Foundryside (The Founders Trilogy #1) - Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,47

part of whatever they were swung at, and then target the weakest part of that weakest part, and then to target the weakest part of that weakest part of the weakest part, and then strike that exact area. Operating off of these commands, the blades would be able to cut through a solid oak beam with little force.

But that was just one possibility. Other scrivings convinced the blades they were hurtling through the air with amplified gravity—this was what Whip’s head was scrived to do, for example. Others had been scrived specifically to break down and destroy other metals, like armor and weapons. And still others burned incredibly hot when whirled through the air, giving them the possibility of setting one’s opponent alight.

All of these possibilities ran through Gregor’s head as the two thugs stalked through Sark’s rooms. So what I need to do, he thought, is make sure they never get to use them.

He watched as the two men examined the open back of the stove. They crouched and peered in, then exchanged a glance, perhaps worried.

They turned and approached the balcony door. One gestured to the other, silently pointing out that the lock had been broken in. Then they started walking toward the bedroom, with the one with the rapier in the lead.

Still hidden behind the door, Gregor waited until the first of his opponents had stepped into the bedroom, with the second one right behind him. Then he kicked the door as hard as he could.

The door hurled shut, smashing the second thug in the face. Gregor could feel the wood resonate with the blow, and felt satisfied with the damage done. The thug with the rapier turned around, raising his weapon, but Gregor snapped Whip forward and cracked him in the face.

But the man did not crumple, whimpering, as Gregor had been expecting. Instead the thug stumbled back, shook himself, and charged forward again.

The man’s mask, thought Gregor. It must be scrived to deflect strikes. Maybe all of his scrumming clothing’s scrived!

Gregor dove to the side as the man’s rapier slashed through the wall like it was made of warm cheese. Though it was dark in the rooms, he could tell that the rapier was, like Whip’s head, scrived to amplify its gravity, crashing through the air like a man ten times as strong had swung it. Which, Gregor knew from experience, was a dangerous weapon to face—but also a dangerous weapon to wield.

Gregor rose and flicked Whip out. The truncheon’s head flew forward and smashed the man on his knee, hard enough to knock him over—but he stayed standing. Not good, thought Gregor. Their outfits must have cost a fortune…

He did not have time to reflect on the cost of their armaments, though, because then the second thug barged in, almost knocking the door off its hinges. The thug with the rapier then pivoted, sword in his hand, trying to pin Gregor into the corner.

Gregor grabbed the mattress on Sark’s bed and flung it at his two assailants. The man with the rapier slashed it in two, sending feathers flying everywhere. Gregor used this momentary distraction to hurl yet more furniture at them—a chair, a small desk—though his goal was not to harm them, but to clutter the room, making it harder to move.

The man with the rapier hacked his way through, cursing. But now the space was too small for them both to confront him—only the one with the rapier could engage.

He led the man back, toward the window of the bedroom, and got in position. His attacker gave a rough shout, and thrust forward with the rapier, aiming for Gregor’s heart.

Gregor fell to the side and sent Whip’s head flying at the man’s feet.

His attacker tripped. And ordinarily this would not have meant much—but Gregor’s attacker had just thrust his rapier forward, expecting to plunge it into Gregor’s chest, and the weapon accelerated as it flew; and now that there was nothing to stop it, it just kept hurtling forward, pulling the man along like someone trying to walk a large dog that’s just seen a rat and bolted after it.

The sword plunged right through the window behind Gregor—and took its owner with it. Gregor stood and watched with grim pleasure as the thug sailed down three floors and crashed onto the wooden sidewalk.

Scrived defenses or not, he thought, the man’s brain is soup now.

“Son of a bitch,” snarled the second attacker. “You…You son of a bitch!” He did something to