so,” grunted Maurice.
The thug swung the club again. This time, Maurice met the blow with a flashing sweep of his spatha. The club split in half. The shock of the blow knocked the stub out of the thug’s hand.
He gasped. Gasped again, watching his hand amputated by another spatha-strike. Gasped again—started to gasp—watching the sword sweep toward his left temple. In a final despairing act, the thug threw up his left arm, trying to block the strike.
The spatha cut his arm off before it went halfway through his head. The thug dropped straight down onto his knees, like a pole-axed steer.
Maurice grunted, twisted the blade with his powerful wrist, and pulled it loose. The thug’s body collapsed to the floor.
“Are there any left?” whispered Antonina.
The cataphract’s chuckle was utterly humorless.
“Be serious, girl.”
Maurice’s eyes scanned the kitchen. A cold, grim gaze, at first. But, by the time those gray eyes reached Antonina, they were full of good cheer.