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Vol.5, Ch.3, P.10

That outburst sprang from nowhere other than the thundering throat of Sigmund, who, in his fury, rammed his right fist into the ruffian’s face.

“Gapfh!?” the latter yelped. His dagger fell, bloodless. His body foundered, bloody of nose. Sigmund stepped nigh, keen to continue the tussle. But somehow escaping unconsciousness, the ruffian fumbled back to his feet, took up his dagger, and stood dangerously again.

“…Why, I’ll get ye fer that!” he barked. “Get ye dead! Dead!!”

“Then come get it done!!” Sigmund roared, and with stunning speed, he pelted unto his opponent. The dagger flashed in answer—but found naught. The hand that held it convulsed; the arm that swung it twisted. For Sigmund had seized the man’s wrist, and wrenched it, and wrung it with such force that once again the dagger fled the