Del sagged to the floor, her body wracked with pain. She fought through the film of coming unconsciousness to see a sight she wouldn’t soon forget.
The rogue was on the business end of a sword, four or five feet of steel. He was held two feet off the ground by Marrin who looked like some kind of Nordic god. Except for a hotel towel wrapped around his waist he was completely naked. His golden hair, loose from its usual scrunchy, hung down over his shoulders, bare chest and stomach. Every inch of him was well toned with muscle that Del had never before noticed. An overhead light shone down on his hair and skin and gave him a kind of divine glow.
I must be delirious, Del thought. I’m dying. I’m already dead. Marrin never looked so good.
“Saprophyte mutha’,” Marrin said. The eccentric mixed with the ghetto seemed oddly perfect as he spoke.
In a movement that was just short of miraculous, Marrin adjusted the grip on his sword, lifted the blade to point upward, and knelt at the same time. The pommel of the sword thunked on the floor and Del watched Jenoa slide down the entire length to grunt when he hit the cross guard. Taloned hands made a grab for Marrin, but he was too fast. In a blur of motion, he let go of the sword hilt, pulled and punched home a cold-forged iron spike.
The spike didn’t come out the other side of the rogue’s skull, but only just.
Jenoa’s body convulsed and a shockwave exploded outward. It knocked Marrin backward and slammed him sideways into, and almost clear through, the wall opposite Del. A light dust fell over his still form.