Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

“Who the pit is this?” Fidelis Jes demanded.

Michel gave him a wan smile, but did not answer.

“Who are you?” Jes spat at Taniel.

Taniel sighed, as if annoyed that it had come to this, and then tugged on the fingers to his left glove. He pulled it off, revealing the blood-red skin of his hand.

Jes’s perpetual sneer deepened. “The Red Hand? Bah. I expected better of you, Agent Bravis. A cabal spy; a Kez nationalist; I expected you to be better than working for a common rebel.”

“Not terribly common,” Michel said, watching as Taniel slowly got off his horse and drew his sword from his saddlebags.

“Fidelis Jes,” Taniel said, “I’ve wanted to kill you for a very long time.”

“Sir,” one of Jes’s officers warned, “we don’t have time for this.”

Fidelis Jes seemed to vacillate between getting to the dig site and a good fight. Michel was less than surprised when his baser instincts won out and he slid gracefully from his saddle and grabbed his sword, walking toward Taniel. “Who are you?” he asked. “I expected the Red Hand to be Palo, but you’re obviously Adran.”

“Michel’s tale of an Adran expatriate was closer than you’d think,” Taniel said, running two fingers down the length of his sword as if to test the blade. Michel thought he heard the sound of distant hoofbeats, but his eyes were glued to the scene in front of him. He silently urged Taniel to just kill the bastard and stop screwing around.

Fidelis Jes stretched lightly, bending one way, then the next, his eyes never leaving Taniel. “I expect this to be quick,” he said. “So if you have anything else to tell me, do it now.”

Taniel closed his eyes halfway, holding his sword out in front of him in both hands, tip pointed toward the ground as if he were praying. He remained that way for almost thirty seconds before Fidelis Jes lost his patience.

“Your time is up,” the grand master snapped, stepping forward.

Taniel’s sword came up, tip pointing over Jes’s shoulder, and he barked the words, “I’m not here to kill you.”

Jes sneered. “You’re right about that.”

“ He is.”

Taniel leapt out of the way of Jes’s thrust, moving so quickly Michel could barely follow him. Taniel grabbed Jes by the back of the hair, kicking one leg to make him stumble, and turned him around, shoving him forward. Michel lifted his eyes, surprised to see more riders coming in just behind the Blackhats.

The man at their head was the biggest, ugliest man Michel had ever seen. He wore a faded Fatrastan cavalry jacket and rode a black warhorse with a black and brown mottled neck. His face was pitted and scarred, his back slightly bent in the saddle, and he rode ahead of a standard flying an image of a lance through a skull. The same skull that was on the ring that Fidelis Jes wore.

Michel didn’t have to ask who that was.

“Jes!” Ben Styke roared, throwing himself from the saddle before his horse had even come to a complete stop. “You’re a dead man!”

Styke strode toward Fidelis Jes, chest heaving from the ride, every bit of tiredness that had threatened to make him call a halt on the journey south of the city now gone from his mind. He gripped his saber in one hand, his other balled in a fist, and he ignored the startled shouts of the Blackhats around him. Behind Jes stood Taniel, sword drawn, and behind him Ka-poel and another Blackhat were still on horseback.

Jes looked between Taniel and Styke as if unsure from which direction the fight was coming, but Taniel stepped back and gave a slight bow. Jes turned his attention entirely to Styke.

“I’ve already killed you twice,” Jes said. “I’m going to make sure the third time is more permanent.”

Even Styke had to admit Jes cut a fine figure. He wore the Blackhat uniform, black on black with the buttons up the side of his jacket, tailored to hug his muscled chest and legs. He wore a thin white scarf around his neck and a Platinum Rose pinned to his left breast, with Styke’s lancer’s ring on his thumb and boz knife at his belt. Styke spared a glance for Jes’s horse, saddlebags weighed down for a long journey. Flint was right – the Blackhats had abandoned the city.

Styke discarded his saber and drew Ibana’s knife, forcing himself to breathe evenly. At the sight of this, Jes let out a barking laugh. He sheathed his own sword and pulled Styke’s big knife out of his belt, brandishing it mockingly.

Styke’s mind flashed through all the mistakes he’d made last time – coming into a fight wounded, overcome with anger, letting his emotions overrule his senses. He tried to expel all of that. He knew he was hurting, tired, but something felt righter about this fight. The Privileged that Ibana had kidnapped had partially healed Styke’s crippling wounds. He was Colonel Ben Styke again, the Mad Lancer of Landfall. He wouldn’t be put down like a dog. He looked at his knife in Jes’s hand, the ring that touched the handle. “Those are mine.”

“Not anymore.” Jes spat the words as he came at Styke at a run. His knife flashed high in a feint, then plunged low for Styke’s belly.

Styke tossed Ibana’s knife aside and grabbed the blade of his stolen weapon, stopping Jes dead in his tracks. He ignored the sharp blade biting through his flesh, scraping the bones of his fingers, and brought his right fist around to connect with Jes’s nose. The Blackhat grand master’s head snapped backward.

“This isn’t about revenge,” Styke said. “This is because you’re an asshole.” Styke let go of the knife blade, snatching Jes’s sleeve with his bloody, slippery fingers, and jerked him forward. He slammed his fist once more into the bridge of Jes’s nose and the grand master dropped into a heap at his feet.

Styke leaned over and slid the ring off Jes’s thumb and over his own finger, relieved to feel the familiar weight of it. He took his knife out of Jes’s lifeless hand, and then with two quick strokes severed his head. He lifted it by the hair, ignoring the blood that soaked his shirt and trousers, and stared into the dead, faintly surprised eyes. He sighed, wishing he had more than a few moments to relish the corpse at his feet, and looked up to find Ibana on horseback, pushing her way to the front of the assembled Blackhats. He tossed her the head, which she caught easily in the crook of her arm. “We don’t have time to make a saddle,” he said.

Behind him, the Blackhat with Ka-poel was noisily ill.

Ibana held the head at arm’s length, examining it, then nodded. “This will do.”

“Taniel,” Styke said with a nod, noting the blood-red color of his hand. He remembered reading something about a rebel named the Red Hand years ago. Funny that it should be the infamous Ghost of the Tristan Basin. “You’ve got a lot of secrets, don’t you?”

“We all do,” Taniel responded, sheathing his sword.

Styke eyed Jes’s Blackhat bodyguards. They were silent, shifting wordlessly in their saddles, staring at the headless body of their grand master. “Who’s in charge here?” Styke demanded.

“Technically he is,” Taniel said.

Styke turned to look at the Blackhat still mounted beside Ka-poel. The man was green-faced, wiping the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. He gave a sickly smile and waved at Styke. “Gold Rose Bravis at your service, Mr. Styke.”

“Colonel Styke,” Styke corrected, letting the word roll off his tongue. Pit, he never thought he’d enjoy saying that so much.

One of Jes’s bodyguards, openly wearing his Silver Rose on his uniform, pointed at Bravis. “Jes said he was a traitor.”