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. The
edge of a blade cut into his good arm. A trident sank deep
into his chest. The minotaur fell back, still clutching the
simple weapon in his hand.
Three of the other minotaurs backed away. A single
executioner, armed with a trident, stepped toward the
bleeding, slumping form. The minotaur on the ground
closed his eyes.
Torbin remembered shouting something at that point,
but the exact words would forever be lost. One of the
minotaurs turned toward him and made sure he did not
interfere. His emotions screamed for him to interfere - to
stop the final blow - but the Training and the Oath held him
back. The empty words made him pause that one initial
moment.
The trident came down with terrible speed.
It was over quickly. The outcome had never been in
doubt, though the possible damage was. Blades had thrust,
tridents had jabbed. All the while, two simple, sharpened
sticks had attempted to hold them off while also trying to
reach targets of their own.
The condemned lay crumpled in a large heap, the
broken points of a trident sticking out of the side of his
chest. The owner of the trident would not care about the
loss of his weapon; he lay sprawled no more than a foot
away, blood flowing from the opening which had once been
his neck
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