Until he had seen a real bullfight, all he had to go on was cartoons and stylized representation. This was just as true where sword-play was concerned. The difference was like comparing the watching of an old pirate movie to the realities of war.
In a word, there was no comparison.
There were no stylized poses, there was little finesse, and no witty réparté. Instead, there was crude, brutal opportunism, brute force, grim, businesslike determination, desperate evasion, hysterical screams of fear and agony, and when it was over, the floor in front of the Thane’s table was a pool of congealing blood, in which lay two of Finli’s companions, and all sixteen of the would-be murderers.
But it wasn’t over yet. To Doc’s horror, the Thane sent for a number of soldiers, thirty-six in all, who disarmed those who had been guarding the doors, led them to the centre of the floor, and beheaded them on the spot. Crasp was then seized and dragged unceremoniously to the centre of the floor, where he suffered the same fate.
For a time, Doc felt light-headed, and for the first time in many years had to resist the urge to heave the contents of his stomach. Then, past the point where anything could surprise him further, the Thane calmly resumed his chair and spoke.