Two people were in what
Keegan presumed was the master bedroom. He could hear one pacing, his thoughts
moving rapidly from one thing to another as he mentally planned how to attack
his next target. The other person in the room was having totally different
thoughts as she watched the terrorist. Keegan knew it was a woman from the
tenor of her imaginings. For a second he got distracted, wondering if the
position she envisioned herself and the terrorist attempting was even possible.
The angry voice of the
terrorist brought Keegan back to what he was doing. Moments later the door flew
open and the woman came into view. “He’s probably in the kitchen, fixing yet
another snack,” she said dismissively as she headed towards the stairs.
When she reached the bottom
and crossed the downstairs’ hallway, Keegan was a few yards behind her. By the
time she was opening the door to the kitchen he was a foot behind her, moving
so silently she was totally unaware of his presence until his arm snaked around
her throat and the kahnjarli pierced
her heart. He choked off her cry of surprise, still holding her against his
body until the last of her life fled. Then, after glancing around and spotting
a large walk-in freezer along one wall, he thrust her still form inside.
“Two down, one to go,” he
whispered so softly that if anyone had been listening they would not have heard
him.
Silently he returned one
more time to the second floor. The door to the room was still open and he could
hear the Scriostóir pacing back and forth. Keegan sensed his angry thoughts as
he waited for his two bodyguards to return.
“They’re dead, I’m afraid,”
Keegan said with a sardonic grin as he stepped into the room.
The Scriostóir swung around
to face him, a cavalry sword hanging loosely in one hand, a double-barreled
‘howdah’ pistol pointed at Keegan’s chest. “I wondered when one of you would be
sent after me,” he said, an evil smile curling up his lips.
“Not soon enough,” Keegan
replied as he stepped to one side, his flail reappearing in his right hand, a
great sword in his left, which he held as if it weighed no more than a fencing
foil.
“Just a bit behind the times
aren’t you?” the Scriostóir commented as he pulled the trigger of the pistol.
“Sometimes the older the
weapon, the better,” was Keegan’s reply as he adroitly leapt out of the way of
the two bullets speeding towards him. “And now you’re down to one weapon until
you get a chance to reload.”
“One is all I require.” The
Scriostóir danced easily out of reach of the great sword’s blade, coming in
under the swing, thrusting the saber up, intent on skewering Keegan through the
gut. He was partially successful, the tip of the blade tearing an inch deep
gash along Keegan’s ribs.
In turn, Keegan brought the
head of the flail swinging down on his foe’s arm with bone-crushing ferocity.
The battle continued, each
combatant bringing forth a new weapon to counteract that of his enemy’s. Blood
spattered the floor and walls; furniture was used to good affect either to give
one or the other of them the advantage of height, or for momentary protection.
In the end, it was a mighty
blow from a battle axe that defeated the Scriostóir. Blood flowed from his
severed arm as he sank to the floor, staring up at Keegan in shock.
“You were a worthy opponent,
evil though you are,” Keegan said with respect in his voice. Then he took a
small, ceremonial dagger from its sheath at his waist. Kneeling before his
enemy, he said, “Mar a fuair bás duit aon uair amháin, mar sin beidh tú bás
arís. Síochána a bheith agat le an am seo,” plunging the dagger into the heart of the Scriostóir.
*****
((Mar a fuair bás duit aon
uair amháin, mar sin beidh tú bás arís. Síochána a bheith agat le an am seo - As
you died once, so you will die again. Peace be with you this time.))
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