|
Hearing Ruthven cry out, Degas swiftly pivoted away from Saeryn, rising in one fluid motion. As a lock of Gudryn's hair hit the floor, he was running. This man had a lot to answer for in Degas' book, and it seemed that the time for reckoning had come.
The ladies cried out, but Degas paid them no heed. He was not worried... the man had gotten a jump on him once, but that was only because he had been preoccupied and less than wary. Now, Degas' teenage years caught up with him. Thin though he was, Degas' was strong. In a wrestling match, he would be toast, but with an enemy that was cocky, careless, and even better, encumbered by a healer's potion, the long hours of sparring with the brother that Degas so longed to beat paid off. Fenrir has insisted that Degas be proficient at hand fighting as well as with a sword, so although the young man would have much preferred a comfortable chair by a warm fire with no company but his harp and some music, he sparred. Now, after so many years of forced training by his overly-cautious, overly-cynical, overly-everything older brother, Degas attacked the man that stood as a danger to everyone present.
Encumbered by his bandaged hands, Degas went for a swift kick instead of a punch. His foot shot out like lightening, coming in contact with the area just below Rand's ribs. The man hit the floor before he realized what had happened. By no means unconcious, Rand made to rise, but the potion made him slow. Degas picked the fallen sword off the floor and pointed it's razor sharp tip to the man's throat.
Breathing heavy, he spoke. "You have entered unbidden, attacked unprovoked, and brought danger to all present. I will not kill you without provocation... it is not my right. It is no man's right..." he murmered, more to himself than anyone. He spoke louder. "If you force me, you will die."
|