Ричард Морган - The Cold Commands

“This is new,” Harath whispered. “They never used to bother.”

“What happens when your hired help starts mauling the merchandise,” Egar hissed back.

Harath grinned sheepishly, and Egar felt like choking him. There was a thin, restless anger rising in him now. Thanks to this Ishlinak punk, he was going to have to do it after all. Majak blood on his hands once again, and for no better reason than…

Than what, Dragonbane? Than bare, bored-out-of-your-mind curiosity? Than random scouting of the enemy’s ramparts in service to Archeth, who’s out of town anyway?

Or—oh, wait—is it that itch you can’t scratch with Ishgrim, maybe, and the thought that some other willowy Naom slave gash might be grateful enough if you—

He chopped the thoughts irritably away. The restless anger slopped higher in him, seeking outlet.

Fucking punk kids .

In his day, no Majak who’d taken coin to guard slaves would have dreamed of touching the goods or—

That’s right, Dragonbane. And brothers always stood together, the buffalo came when they were called, the grass grew taller and greener, and it never fucking rained .

Get a grip, old man .

He crushed out the brooding with a grimace. Drew one of his knives. Crouched and listened to the voices float up through the gloomy air. The twang of the Ishlinak dialect.

Harath dipped his head closer.

“I thought you said we weren’t going to get into it with these guys.”

“I thought you said the slave quarters weren’t guarded, and we’d get in with a bent pin.”

Half the sheepish grin again. “Yeah, but—”

Egar spared two fingers from the grip on his knife, snagged Harath by the collar, and jerked him close. Eyes like slits, teeth tight. Voice a snake-strike hiss.

“You’ve been paid , Majak.”

Harath jerked loose. But he looked away and wet his lips.

“Look—I reckon that’s Alnarh down there,” he murmured.

“Good. That should make it easy for you. Some payback for all his shit? You can take him, I’ll do the other two.”

The younger man nodded hesitantly. Egar could not quite repress a savage twinge of satisfaction. Bit of fucking consequence for your acts and the coin you take, eh, kid? He gestured with one knife-filled hand, and they ghosted down the stairs together in the shadow of the balustrades. Got to the final landing, and the last corner of usable cover. Harath hovered. Wet his lips again.

Egar widened his eyes at him, jerked his chin. Fucking get on with it .

Harath stood. Went down the final flight of stairs toward the dice players with no attempt at quiet.

Scrabble of action as they saw him and came to their feet, grabbing weapons.

“Hold it right the fuck there!”

“Not another step, asshole!”

Harath snorted. “Oh my, what big fucking blades you have, boys.”

Stunned silence. Peering through the balustrade, Egar made out short-swords, maybe an ax. But their staff lances still stood against the wall. The murderous seven-foot, double-bladed Majak standby—but still not in play.

One of the Ishlinak halfway lowered his sword.

“Harath—that you, buddy?”

“Shut up, Elkret. He’s outcast. What the fuck are you doing here, Harath? Who let you in?”

Harath made it to the bottom of the stairs, hands well away from his sides. He seemed, finally, to have started enjoying himself.

“Hey, Alnarh. How’s it hanging? Getting any Revelation-approved pussy?”

Alnarh twitched toward the staff lance where it leaned against the wall. “I said who let you in?”

“ Let me in? You stupid fucking twat, you think I need letting into this place? I already told you, Alnarh. You couldn’t set up a guard duty to save your fucking—”

And time .

Egar vaulted the landing rail, came down ten feet like a catapult stone and cut loose with his knives. He landed just off Elkret’s shoulder, swung and slashed, sent him sprawling with a yell. Alnarh whirled at the sound. Had just enough time to yell—

“ ’Ware raiders!”

—before Egar reached the third, unnamed Ishlinak. The other man got in a lucky block with the haft of his hand ax—Egar took it on the forearm with a grunt, shoved back and swept the guard aside, stabbed in roundhouse beneath. The knife blade found flesh somewhere above the man’s hip, slugged home to the hilt. The Ishlinak quivered and shrieked. Peripheral glimpse—off to Egar’s right, Alnarh reached his staff lance, just had time to grab it away from the wall and turn as Harath rushed him. The lance swung, Alnarh got it crossways to block, and the two men met in a whirl of limbs and spat curses. Egar twisted his own blade and pulled it out—blood splattered out on his hand, so hot it seemed almost to burn. The Ishlinak he’d stabbed went down with a pleading look on his face, clutching at Egar’s sleeve. Gazes locked—instinct telling them both the truth of what had been done.

Elkret—behind him.

He whipped about. Elkret had a long-knife raised in his left hand, but he was slow—was hurt— must have hit lucky, that first slash . Egar couldn’t see the wound he’d made, but he could have dodged this attack in his sleep. He stepped sideways from the thrust of the knife, snagged the arm behind it at the wrist, pulled and locked it out. Right hand raised, tightening to a fist around his knife—he slammed down at the locked elbow joint, broke the arm. The hollow snap echoed in the lantern flicker, chased away with the choked scream it wrung out of Elkret. The long-knife flew loose. Egar got in close, dragged back the Ishlinak’s head, exposed the throat—

“No— wait! ”

Harath’s hoarse shout. Egar broke his stroke with an effort. He dragged Elkret around so he could see where the shout had come from. Nestled the knife up against the Ishlinak’s neck.

“Don’t you move,” he murmured, and felt Elkret stiffen away from the touch of the steel.

“Don’t—don’t kill him.” Harath, stumbling upright from Alnarh’s limp form, panting from the fight. “Come on, man. You don’t have to do that.”

“I think we do, actually.”

But he could already feel the resolve slipping away. The fight had come and gone too fast to arouse the berserker battle fury in him, and now it felt grubby and pointless.

Harath took a step forward, hands out, mastering his breathing. “Come on, brother. He’s a friend.”

“He’s not my fucking friend.” Egar sighed and shoved Elkret away from him, practically into Harath’s arms. “Fine, brother . It’s your face he’s seen. Do what you like.”

Harath fumbled the catch, let Elkret slip past him. The injured Ishlinak dropped to his knees, hale arm hanging as slack as the wrecked one. He stared down at Alnarh’s body.

“The fuck’ve you done, man,” he mumbled. “What the fuck have you done?”

It wasn’t immediately clear who he was talking to. But Alnarh at least would not be answering—Harath had crushed his old comrade’s throat in with the staff lance, and the shaft still lay across the corpse’s neck. Eyes and distended tongue bulged outward. In the lantern flicker, it gave the Ishlinak’s face the comic-hideous look of a Shaktur devil mask.

“We’d better get out of here,” Harath muttered.

“Oh, no. We came here for a reason.” Egar nodded at the door. “Get that open. One of them has to have keys.”

“Harath, what the fuck have you done?”

“Look, we made a lot of noise. They—”

“That’s the second time I got to remind you who’s paying the piper here? Look for the fucking key. ”