Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

Suddenly Styke was through the press of bodies, stumbling into the open. He took a deep breath, a growl in his throat, and felt the pain of a thousand tiny wounds. His jacket was soaked with blood and cut to ribbons, and rivulets of blood streamed down his neck. He licked his lips, relishing the pain, breathing in the stench of death, powder smoke, and sweat. He ignored the carnage of the battle still raging around him and took a step toward Dvory – only they existed now, and only one of them would leave this room alive.

Dvory shook his head. “You’re a wreck, Ben. I’ve never seen you bloodier.”

Styke hesitated. Dvory was too composed. He gripped his sword, his face was ashen, but he stared at Styke as if he expected to leave here alive. “You think I should change sides?” Styke asked.

“I think you should,” Dvory answered. His sword remained in its sheath as Styke stepped closer and closer. “It’s worked out for me so far.” Dvory’s pallor deepened, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow.

Styke glanced behind him. Only a few of his lancers remained standing. Ka-poel crouched over a wounded Dynize, fingers working the air before the man suddenly leapt to his feet with jerky motions and attacked his companions. Styke took another sidelong step, uncertain. Something was wrong here. “How has it worked out?” he asked.

Dvory attempted a smile. Styke could see now that his lips trembled. They moved, slowly, and Styke thought he heard a whisper. His hair stood on end as he realized that the coppery smell in the room was not all Ka-poel’s sorcery. It belonged to someone else, another bone-eye.

“Where’s Lindet?” Styke demanded.

“Here,” a voice responded.

Styke skipped to the side, turning the blade of his knife just in time to catch the thrust from a short, powerful man wearing black leathery armor. As he deflected the thrust, he snatched the carbine from his shoulder and smashed it across the side of the man’s face, snapping the butt just below the trigger. The man staggered to one side, shook his head, and righted himself.

A dragonman. And not just any, Styke realized as three more figures emerged from a hidden door to Dvory’s right. The dragonmen he’d faced outside Granalia. Ji-Orz held Lindet by the back of the neck easily, his hand cocked as if ready to snap her spine with a flexed muscle. Lindet herself wore the same jacket and skirt that he’d spotted her in disembarking her ship. There were bruises on her face, but she looked no worse for wear. She lifted her chin toward Styke, as if unconcerned by the dragonmen around her.

The dragonman who’d attempted to blindside Styke took a step back, reassessing him, and licked his lips.

“Drop the knife or she dies,” Dvory said, gesturing to Lindet.

Styke eyed Dvory for a moment, watching him tremble and sweat and tasting that smell of sorcery. “Are you really a traitor?” he asked Dvory. “Or did a bone-eye get his fingers in you?”

Dvory’s tremble turned into an outright shake. “I told you to drop the knife.” The voice that emerged did not belong to Dvory. It belonged to someone elderly, the accent biting and educated. Styke realized that Dvory’s eyes were no longer on him, but directed over Styke’s shoulder. He didn’t have to look to know what had transfixed Dvory’s attention.

“A bone-eye it is, then,” Styke said. “Is it that piece of shit Ka-Sedial?” He gestured with his knife toward the dragonmen. “The one who sent these?”

“Ben, I didn’t –” The voice belonged to Dvory for a split second before a look of annoyance crossed Dvory’s face and the voice changed back to that of the old man. “We’ll talk about your respect when you belong to me, Styke. Drop the knife or I kill Lindet. You won’t let her die, will you? That’s why you fought your way through all of these. For her.” There was a flicker of a smile on Dvory’s face. “Blood sees blood, Styke. Drop the knife, or I kill your sister.”

“Your what? ” Ibana demanded, stepping up beside Styke, her eyes wide.

Styke locked eyes with Lindet. He saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward and couldn’t help but smile. A chuckle escaped his lips, and within moments he was laughing outright. He dropped his broken carbine and slapped his knee, then threw his head back in a roar. Across from him, her neck still in the grip of Ji-Orz, Lindet laughed with him.

Dvory stared at him in puzzlement. “What is so funny?”

Ka-poel stepped up to Styke’s right. A dozen walking cadavers, their eyes blank, their bodies bloody, swayed behind her. She stared at Dvory, fingering her machete, and Dvory stared back. Ka-Sedial, it seemed, could be distracted.

“He’s laughing,” Lindet said softly, forcing Dvory to turn toward her, “because you have no idea who we are. Ben will save me if he can, just as I would him. But death? We’ve stared at our own deaths since childhood. You think to cow us with fear?” Lindet gave a warm, almost happy chuckle. “If you kill me, I am dead. I doubt Ben will mourn me long. I don’t deserve it. But I am his blood, and he will avenge me.” She paused, looking up into the eyes of Ji-Orz. “We laugh because whatever happens to me, the rest of you are already dead. Ben, kill them all.”

Several things happened at once. The closest dragonman took a step toward Styke, knife thrusting, while a second dragonman broke for Ka-poel. A third jumped for Ibana.

Styke caught his opponent’s thrust with his boz knife. The dragonman was ready for the counter and stepped close, drawing a second knife in the blink of an eye and ramming it, underhand, at Styke’s side. Stepping into the blade, Styke felt it bite into his buttock, and the tip hit his pelvis. He wrapped his off arm around the dragonman’s neck, pulling him against his breast, and squeezed with all his might. The dragonman jerked once, dropping his knife and slapping weakly at Styke’s shoulder before slumping.

Styke cast the body aside as the third dragonman closed with Ibana. She fired her pistol point-blank, barely slowing her attacker, and drew her knife. Ibana was strong, but she was not as fast, and she fell back beneath three quick thrusts that threatened to overwhelm her. Styke swallowed the pain burning in his leg and leapt, tackling her assailant from the side just as he buried his knife between Ibana’s ribs.

The dragonman squirmed beneath Styke, reached for another knife, and Styke bit off his nose and spat it in his face. He rolled off the dragonman and came up with his own knife just a fraction of a second quicker, burying it into the soft flesh just above the dragonman’s armor and sternum.

Styke turned to find that the second dragonman had cut through Ka-poel’s ensorcelled soldiers with ease, and now pressed her violently. Styke forced himself to his feet, barely able to move, and took a step toward her.

“Don’t kill her!” Dvory yelled in Ka-Sedial’s voice.

The dragonman attacking Ka-poel faltered for a split second, trapping Ka-poel’s machete with his own knife and turning his head just a fraction toward Dvory, as if in question. Ka-poel’s other hand darted up, striking as quick as an adder, and rammed a long needle into the dragonman’s eye.

Styke took a second step as the dragonman fell, and then stumbled down to one knee. He looked at Dvory, at the expression of horror on his face, then toward Lindet, who smiled softly in the grip of Ji-Orz.

“Kill her,” Dvory ordered. “Kill Lindet, kill Styke, and bring me the girl.”

Styke looked around the room. Everyone was dead or dying. Ibana clutched at the knife stuck between her ribs, struggling to breathe. Lindet was fodder for the dragonman. Ka-poel was quick, but she would not be able to handle Ji-Orz on her own. And Dvory still stood unwounded, unfluttered, his body being controlled by someone a continent away.