Hunt the Space-Witch!: Seven Adventures in Time and Space by Silverberg Robert

Author:Silverberg, Robert [Silverberg, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Fantasy
ISBN: 9781504014267
Amazon: B00Z8POMPG
Goodreads: 25997895
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2011-02-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Five

They circled tentatively around each other, the big man and the small one. La Floquet seemed to have reached a murderous pitch of intensity; muscles quivered in his jaws as he glared at Thornhill.

“Put that knife down,” Thornhill said. “Have you blown your stack, La Floquet? You can’t kill a man in the Valley. It won’t work.”

“Perhaps I can’t kill a man. Still, I can wound him.”

“What have I ever done to you?”

“You came to the Valley. I could have handled the others, but you—! You were the one who taunted me into climbing the mountain. You were the one who took Marga.”

“I didn’t take anyone. You didn’t see me twisting her arm. She picked me over you, and for that I’m genuinely sorry.”

“You’ll be more than sorry, Thornhill!”

Thornhill forced a grin. This little kill dance had gone on too long as it was. He sensed Marga not far behind him watching in horror.

“Why you murderous little paranoid, give me that piece of stone before you slash yourself up!” He took a quick step forward, reaching for La Floquet’s wrist. The little man’s eyes blazed dangerously. He pirouetted backward, snapping a curse at Thornhill in some alien language, and drove the knife downward with a low, cry of triumph.

Thornhill swerved, but the jagged blade ripped into his arm three inches above the elbow, biting into the soft flesh on the inside of his biceps, and La Floquet sliced quickly downward, cutting a bloody trail for nearly eight inches. Thornhill felt a sudden sharp burst of pain down to the middle of his forearm, and a warm flow of blood gushed past his wrist into the palm of his hand. He heard Marga’s sharp gasp.

Then he moved forward, ignoring the pain, and caught La Floquet’s arm just as the smaller man was lifting it for a second slash. Thornhill twisted; something snapped in La Floquet’s arm, and the little man gave forth a brief moan of pain. The knife dropped from suddenly uncontrollable fingers and landed slightly on an angle, its tip resting on a pebble. Thornhill planted his foot on the dagger and leaned down heavily, shattering it.

Each of them now had only limited use of his right hand. La Floquet charged back toward Thornhill like someone possessed, head down as if to butt, but at the last moment swerved upward, driving his good hand into Thornhill’s jaw. Thornhill rocked backward, pivoted around, smashed down at La Floquet, and heard teeth splinter. He wondered when the Watcher would show up to end the fight—and whether these wounds would heal.

La Floquet’s harsh breathing was the only sound audible. He was shaking his head, clearing it, readying himself for a new assault. Thornhill tried to blank out the searing pain of the gash in his arm.

He stepped forward and hit La Floquet quickly, spinning him half around; bringing his slashed right hand up, Thornhill drove it into La Floquet’s middle. A wall of rocklike muscle stunned his fist. But the breath had been knocked from La Floquet; he weaved uncertainly, gray-faced, wobbly-legged.

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