Smitty rolled away and clambered to his feet. Gripping his sword with both hands he yelled at his remaining men to hit, and hit hard and keep battering: he did not believe the Monk could last and last and last.
Again he bought his sword down, aiming at the head: the blade chopped into the hair: he could see the individual strands bowing slightly, forcing a small wave to radiate out like the ripples from a stone tossed into still water; but that was it: there was a small clunk and his sword bounced back, as did the hair: it was as if he’d not struck him at all.
The patchman’s words came back to him: ‘they say he can’t be killed.’
Tupping s**t: what if he was right?
The confusion in his mind caused him to pause, and his doubts must have been transmitted to the other Clansmen, for they al
