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.
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