Guards Guards - Chains

“Captain Vimes!”

He focused on the cleaver.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Right!”

It was a good steel cleaver, and the chains were elderly and rather rusty iron. He hacked away, raising sparks from the masonry.

The crowd watched in silence, but several palace guards hurried towards him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” said one of them, who didn't have much imagination.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” Vimes growled, looking up.

They stared at him.

“What?”

Vimes took another hack at the chains. Several loops tinkled to the ground.

“Right, you've asked for-” one of the guards began. Vimes's elbow caught him under his rib cage; before he collapsed, Vimes's foot kicked savagely at the other one's kneecaps, bringing his chin down ready for another stab with the other elbow.

“Right,” said Vimes absently. He rubbed the elbow. It was sheer agony.

He moved the cleaver to his other hand and hammered at the chains again, aware at the back of his mind that more guards were hurrying up, but with that special kind of run that guards had. He knew it well. It was the run that said, there's a dozen of us, let someone else get there first. It said, he looks ready to kill, no-one's paying me to get killed, maybe if I run slowly enough he'll get away . . .

No point in spoiling a good day by catching someone.

Lady Ramkin shook herself free. A ragged cheer went up and started to grow in volume. Even in their current state of mind, the people of Ankh-Morpork always appreciated a performance.

***

Guards Guards - p316-317