She hurried back to the closet and seized a small pan on a shelf. She lifted the lid to the barrel and dug the pan into the flour. A moment later, spilling a trail behind her, she poured the flour into the kettle. Quickly, using the ladle, she stirred the flour into the broth.
She was practically dancing with impatience. But she didn't dare add more flour too quickly. She had to give the broth time to regain its heat.
When the liquid began roiling, she hurried back to the closet. More flour. Into the kettle. Stir it. Wait. Wait.
Again.
That's enough, she decided. The meat broth was now a lumpy, viscous mess. And, within a minute, would be back to a boil.
She looked around. Draped on nearby pegs, she saw the thick, wettened cloths which the shopkeeper used to handle the kettle. She wrapped her hands in the cloths and picked up the kettle. Grunting with exertion-it was a big kettle, three-fourths full.
Yes. Barely, but-yes.
She replaced the kettle on the stove, leaving the cloths next to it. Then, she raced to the door and closed the latch. For a moment, she considered trying to brace the door, but decided against it.
Better this way. I don't want them to have to work too hard to get through the door. Just hard enough. The latch will do for that.
She strode to the table onto which she had dumped the coins, and dragged it into the middle of the kitchen. Then, squatting down, she placed her shoulder under the edge and levered the table onto its side. It was a solidly built wooden table, large and heavy, and it made a great clattering sound when it hit the floor.
Upstairs, she heard the shopkeeper's wife scream.
Damn you!
Faintly, she heard a voice coming from the street.
"In here!"
She heard the outer door burst open. Then, the sounds of many men pouring into the shop.
Now, louder:
"In here!"
She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.
Very loud:
"She's in here!"
Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.
A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.
Very loud:
"Out of the way!"
Thundering footsteps.
Smash!
The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body-then another-hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.
The first man-the self-appointed battering ram-was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.
The three men behind him skidded into a pile.
Five men, tangled up, immobilized.
Antonina seized the kettle, turned, and heaved its contents onto the cluster of thugs.
Several gallons of boiling, flour-thickened meat broth spewed over the would-be killers.
Shrieks of agony filled the room. Half-crazed with pain and fear, the five men in the kitchen began tearing at their flesh, frantically trying to scrape off the scalding brew.
Couldn't. Couldn't! The flour made the broth stick to their skins.
Antonina ignored them. More men were in the room beyond. Two of them were jammed in the doorway to the kitchen, gaping at the scene.
She spun lightly, seized her own little dagger by the blade. That one, she knew, was perfectly balanced.
Whipped around.
Father, I need you now!
He hadn't been worth much, that charioteer, but he had taught his daughter how to use a knife.
Taught her very well.
The little dagger flashed across the room and sank hilt deep into the throat of the man standing on the right side of the doorway.
The man's eyes bulged. He choked blood. Grabbed the hilt. Tried to draw it out. Couldn't. Sank to his knees. Died.
By the time the man next to him realized what had happened, it was too late. Another knife had sailed across the room.
Not into his throat, however. That knife, not as delicate as her own small dagger, Antonina had aimed at a less chancy target. The heavy butcher knife plunged four inches into the thug's chest, right into his heart.
Antonina took up the cleaver. The two dead bodies in the doorway would keep off the assailants in the room beyond for a few seconds. Time enough.
She sprang forward, right to the edge of the upended table, and began butchering the men on the other side.
Quite literally. Her knife-strokes were the short, sharp, chopping motions of an experienced butcher dismembering meat. There was no frenzied lunging; no grandiose stabs; no dramatic swings.
Just short, straight, strikes. With the heavy, razor-sharp blade of a cleaver.
Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop.
A nose fell off. The fingers from a hand covering a face. Another nose, and most of an upper lip. An ear and half a cheek.
Back again, quick. Chop. Chop. Chop. More fingers-and a thumb-fell to the floor. A wrist dangled, half-severed. Blood covered a face gashed to the bone.
Back again, quick. The men piled up behind the table were a helpless shrieking mob. Not even that-a pack of sheep, half-paralyzed by third-degree burns and mutilation.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Now, the strikes were lethal. Hands with severed wrists and amputated fingers could no longer protect necks. Antonina aimed for the carotid arteries and hit two out of three. (The third would die also, a bit more slowly, from a severed jugular.)
Instantly, she was soaked in blood. She leaned into the spurting gore, like a child might lean into a fountain, and struck at the two remaining men behind the table. Both of them-dazed with shock and agony-were trying to crawl away from the nightmare.
One of them worked his way free, with nothing worse than a split shoulder blade. The other collapsed, dead. Antonina had chopped right through the back of his neck, severing the spine.
The sole survivor, screaming with fear and pain, scrambled toward the door on his knees and hands. (One hand, rather. His left hand was fingerless.) The timing, from Antonina's viewpoint, was perfect. The remaining thugs in the outer room had finally managed to drag aside the two bodies blocking the door. Two of them pushed their way through, only to stumble over the thug crawling toward them.
One of the men kept his balance, staggering against the doorframe. The other tripped and sprawled across the pile of bodies in the middle of the kitchen. He flung out his hands to break his fall and managed to grab the edge of the table.
For a brief instant, the thug stared up at Antonina.
Her face was the last thing he ever saw. Other than the huge blade which descended onto his own face and removed it. The cleaver bit into his forehead and kept going, down and down, driven by Antonina's fury. The blade peeled off his eyebrows, shredded the eyes, took the nose, both lips, all the chin and a small piece of the chin bone.
Then, Antonina made her first mistake. By now-some thirty seconds into the battle-she was almost berserk with rage. She kicked aside the face flopping onto her foot, drew back the cleaver, and split the man's head in half. The blow was so ferocious that the blade jammed in the skull.