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The wooden bench was...
The wooden bench was not the best projectile. For a start, it had been bolted to the floor; for another, there wasn't much in the way of grip to get a good launch.
But then again, this was Curzo doing the throwing. And when Curzo threw something, right in front of him was not a good place to be.
The Reaver was plucked off its feet in a flat arc by the unyielding impact of two hundred pounds of solid oak to skull and slammed back against the concrete wall with predictable results.
One down. Tor didn't move, as Curzo followed the bench with a table.
Three to go. The table hit its targets.
Make that one.
The last Reaver bounded over the bodies of its comrades, into the air--
But Curzo had already reached behind the bar, coming back up with a flash of light on metal, his arm coming around in a short arc.
Impact.
And then there were none.
"You're no help, Redgrave."
"It's impolite to help yourself," Tor said, getting to his feet and leaning heavily on his stick, "without first asking the host's permission."
"Well, you have that permission." Curzo cleaned off his grosse messer with a flick of the blade. "Feel free."
209 words.
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