full in the throat. The world blurred and he went down, not feeling the fall.
The pack surged forward, and Jubal went to meet them, his sword flashing in the
sun as he desperately tried to win his way to the exit.
A few fell before his first rush – he didn’t know how many -but the rest
scattered and closed about him from all sides. Sticks jabbed at his face faster
than he could parry them, and he felt the touch of knives as small forms darted
from behind him to slash and duck away.
Realization came to him that the harassment would bring him down before he could
clear the wooden cases; abandoning his charge, he paused, whirling and cutting,
trying to clear a space around him. The urchins were sharp-toothed, elusive
phantoms, disappearing from in front of him to worry him from behind. It flashed
through his mind that he was going to die! The survivor of countless gladiator
duels was going to meet his end at the hands of angry children!
The thought drove him to desperate action. With one last powerful cut, he broke
off his efforts at defence and tried to sprint for the wall to get something
solid at his back. A small girl grabbed his ankle and clung with all her
strength. He stumbled, nearly falling, and cut downwards viciously without
looking. His leg came free, but another urchin leapt on to his back. hammering
at his head with a rock.
Jubal lurched sideways, scraping the child off along the wall, then turned to
face the pack. A stick pierced his mask, opening a gash in his forehead which
began to drip blood in his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he laid about him wildly