only swords. He could draw his pistol and kill all of his missile-armed opponents before the first spear could fly— he’d proven that conclusively in Q’Nkok—and he almost did it. It was the right thing to do, and he knew it. The idea of a prince of the Empire of Man fighting some four-armed barbarian with a sword on a neo-barb planet on the ass- end of nowhere was something from a really bad adventure novel. And if, by some fluke, he survived the experience, Captain Armand Pahner would personally break his neck for it.
He stepped over the line.
As he did, the scummy charged, sword held over his right shoulder. The weapon was one of the Mardukan two-handers and weighed nearly ten kilos. If Roger tried to block it, it would smash through his parry as if it weren’t even there, so he waited patiently, sword at low guard, until the scummy began his swing. Then he darted in close to his towering foe, his sword held practically overhead.
The clash of steel was frighteningly loud as Hooker pounded into view. At every step, she’d expected to see the prince’s dead body, for the ground was a pincushion of javelins. Instead, she found him in the midst of a half- circle of yelling scummies. She nearly tripped over a dead Mardukan as she skidded to a stop, but she managed to keep her feet . . . and not open fire as a dozen more scummies trotted up to join the shouting crowd. She knew instinctively that if she fired, the prince was dead.
Roger panted and looked at the next scummy in line. Already, three bodies had been pulled out of the de facto arena, and he was beginning to learn the rules. The line he’d drawn was a safe point. As long as he stayed on “his” side of it, they wouldn’t attack, and if they were on the other side of their line, he couldn’t attack in turn. However, the one time he’d waited too long to come out to meet an opponent, they’d gotten agitated. Obviously, he couldn’t just sit and wait for rescue.
He didn’t look around as he heard running feet behind him, but from the stiffening of some of the Mardukans, it had to be a Marine.
“There’s a line behind me on the ground. Don’t cross it!”
“Yes, Sir.” He recognized Hooker’s voice and hoped the angry little Marine would keep her cool. “Armor’s on its way.”
Roger nodded and flexed his shoulders. He’d long since dropped his rucksack, ammunition harness, and anything else that threatened to weigh him down. His sparring with Cord had taught him much that had, so far, kept him alive. As a mass, these scummies might be the most terrifying thing on this part of the planet, but as individuals, they were almost woefully ill-trained. On the other hand, it had been a long day already, and he was getting tired.
“Tell them to get here fast, but keep their cool,” he said as another set of boots pounded up behind him. Then he looked at the scummy. “Come on, you four-armed bastard. I’m getting bored.”
Julian passed the Mardukan shaman, hurrying towards Roger’s position. The NCO wasn’t sure exactly what the old scummy was saying, but it sounded a lot like cursing. The old geezer, who was fast enough on open ground, was having a bunch of trouble with the fallen trees, which was obviously the reason Roger hadn’t included him on this little jaunt.
“Glad to see you’re as happy with him as we are,” the Marine yelled over his external speakers as he thundered by.
“I’ll kill him,” Cord snarled. “
“Okay by me, but you’ll have to get in line,” Julian said as he passed out of sight. “A
“I’m gonna kill him,” Pahner said, almost calmly, as Bilali and the stretcher team pounded into view.
“Bilali?” Kosutic asked rubbing her ear.
“Roger. Maybe Bilali, too.”
The team leader marched up to the company commander and saluted.
“Sir, Sergeant Bilali reporting with party of one.”
“And that one isn’t the Prince, I see,” Pahner said coldly. “I am far too enraged at the moment to deal with this. Get out of my sight.”
“Yes, Sir.” The sergeant walked over to where the medic was working on Gelert.
“Don’t go ballistic, Armand,” Kosutic whispered. “We have a
“I keep telling myself that,” Pahner replied. “And I’m trying not to. But if we lose the Prince, finishing the journey is next to pointless.”
Kosutic could only nod at that.
Roger stepped back across his line and turned around.
“Who is the leader here?” he asked.
Over a hundred scummies had gathered to watch the contest by now. So far, Roger had won each match handily. A gouge on his helmet indicated the closest anyone had come to hitting him, and several of his own supporters—including Julian and his armored companions—had assembled with Hooker behind him. So far, the scummies had left his cheering section strictly alone while they concentrated on the main event.
A handful of seconds passed, and then a single Mardukan stepped carefully onto the blood-soaked ground. He was older than most of the others, much scarred, and wore a necklace of horns around his neck.
“I am the senior tribe chief. I am Leem Molay, chief of the Kranolta Du Juqa.”
“Well,” Roger flipped the sword sideways to flick off the blood pooling on it, “I am Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock, of the House MacClintock, Heir Tertiary to the Throne of Man. And I finally have enough firepower to turn your pissant little tribe into meat for the
“Why should we let you live?” the chief scoffed.
“Julian?” Roger hadn’t been able to see who was in the suits, and he’d long before turned his radio off. Listening to Pahner bitch had gotten on his nerves.
“Yep,” one of the suits answered over its external speakers.
“Leem Molay, how many of your warriors do you want slaughtered to prove that you should let us walk away?” Roger sheathed his cleaned sword and took his reloaded grenade launcher from Pentzikis, but his icy eyes never left the Kranolta chieftain.
“Let me ask it this way,” he went on calmly, tilting his head to the side. “Which half do you want us to kill to prove our point?”
“If you could truly kill us all, you would!” the chief retorted. “We are the Kranolta! Even Voitan could not stand before us! We will wipe
Roger inhaled sharply through his nostrils. The stench of dead Mardukans barely affected him at this point; he was far too deep into that dark world of battle.
“Watch carefully, old fool,” he hissed.
The impromptu challenge matches had occurred on an open spot on the southern edge of the main battle zone. The Mardukans, for the most part, had been appearing from the northern woodline, so the southern one would make a better neutral target zone.
“Sergeant Julian.” The prince gestured to the south. “Demonstration, please.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the squad leader replied over his external speakers. He’d directed the response at the Kranolta, and his toot automatically translated it into the local dialect. “Gronningen, make these fine people a clearing to bury their dead in.”
“Aye,” Gronningen acknowledged, and turned to the south. “Shaman Cord, you might want to cover your
