She was dressed in red. Leather. Steel studs. A short skirt. Bare thighs. A curved sabre in her hand. Her hair was dark. Her eyes were bright. Her face was calm.
She was smiling.
The second knight— Sir Corwin— charged. His spear was forward. His shield was up. His feet were planted. He thrust— the spear tip aimed at the woman's chest.
She sidestepped.
Not barely. Not by inches. By a hair. The spear tip passed her ribs. Her hand went to the shaft. She grabbed. She pulled. Sir Corwin stumbled— forward, off-balance. Her sabre went up. Under the arm. Between the plates. Into the armpit. Into the flesh.
"AAAGH—!"
Sir Corwin screamed. The spear fell. His hand went to the wound— to the armpit, to the blood, to the steel that was inside him. She pulled the blade free. The blood came. She kicked his shield. He fell. On his back. On the marble. His blood on the stone.
