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from his feet and pinning him to the wall by his neck. Cazaril s right knee
ground into dy Joal s groin. He kept up the pressure, to deny dy Joal his
trapped arm; the other clawed at him, and he pinned it, too, to the wall. Dy
Joal s wrist twisted in the slippery blood of his grip, but could not break
free. The purpling young man did not, of course, cry out, though his eyes
rolled whitely, and a grunting gargle broke from his lips. His heels hammered
the wall. The bravos knew Cazaril s crooked hands had held a pen; they d
forgotten he d held an oar. Dy Joal wasn t going anywhere now.
Cazaril snarled in his ear, low-voiced but audible to all,  I don t duel, boy.
I kill as a soldier kills, which is as a butcher kills, as quickly,
efficiently, and with as least risk to myself as I can arrange. If I
decide you die, you will die when I choose, where I choose, by what means I
choose, and you will never see the blow coming. He released dy Joal s
now-enfeebled arm and brought his left wrist up, and pressed the bloody cut to
his terrified victim s half-open, trembling mouth.  You want three drops of my
blood, for your honor? You shall drink them. Blood and spittle spurted around
dy Joal s chattering teeth, but the bravo didn t even dare try to bite, now.
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
 Drink, damn you! Cazaril pressed harder, smearing blood all over dy Joal s
face, fascinated with the vividness of it, red streaks on livid skin, the
catch of rough beard stubble against his wrist, the bright blur of the
candlelight reflected in the welling tears spilling from the staring eyes. He
stared into them, watching them cloud.
 Cazaril, for the gods sake let him breathe
. Dy Maroc s distressed cry broke through Cazaril s red fog.
Cazaril reduced the pressure of his grip, and dy Joal inhaled, shuddering.
Keeping his knee in place, Cazaril drew back his bloodied left hand in a fist,
and placed, very precisely, a hard blow to the bravo s stomach that shook the
air again; dy Joal s knees jerked up with it. Only then did Cazaril step back
and release the man.
Dy Joal fell to the floor and bent over himself, gasping and choking, weeping,
not even trying to get
up. After a moment, he vomited.
Cazaril stepped across the mess of food and wine and bile toward Urrac, who
lurched backward until stopped by the far wall. Cazaril leaned into his face
and repeated softly,  I don t duel. But if you seek to die like a bludgeoned
steer, cross me again.
He turned on his heel; dy Maroc s face, drained white, wavered past his
vision, hissing,  Cazaril, have you gone mad
?
 Try me. Cazaril grinned fiercely at him. Dy Maroc fell back. Cazaril strode
down the corridor past a blur of men, blood drops still spattering off his
fingers as he swung his arms, and out into the chill shock of the night. The
closing door cut off a rising babble of voices.
He almost ran across the icy cobbles of the courtyard toward the main block
and refuge, both his steps and his breath growing faster and less even as
something sanity, delayed terror? -seeped back into his mind. His belly
cramped violently as he mounted the stone stairs. His fingers shook so badly
as he fumbled out his key to let himself into his bedchamber that he dropped
it twice and had to use both hands, braced against the door, to finally guide
it into the lock. He locked the door again behind him, and fell, wheezing and
groaning, across his bed. His attendant ghosts had fled into hiding during the
confrontation, their desertion unnoticed by him at the time. He rolled onto
his side, and curled around his aching stomach. Now, at last, his cut wrist
began to throb. So did his head.
He d seen men go berserk a few times, in the madness of battle. He d just
never imagined what it must feel like from the inside, before. No one had
mentioned the floating exhilaration, intoxicating as wine or sex. An unusual,
but natural, result of nerves, mortality, and fright, jammed together in too
small a space, too short a time. Not unnatural. Not . . . the thing in his
belly reaching out to twist and taunt and trick him into death, and its own
release. . . .
Oh
.
You know what you did to Dondo. Now you know what Dondo is doing to you.
It was by chance, late the following morning, that Cazaril spied Orico ambling [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]