Брайан Макклеллан - Sins of Empire

Styke let his head fall to one side and identified the speaker as Vladiar, a Rosvelean with a high-pitched voice and a neck as thick as a melon. He was the one whose cousin Styke had attacked after the parole hearing a few weeks ago. In fact, Styke recognized all four of the guards. They were Jeffron, Landral, and Zach, the most infamous guards in Sweetwallow.

“I can’t believe he’s still alive,” Landral said. He had a wonky lip, and drool tended to slip out the side when he talked. He wiped away a rope of it with his sleeve.

“All that blood on him his?” Zach asked.

Vladiar grunted. “That’s what the Bronze Rose said.”

“Nobody bleeds that much and lives through it.” That was put forward by Set, the doctor. Styke focused his eyes on the needle and thread clutched in one of Set’s hands and the way they trembled. Set hadn’t been a good doctor before he got the palsy. “Don’t know how they expect us to keep him alive.”

“Us? You, more like,” Vladiar said. “We’re just here to make sure he doesn’t tear you in half.”

Set paced from one side of the infirmary to the other, needle held in thumb and forefinger, the other hand on his chin. “Have you seen him? He’s not going anywhere. The tendon is slit on that wrist – he’ll never use it again – and that knife wound on his leg looks deep. Probably won’t walk, either.” He approached Styke and bent down to look him in the eye. Styke stared back, impassive, all his efforts going to keep himself from whimpering.

“We best get some straps,” Set said. “Landral, fetch some of that rope they use for the sledges.”

Landral scoffed, but headed out of the room.

Vladiar pushed Set out of the way and hunkered down at eye level with Styke. “You in there, big man?” He waved his hand over Styke’s eyes. “Yeah, you’re there. Kresimir, you’re hard to kill. You remember what I told you a few weeks ago? I told you that you’re nothing but a killer. Looks like you weren’t even good enough at that, if what the rumors say are true.” He harrumphed. “I must be a prophet, boys, because I told him he’d be back and look at that: He’s back.”

Styke closed his eyes. He knew the pain hadn’t even begun. He’d take months to recover, and once he did the guards would make him wish he hadn’t. It would be an endless cycle of beatings and hatred until the end of his days and he didn’t even have one good hand left to fight back with.

The labor camp had never truly broken him, but this… this might.

“What happened to that kid you took out with you?” Vladiar asked.

Styke’s eyes shot open. Vladiar was right there, close enough Styke could smell the cabbage on his breath. There was a shallow smile on Vladiar’s lips, and he tapped the side of Styke’s head. “I remember her. And I remember how you broke my cousin’s leg. I’m gonna find that girl. I’ll bring her back here, and I’ll hand her over to the boys while you sit there and watch. I’ll cut the tendons on the back of your legs and laugh when you try to crawl over to help her.”

Styke bit his tongue again, suppressing the pain. He took a few breaths and felt every little cut react to the movement of his chest. He was tapped out. He had nothing left. “Good luck,” he whispered.

“What the pit is that supposed to mean?”

Styke flopped his arm backward, nearly passing out from the pain of the stab wound in his shoulder. His hand might be useless, but he could still move, and he managed to wrap a forearm around Vladiar’s neck and jerk him downward against the marble slab. There was a crunch, and Vladiar gave a whimpering cry and he collapsed.

“Holy shit!”

“Grab him.”

The two remaining guards leapt into action, Zach going to Vladiar’s side and Jeffron hammering a fist down into the wound on Styke’s thigh. Styke gasped and rolled toward Jeffron, coming off the slab with more momentum than he’d expected. Jeffron caught him and almost kept his feet, but Styke slammed his forehead between Jeffron’s eyes. The guard dropped like a sack of potatoes.

Styke slumped backward, the slab creaking on its frame. His breath came short and painful, and he put all his weight on his elbow. He got his leg beneath him and managed to fling himself around the slab and onto Zach, who was just getting up from his examination of Vladiar. The two went down in a heap, and Styke ground his chin first into one eye, then the other, ignoring the battering Zach gave his chest. He managed to get Zach’s throat between the working fingers of his bad hand and squeezed until the other’s cries were nothing more than a gurgle.

It took Styke several moments to gain his feet, but the knowledge that seconds were precious spurred him through the pain. There was nothing left of him – he was just meat on the move – and the only thought that kept him going was that he would kill every last guard in this blasted place until there wasn’t anyone left to remember that he and Celine had left together.

Groans escaped his lips as he dragged himself up. This corner of the infirmary was a mess. Vladiar lay still, his head covered in blood, while Jeffron gave the occasional twitch and Zach gurgled quietly. Across the room, Set hid behind one of the infirmary cots. Styke swayed, caught himself on the slab with his crippled hand, and nodded at the doctor. “Stay there,” he ordered.

Going was slow. Styke left the infirmary at a snail’s pace, leaning against a wall when he could, putting the rest of his weight on the leg that hadn’t been stabbed when he couldn’t. He wondered, from time to time, what the pit he was doing. There was no escape from Sweetwallow. He certainly wasn’t going to kill all the guards in his condition. They would find him in minutes. But those thoughts were fleeting and inconsequential. He was driven forward, leaving a trail of crimson behind him as he followed the long halls of the administration building past the guards’ mess hall and the parole cells until he came out a side door near one of the fences.

With nothing to lean against he only made it a few steps before he fell. He caught himself on that crippled hand and lay still for several moments, listening for an alarm. The night was silent, even peaceful with the sound of crickets off in the marshes. Sweetwallow had a strict curfew, and the guards would slack off from time to time to play cards in their bunkhouse. Maybe Styke had gotten lucky. Maybe he could escape.

The pain was so bad as to cause a delirium. He remembered a time he’d been unhorsed in the middle of battle, hitting his head badly when he fell. He remembered the mud and the sound – the absolute chaos of the fight as he tried to get back to his senses. Hooves and feet had hammered the ground around him, and someone had bashed him from behind with the butt of a musket. His armor had taken the blow.

He couldn’t remember what had happened next, but he could hear those hoofbeats pounding in his brain as loudly as if he were back in battle.

He squinted through the memories and focused on the cracked wooden fencing that surrounded Sweetwallow. The labor camp palisade was twenty feet tall and hardened in the sun. No breaking through and no going over the top – not in his condition.

“Ben, why did you leave me behind?”

Styke looked over his shoulder. Celine was behind him – or at least a vision of her – standing in the administration building doorway, legs planted to straddle the trail of blood he’d left. “I didn’t,” he managed. He forced himself up on his crippled hand, dragging himself toward the fence.

“You left me behind, Ben.”

“I didn’t,” he insisted again, still dragging. “I took you out of this place. It was one of the only good things I’ve ever done, and you won’t take it away from me. Ungrateful little shit.” Something twinged in his shoulder and he bit down hard on his tongue before dragging himself forward another foot. “I didn’t mean it,” he muttered. “You’ve always been a good kid. I did leave you behind, but I left you with friends. Olem will take care of you. Send you to school. He’s not a bad sort.”