My tired body thrilled with the dark melody of her. It took the memory of Gains’s face crawling across her worm-flesh to stop me rising to her call. I lifted the bow. I knew I couldn’t hold it for long.
“It’s grave-cold that’s in you.” Her voice became an angry hiss. “It will kill you.”
She smiled at me over the Nuban’s shoulder, enjoying his helplessness. “You’re trembling, Jorg. Put the bow down. You probably couldn’t even hit your friend here, let alone me.”
It felt so tempting. Put the bow down.
“He’s not my friend,” I said.
She shook her head. “He’d die for you. I can taste it in his blood.”
“You’re playing the wrong game with me, dead-thing.” I raised the bow and sighted it. The tremor in my arms kept the aim-point jumping. Any worse and the bolt would have shaken from its groove.
She laughed at me. “I can see the ties that bind the living. You only have two friends, Prince Jorg. You’re as bound to this sweet-blooded man as any son to his father.”
Sacrifice.
She set her fingers to the red holes in the Nuban’s neck. “Let me have the others. Let me take their life- juice, and you and him, you can stay with me. You can help me harvest the leucrota. There are several tribes, some of them quite fractious. There are other necromancers against whom a living ally, one as sharp as you, would be most useful.”
Play the game.
She smiled, and that dark fire lit in me again. “I like you, Prince. We can rule under the mountain, together.” Sex dripped off her words. Not that pallid roll in the sheets that Sally surrendered, but something potent, unseen, and consuming. She offered me a draw. Life, power, and command. But in her service.
Play to win.
The Nuban’s eyes were on mine. For the first time ever, I could read what he held there. I could have taken anything else. I could have taken hatred, or fear, or pleading. But he forgave me.
ChooOom!
The bolt hit the Nuban square in the chest. It put a hole through both of them and took them off the edge. Neither of them screamed, and it took forever before they hit the bottom.
Most men have at least one redeeming feature. Finding one for Brother Rike requires a stretch. Is “big” a redeeming feature?
31
I came back to find the brothers nursing their wounds among drifts of broken bone. Roddat, Jobe, Els, and Frenk lay stretched out, apart from the group. Death makes lepers of even the most popular men. I didn’t bother with them: any loot would be long gone.
“Thought you’d left us, Brother Jorg.” Red Kent spared me a glance from beneath lowered brows and returned to the business of whetstone and sword.
That “brother” held a note of reproach. A note at the least, perhaps a whole symphony. No “prince” for the runaway.
Makin watched me with dark speculation, sprawled on the floor, too spent to prop himself against a pillar.
Rike hefted himself to his feet. He came toward me slowly, polishing a ring against the leather padding of his breastplate. I recognized it as Roddat’s luck-ring, a nice piece of yellow gold.
“Thought you’d left us, Brother Jorgy,” he said. He loomed over me, a broad and brooding form.
There’s some, like Liar, that aren’t much to look at, and it’s a surprise for folks when they find out what a truly nasty bastard they’re dealing with. Rike never surprised anyone that way. The menace of him, the sheer brutality, his love of other people’s pain, well, Mother Nature wrote it in every line of him just to warn us.
“The Nuban is dead.” I ignored Rike and looked to Makin. I pulled the Nuban’s crossbow off my back and showed it. No doubt after that. The man was dead.
“Good,” said Rike. “Serves him right for running. Never did like that weasel coward.”
I hit Rike as hard as I could. In the throat. I made no conscious decision. If I’d given it the smallest moment’s consideration, I’d have held my blow. I might have stood a chance against him with a sword, but never with bare hands.
Actually “bare hands” is going too far. I had my gauntlets on, riveted iron. I stood six foot tall at fourteen, lean, but hard with muscle from swinging a sword and carting my armour around. I knew how to punch too. I put my whole weight behind that blow, and every ounce of my strength.
Iron knuckles crunched into Rike’s bull-throat. I may not have been thinking with my head, but thankfully some part of me hadn’t abandoned all sense. Punching Rike’s blunt face would have probably broken my fist and just tickled him a little.
He gave a kind of grunt and stood there, looking slightly bewildered. I supposed the idea that I’d just committed suicide in such grand style took some getting used to.
Somewhere in the back of my mind it dawned on me that I’d made a very big mistake. The rest of me didn’t much care. I think blind rage, and the pure enjoyment of using Rike as a punch-bag, figured in equal measure.
Since I’d been offered a second free blow, I took two. An iron-clad knee driven accurately into the groin will give pause for thought even to a seven-foot maniac who’s twice your weight. Rike folded up obligingly and I brought both fists down together on the back of his neck.
I studied the fighting arts of the Nippon with Tutor Lundist. He brought a book on the subject with him from the Utter East. Page upon rice-paper page of fighting stances, kata moves, and anatomical diagrams to show the pressure points. I’m sure I hit the two stun points on the back of Rike’s neck, and I know I hit hard.
I blame him for being too stupid to know how they work.
Rike swung at me. A lucky thing, because if he’d grappled me he’d have twisted my head off in no time. His vambrace caught my ribcage. I guess if I’d not been wearing that breastplate all my ribs would have broken, rather than just the two. The force took me off my feet and sent me sliding among the bones. I fetched up against one of those pillars with a painful little clang.
I could have drawn my sword then. It would have been the only sensible decision. Against all the unwritten rules, of course. I started it with a punch and that was the way the thing should have ended. But when you weigh a loss of face with the brothers against having Rike actually rip your face off, well, it’s not a hard decision.
I picked myself up. “Come here, you fat bastard.”
The words emerged without a by-your-leave. The anger spoke for me. Anger at having lost control, more that now than anger at him calling the Nuban a coward. The Nuban didn’t need Rike beaten bloody to prove his courage. Angry at being angry-there’s a worm that will eat its tail and no mistake. I should have Oroborus on my family crest.
Rike rushed me with that wordless howl of his. He reached a fair clip. Not many castle doors would stop Little Rikey at that speed. Pretty scary, unless you know he can’t turn corners.
I stepped aside nice and sharp, cursing at my ribs. Rike hit the pillar and bounced off. To his credit several bits of stone came loose. I picked up a good stout thighbone and smacked him around the head with it as he tried to get up. The thing cracked almost in two, so I finished the job and had myself two knob-ended clubs.
The single most depressing thing about fighting Rike would have to be the way he’d never stay down. He came at me, a bit woozy now, but snarling dire threats and meaning every one of them.
“Gonna feed you your own eyeballs, boy.” He spat out a tooth.
I danced back and hit him in the face with the longer of my two clubs. He spat out another tooth at that. I had to laugh. The anger left me and it felt good.
So Rike lumbered after me, and I kept my distance, clouting him a good one when I could. The closest thing I can think of is bear-baiting. Whack! Growl. Clang! Snarl! I had the giggles, which was a bad thing, because one slip and he really would have me. If he got just one of those paws of his on me and got a grip… well, I would be eating my own eyeballs. He did things like that.
