The Stoneholding

something, stop him!" Her voice quavered, while Baldrick came on slowly, holding his broadsword at mid-body, taking gruesome relish in prolonging her horror and fear.

Frysan moved closer, calculating his chances of evading that wicked blade in these smaller quarters, making ready to feint and lunge -- one last desperate bid to save the royal family.

"Aye, come, my light-footed friend," Baldrick beckoned, his scowling face grown pallid. He stopped for a moment, shifting the point of his weapon, lifting it to shoulder level. "Let's see what you can do on a smaller dancing floor. A dashing figure wouldn't you cut with a peg leg, my limping Guardsman?"

Quick as a coiled snake, he sent the blade of his broadsword whistling through the air in a deadly arc that would have severed Frysan's knees had he not leaped aside like a cat. As he fought to regain his balance, his feet shot out from under him on the polished marble floor, slipping on a small pool of Baldrick's blood, as slick as mutton grease. The shock sent Frysan's sword flying out of his hand right to Baldrick's feet, who stopped it with his boot. No way could Frysan retrieve it. Grinning mirthlessly, Baldrick kicked it behind him, like a bull pawing the ground. It rattled to a stop under the window of the sickroom, its dark steel bars visible in the dim light. Frysan rolled to evade the big man as he closed, skittering across the floor spider-like, deprived of his weapon. The baby's cries grew shriller yet. Baldrick swung his body around, aware of the Queen's deadly rage behind ...