“Spoils the silk,” she answered. She waited a brief moment, daring them with her haughty gaze to make their move or to scatter from her path. The man on her left stopped his incessant sword tapping; the one beside him chewed his lip. Yet they were unwilling to back away from her, a mere woman.
“She mus’ think she’s purty good wit’ that sticker,” said one of the men behind her.
Chenaya had no more time to waste. “Watch carefully,” she advised with impatience. “I don’t often give lessons to scum.”
Her hand was almost a blur. Bright steel flashed through the air. A soft thunk; a groan of surprise and fear sounded as a throwing star embedded in the first man’s throat. His sword tumbled into the dirt, followed instantly by his lifeless body.
Even before the star scored, Chenaya had her sword free. She ran screaming at the man on her right. In stark terror he raised his sword to protect his head.
Her blade crashed down twice against his, then arced down and across, opening his belly. On the backswing she knocked the sword from his grip, severing several fingers.
There was no time to watch him fall. She whirled, settled in a deep forward stance to meet the remaining two. But these were beggars, not seasoned warriors.
Still, they knew the better part of valor. She watched their departing backs as they ran for shelter beneath the bridge. Laughing, she hurled a second star with all her arena-trained skill. A scream ripped from one of the fleeing beggars; he tumbled headlong through the weeds, down the bank, and into the river.