Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Styke surprised both of them by catching each blow on a knife blade, then blocking a second and the third. Kushel recovered quickly each time, pulling back to strike with the speed of an adder, each new attack coming with independent precision that would have marveled Styke had he the time to be impressed. All his focus went into reacting, catching, and redirecting, and for almost twenty seconds he fell back beneath a flurry of blows, unable to even manage a riposte. Kushel scored cuts across Styke’s arms and chest, and Styke barely managed to keep them from biting deep.

Styke knew he was old and out of practice, but wondered if even in his prime he would have been able to match Kushel’s speed. Only the weight of the weapons – Kushel’s heavier, more cumbersome axes against Styke’s knives – allowed him to keep up at all. The attacks came on relentlessly, each hit seemingly more powerful than the last, and Styke’s crippled hand began to numb from the effort of blocking them.

That all changed when a twinge in his wrist fouled a block, and Kushel’s ax bit into the bone of one of Styke’s fingers. He released his grip on the bone knife with a yell of dismay, watching it fly into the dust ahead of an arc of blood.

The next strike came for his unarmed left. Styke snatched the ax by the haft and turned his fighting knife to pass beneath the blade of Kushel’s other ax, allowing the blade to draw a long, crimson line down his arm. Kushel tried to stretch the advantage, pushing his ax into Styke’s chest, but Styke did two things at once:

First, he slammed his forehead into Kushel’s nose. Second, he twisted his knife and drew back. The blade slid along the polished bone haft of Kushel’s ax and, with a final jerk, severed Kushel’s thumb and four fingers.

The dragonman reeled back, stunned, but even with a destroyed hand managed to dodge Styke’s next thrust. They each had one good hand and one weapon now, and Kushel jammed the stubs of his fingers against his side to try to stanch the blood, doing it all without comment or cry, which in itself was more than a little unnerving. He came on hard, ax crashing against Styke’s knife, working inside Styke’s guard with both blade and haft, leaving Styke’s chin and chest bloody and bruised.

Styke’s own crippled hand was slick with blood, and each time he tried to catch Kushel’s ax it slipped out of his grip until he finally managed to hook it with his knife and pull back.

Kushel had learned that trick, and this time let the ax go instead of losing his fingers. He suddenly dropped low, kicking at Styke’s knee. Styke grunted, unable to keep himself from toppling into the dust, trapping his knife hand beneath him as Kushel leapt on top of him. Kushel’s bloody finger stumps were suddenly thrust in his face, the blood stinging his eyes, and Styke grasped blindly for something – anything – until he wrapped his fingers around the lip of Kushel’s blood-slick armor.

He used the grip to roll Kushel beneath him, freeing his arm, and pressed the point of his knife firmly against Kushel’s armor before using every bit of his strength to shove through the tough leather.

Kushel gave a choking sound as Styke pushed the knife to the hilt against his armor, yet still the dragonman fought on, weakening blows pounding against Styke’s stomach and face. Styke let go of his knife and grit his teeth, grasping Kushel by the head and pulling him close. “Stop. Fighting.” Kushel spat a mouthful of blood. Styke wiped it from his face and got to one knee, holding Kushel down with his crippled hand and drawing back the fist of his other.

“Wait!” Flint suddenly shouted. “We need him alive!”

Styke looked down at the knife in Kushel’s bowels and the bloody, dusty ground around them. With the right attention Kushel might live a day, maybe two, in horrible agony. “You fought well,” he said, “but a warrior doesn’t threaten a little girl.” He brought his fist down with all his might, caving in the top of Kushel’s skull like an eggshell.

Styke knelt in the gore for several moments, his chest rising and falling, as he tried to gather himself. Blood and brains dripped from his fingers, a crimson smile in the empty eyes of the skull on his lancer’s ring. Ten years since the last time he truly feared for his life in a fight. Ten years since anyone had matched him in strength. He was suddenly aware of the absence of sound, and lifted his head to see a thousand sets of eyes glued to him. Soldiers crowded the muster yard, watching him from the walls, and the roof of the staff office. A cigarette hung, unlit, from the corner of Olem’s open mouth and Lady Flint regarded Styke with an appraising look, her mouth pressed into a hard line.

Slowly, feeling all the aches and twinges he’d ignored during the fight and several dozen cuts and bruises he’d received during it, Styke got to his feet. He collected one of the bone axes and walked over to Flint, holding it out. “For your men that died fighting this asshole’s friend.”

“Thanks.” Flint took the ax, flipping it from side to side to examine the blade before lowering it. “He was our link to the Dynize in Landfall.”

“There will be more,” Styke said.

“Says who?”

“The spirits told me.”

Flint didn’t seem to be able to tell whether that was supposed to be a joke. Styke wasn’t sure himself. “Tell me,” Flint said, “what did you do to the second Warden? The one Two-shot didn’t kill?”

“I punched his teeth in,” Styke said, remembering the hot breath of the sorcery-twisted creature and the thick muscles that moved like snakes in his grip. “Then I broke his spine.”

Styke limped toward the mess hall. He needed to get cleaned up, then find Celine. Part of him hoped she hadn’t just seen that. The adrenaline began to subside and he felt sick from the absence of it and the overwhelming stench of death. But deep down, his heart sang.

He was still Mad Ben Styke, and he would not be trifled with.

Styke was halfway to the mess hall when a voice suddenly called out from the gate. “I’m looking for Ben Styke! Where is Ben Styke?”

“What the pit is it now?” Styke asked, turning around slowly. He came up short at the sight of a boy wearing a smith’s smock with the words “Fles and Fles Blades” emblazoned in the corner.

“Are you Ben Styke?” the boy asked.

“Who wants to know?”

The boy licked his lips, his face white. “Jackal said I could find you here. It’s Old Man Fles, sir. The Blackhats, they…”

Styke was already running past the boy, ignoring the hundred pains in his body, before the boy could finish the sentence. “Olem,” he shouted over his shoulder, “keep Celine safe!”

Vlora nudged the corpse of the dragonman with her foot and watched Styke’s back as he ran – surprisingly spry for a cripple – out the front gate of Loel’s Fort. “Where the pit is he going?”

“Want me to bring him back?” Olem asked.

“Yes. No. Shit.” Vlora stewed in her own indecision. She needed answers about this thing with the Dynize, and the corpse at her feet wasn’t going to give them to her. But after seeing what Styke did to a legendary warrior, she wasn’t about to send any of her men after him to tell him to turn around. She’d learned long ago that there were certain people you didn’t bother when they were in a hurry.

“Send someone to follow him. And get this asshole cleaned up.”

“Right.” Olem turned to the watching soldiers. “Fall out! Nothing more to see here, lads. You three, take care of the body. Bring Lady Flint the armor and weapons. Put the body on ice.”