T’ang Lang struck.
The castle-man shrieked once as he was hit. Tang struck with such power that several blades pierced clear through the castle-man’s body. With easy strength, T’ang automatically absorbed the recoil. He pulled the mortally wounded youth toward him. Desperately, writhing and squirming, the castle-man shifted his rapier. He jabbed, missed, and jabbed again.
To the majority of inhabitants in Tang’s world that rapier was death. Even the Moving Mountains, whose size would seem to protect them, feared that blade.
It hit once, skidding harmlessly off Tang’s gleaming armor. It was a last pass.
T’ang inspected his pinioned, helpless victim. His method for the coup de grace was efficient and rarely varied. He went for the skull. The castle-man was lucky. He died instantly. Others had not been so for-
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runate. Tang was not especially concerned whether or not his victims were dead before he began eating.
The flesh of the castle-man had been good, juicy, and succulent, if spare. Having completed his meal, T’ang absently shoved the cleaned skeleton off the side of his platform. He did not bother to watch it go crashing to the earth below.
He finished cleaning his utensils, ascertained once more the position of the sun, and set himself again.
It was late afternoon, almost evening, when the encounter took place.
Two of the Moving Mountains came into view. Although they were not as tall as the light-eater T’ang sat upon, they massed many, many more times. Only the Bodikiddartha itself was greater.