"James Alan Gardner - League of Peoples 06 - Trapped" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gardner James Alan)

direction.

EvenI could see it was a graceless attack; the alien held his weapon awkwardly, as if he'd never used it
before. Perhaps he was hampered by the decorative fripperies on the sword's pommelтАФa profusion of
braid and curlicues that must have interfered with getting a good grip. It looked more like a ceremonial
weapon than a practical tool in rough-and-tumble situations. A cynic might even suspect the sword had
been acquired under questionable circumstances, by mugging a wealthy merchant or drawing a hidden
ace out of a shirt cuff. The weapon looked too ornate and expensive for an ET slave to own legitimately.

But no matter how the Divian got his sword, Pelinor parried the attack easily, exactly the way he did
when facing a freshman who couldn't tell her quarte from her quinte. "Slant your blade slightly upward,"
our armsmaster said. "See how easily I can knock the sword down if you don't
keep up the tip? That's right, just a little tilt. Not too much, though, or I can bap the blade
back into your... Sorry, did I hit your nose?"

Pelinor had clearly ensured hedidn't hit the alien's nose. He'd given his cutlass an extra twist so the
Divian's weapon would turn and slap with the flat of the blade. This was, after all, a bar fight with drunks,
and neither Impervia nor Pelinor wanted to dole out life-threatening injuries. Therefore, Pelinor used
some quick flicking strikes to separate the sword-wielding extraterrestrial from the rest of his fellows,
making it less likely the others would get accidentally nicked.

This left Impervia with nine opponents, three of whom were already nursing wounds while the remaining
six wobbled half a beer short of passing out. It was now an even contest... barely. Six against one made
for hefty odds, even when the six were staggery-sloppily stewed.

You must understand one crucial point: Impervia was undoubtedly faster and tougher than your average
lager lout, but she was, in the end, just a schoolteacher. Not a professional fighter. Not an elite
commando. Not even a third-order Magdalene, one of those select women within her sisterhood who
were trained for "specialized" assignments. Impervia was only impressive when compared to untrained
oafsтАФagainst topnotch champions, she was barely an also-ran.

There is, alas, a heartbreaking gap between the Good and the Best. As many of us have realized to our
sorrow.

Even against drunken fishermen, Impervia was not a surefire winner. She almost never finished one of
these Friday-night brawls without an eye swollen shut, a few cracked ribs, or a dislocated shoulder.
Twice, she'd been battered unconscious before the rest of us could intervene. One had to wonder why
she kept provoking these scuffles when she often got the worst of them; but she'd never opened up about
her inner demons, and the rest of us didn't pry. We simply crossed our fingers and hoped she never truly
got in over her head.
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At the moment, it was the fishermen who believed they were out of their depth. The uninjured six stayed
bunched together, blearily waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally the man on the ground,
Nathan, shouted, "Get going, you fuckwits! The lot of you! Just pile onto her!"

The fisherfolk looked at each other, then shuffled reluctantly forward.

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