more. She crept forward. Around the next corner the passage opened into a large chamber. She moved silently to the door and peered in. Four men were playing cards at a table ten paces away. Mugs and a tall pitcher stood between them. Three of them were Ombo's 'soldiers', the fourth was Gramkintle. She flattened herself to the wall, thinking hard. She had to pass through that chamber to reach the dungeons below.
A voice came to her from the past. It was Fectur speaking, and she almost shut it out. But the image it brought to her was potent, and she took note. She slipped back along the passage, around the corner, and removed her clothing, all bar her boots.
She stopped. Am I insane? No, it was her best hope. There was no other way. She returned silently to the door of the big chamber, took a deep breath, gripped sword and dagger and stepped inside.
"Gentlemen, there is something we should discuss!"
The four looked around, and gaped. Issul drove hard towards them, not slackening her step. Her blade whirled. The first thug died before he had even risen from his seat, Issul's nakedness the last sight his eyes enjoyed. The second was on the far side of the table, and had a moment more to gather his senses. Even so, his eyes were reluctant to tear themselves from the sight of her lithe young body. Only as his comrade died did he seem to gain a clear picture of what was at hand. He snapped from his stupor, half-rose, groping for his sword, but before he had it from his sheath Issul was upon him. He staggered backwards, avoiding her first thrust, but as he regained his balance Issul stepped forward, swinging her sword in a wide arc. He tried to duck, too late. Her blade took off the top of his unprotected skull.
She spun around. The other henchman had his sword drawn and was on the far side of the table. Gramkintle was scrambling back from his seat, eyes and mouth agape in terror. He turned and began to run, but he was fat and slow, and though he tried to shout, his fear constricted his throat. In four steps Issul had caught him. He staggered on for a few steps more, blood flowering on the back of his jerkin, then slumped dying to the floor.
She turned. The last man seemed frozen in fear. As she advanced upon him he dropped his sword and fell to his knees, begging for his life. She did not look him in the eye, but killed him with a single blow.
Issul cast her eyes quickly about the chamber, breathing hard, then hastened back to the passage to regain her clothes. She felt sick and ebullient, weak and half-crazed, hardly believing what she had done. She thought of Fectur again. Years ago, in combat training, he had told the story of a female bandit he had been assigned to capture.
"Her name was Mirobin," he had said. "Mirobin the Cat. She was skilled, wily, and very, very deadly. She led a band of cutthroats, causing havoc across the region. For two years they had avoided capture. Queen Fallorn wanted her imprisoned or dead, and no one but I could accomplish the task. It took a while, but eventually I had her isolated in a cottage in a village. Her men were dead, or prisoners. Seven of my men entered the cottage. We knew she was alone, and there was but one room that she could be in. My men went in by the only two doors, and found it empty. Then, quite without warning, Mirobin was among them, dropping from the rafters, utterly naked. These were skilled and disciplined fighters, among my best. But she was a beauty, and no matter the circumstances, a man cannot but gape at the sight of a beautiful woman in all her naked glory. It is instinct, nature, pure and simple. Mirobin needed only a couple of heartbeats in which to act. Three of my seven died before they had taken their eyes from her breasts. The others were dead or wounded when she had done."
"Did she escape?" Issul had asked, enthralled.
Fectur had smiled his thin, heartless smile. "She could have done, but she made a
A voice came to her from the past. It was Fectur speaking, and she almost shut it out. But the image it brought to her was potent, and she took note. She slipped back along the passage, around the corner, and removed her clothing, all bar her boots.
She stopped. Am I insane? No, it was her best hope. There was no other way. She returned silently to the door of the big chamber, took a deep breath, gripped sword and dagger and stepped inside.
"Gentlemen, there is something we should discuss!"
The four looked around, and gaped. Issul drove hard towards them, not slackening her step. Her blade whirled. The first thug died before he had even risen from his seat, Issul's nakedness the last sight his eyes enjoyed. The second was on the far side of the table, and had a moment more to gather his senses. Even so, his eyes were reluctant to tear themselves from the sight of her lithe young body. Only as his comrade died did he seem to gain a clear picture of what was at hand. He snapped from his stupor, half-rose, groping for his sword, but before he had it from his sheath Issul was upon him. He staggered backwards, avoiding her first thrust, but as he regained his balance Issul stepped forward, swinging her sword in a wide arc. He tried to duck, too late. Her blade took off the top of his unprotected skull.
She spun around. The other henchman had his sword drawn and was on the far side of the table. Gramkintle was scrambling back from his seat, eyes and mouth agape in terror. He turned and began to run, but he was fat and slow, and though he tried to shout, his fear constricted his throat. In four steps Issul had caught him. He staggered on for a few steps more, blood flowering on the back of his jerkin, then slumped dying to the floor.
She turned. The last man seemed frozen in fear. As she advanced upon him he dropped his sword and fell to his knees, begging for his life. She did not look him in the eye, but killed him with a single blow.
Issul cast her eyes quickly about the chamber, breathing hard, then hastened back to the passage to regain her clothes. She felt sick and ebullient, weak and half-crazed, hardly believing what she had done. She thought of Fectur again. Years ago, in combat training, he had told the story of a female bandit he had been assigned to capture.
"Her name was Mirobin," he had said. "Mirobin the Cat. She was skilled, wily, and very, very deadly. She led a band of cutthroats, causing havoc across the region. For two years they had avoided capture. Queen Fallorn wanted her imprisoned or dead, and no one but I could accomplish the task. It took a while, but eventually I had her isolated in a cottage in a village. Her men were dead, or prisoners. Seven of my men entered the cottage. We knew she was alone, and there was but one room that she could be in. My men went in by the only two doors, and found it empty. Then, quite without warning, Mirobin was among them, dropping from the rafters, utterly naked. These were skilled and disciplined fighters, among my best. But she was a beauty, and no matter the circumstances, a man cannot but gape at the sight of a beautiful woman in all her naked glory. It is instinct, nature, pure and simple. Mirobin needed only a couple of heartbeats in which to act. Three of my seven died before they had taken their eyes from her breasts. The others were dead or wounded when she had done."
"Did she escape?" Issul had asked, enthralled.
Fectur had smiled his thin, heartless smile. "She could have done, but she made a
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