Indraat advanced cautiously, and when the attack came, it seemed as if the assassin moved at partial speed. She saw the lead weapon pinwheel down from overhead and stepped aside to avoid it. It was a feint, of course, and the second sliced down at her knees. Indraat caught it in her dagger’s guard, twisted the weapon to lock it in place, then lifted a foot and slammed a heel stomp down against the blade to break it in two. She spun away before her foe could counter.
Variin threw the broken sword aside and drew a dagger from her thigh. With her opponent’s reach on one side shortened, Indraat was more certain of her attacks and met the next charge partway. Their blades clashed, ringing against one another three, four, then five times before Indraat delivered a cut with her dagger that would add another scar to the assassin’s face. Variin fell backwards, cursing and lifting the hand holding her smaller blade to the wound. It was above an eye, so it dripped blood obscuring her vision.
Indraat circled, moving in the direction of the damaged side, and darted in, testing the assassin’s defenses. They were still strong, and her sword was knocked aside. She threw herself back in panic as the dagger sped toward her face, thrown from a meter away, and received her own facial wound. Fortunately, it carved into her cheek and jaw, sparing her vision.
The assassin drew her remaining dagger as they circled. Neither spoke. The hatred in their eyes was eloquent enough. Her side ached, and as they moved she kept an arm pressed against the injury to staunch the blood flow. She realized she couldn’t hope to outlast the other woman and charged while she still had the strength to do so.
Variin brought up her blades to defend against the strike, but the attack was a faint. A crescent kick landed on the assassin’s fingers, and her dagger dropped. Indraat released her own weapons and grasped for her foe’s wrist, using the advanced hand-to-hand she’d learned from the soldiers to twist it violently in a direction it wasn’t meant to go. The assassin performed an unreal flip to alleviate the pressure before it snapped the joint but lost her blade in the process. Indraat held on and kicked the woman’s legs out from under her as she landed, and they fell to the ground together.
Indraat rolled to deliver an elbow to her foe’s head, but she’d rolled as well. Before Indraat could recover, she found herself on her back, and the assassin’s hands driving into her shoulders. Her vision filled with stars as her opponent’s reinforced kneecaps landed on her ribs, breaking several and causing her to cough up blood. She wrapped her legs around Variin’s to keep her from reenacting the strike but lost the hand battle while she did. She ducked her chin against her opponent’s effort to crush her windpipe and instead struggled against the pressure as Variin used her leverage to cut off the blood to Indraat’s brain.
Her face hovered just out of reach, and she longed to headbutt her, to bite her, anything to get away. The other woman swam in her vision. The assassin gazed down with a condescending look in her eyes.
“It seems the gods have found you unworthy, Indraat Vray. Apparently, nepotism can only take one so far.”
A familiar burn filled her at the sound of those words, uttered at her again and again as she fought to make something of herself. It gave her the strength she needed. With a hoarse cry, she threw her arms wide and twisted, pulling on the slender cables that stretched to the rings on each hand. The wires were connected to the spring-loaded sheaths hiding under her sleeves. The thin knives slipped out into her hands, and she caught them, then brought them forward and stabbed them into the condescending eyes of her foe. The assassin stiffened, convulsed, then fell away to twitch out her life on the stones beside Indraat.
Indraat’s guards rushed to cluster around her and administer medical treatment, ensuring she wouldn’t die before she could receive proper aid. She levered herself up in the silent room and twisted to look at her uncle he stood at the top of the golden staircase. He began to clap and descend the stairs. “Well done, Former-Niece, well done indeed. Truly, the soldiers taught you to be devious and efficient. You’re a credit to their training.”
He reached the bottom and turned to his seneschal. The two men spoke in low tones. Chanii shook his head, repeatedly, but her uncle was insistent. Finally, he nodded in defeat and addressed the assembled crowd.
“Emperor Kraada Tak will abide by the outcome of the contest between the royal assassin and Fleet-Captain Indraat Vray. He entrusts the emperor’s mantle to High Commander Maalis Fadl for safekeeping until an appropriate claimant has been identified.”
She frowned. Something in his tone, and in his stance, warned of bad news to come.
“However, Hierarch Kraada Tak exercises his right as leader of the Xroeshyn church to invalidate the results of this challenge as it pertains to the question of the humans. In the history of Xroesha, never has a Xroeshyn champion fought on the side of an inferior species. It is the position of the church that such a thing cannot be allowed. The resolution of the holy war will be decided between the original claimants. Forthwith.”
Chapter Forty-One
Cross groaned, loud and long, at the flunky’s words. He turned to Kate. “Did I just hear what I think I heard?”
“You did, if what you heard is that you have to fight the emperor.”
“Well, what was the point of the undercard then?” he groused, aware that he was almost whining. “I swear, if I never see a bipedal bird again after today, it’ll be too soon.”
“Technically, all birds are bipedal,” Matthews remarked in an innocent tone.
“Shut up, you,” Cross replied.
“All right, let’s be sure this is necessary.” He walked over to Indraat Vray, who’d been placed in a chair near the octagon and had a team of aliens, presumably medical aliens around her. He approached and said, “So, after all that, we still have to fight?”
She looked up at him, and he saw the pain she felt in the fevered brightness of her eyes. He winced in sympathy. “Are you going to be okay?”
She nodded very gently. “In answer to your first question, yes, you must battle my uncle. In answer to your second question, it appears so, as long as you win. If you lose, I’m likely to share your fate as punishment for my actions.”
“Because your uncle is the guy in charge?”
“No, because the gods will have judged me lacking by your defeat.”
Cross shook his head. “You’ve got some hard beliefs, Indraat.”
She shrugged. “The universe is a hard place, Captain, as you will discover. Again, assuming you win.”
He sighed. “Any pointers?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Above all things, he’s crafty. Do not believe any professed weakness. My uncle trains regularly. He favors the mace and is a master of its use. He has countless victories within the lines.”
“So, beware of traps, is what you’re saying.” She shrugged. “Lady, I hate to break it to you, but that is not news to me.” He patted her boot awkwardly and drew Kate, who lingered nearby, aside. “Suggestions?”
“Don’t die. Hit him harder than he hits you. Win.”
“That’s not helpful,” he said, and then her lips were on his, and her arms were cradling his head. The kiss lasted an eternity yet was over in seconds. “But that is,” he finished.
He turned to the octagon to find the emperor standing across from him, waiting. He rolled his shoulders and his neck then looked around. Finally, he spotted it, the executioner’s axe, and grabbed one of Indraat’s guards to follow him. Moments later he returned with two sticks, cut from the heavy haft of the weapon. He smiled in continued amusement at the forlorn look on the attendant’s face when the guard handed the axehead back to him.
“Really?” Kate asked.
Cross shrugged. “Murphy told me we’d train with sticks first because you could always find them, or something enough like them to do.”
“You’ve been training with Sinner?”
He nodded. “And a couple of the other Marines.”
Kate shook her head. “Anderson Cross hanging out with Marines. Will wonders
never cease?”
“It’s time,” yelled the seneschal, and Kate patted his arm before fading away. He matched his opponent’s steps as he entered the octagon. Cross flinched as energy crackled all around him, and he watched as thin columns of controlled plasma climbed toward the ceiling, and circles of the same substance appeared at one-meter vertical intervals to bind the space, joining with the posts to create a fence.
He stared at his enemy, who paused to explain, “In the prior battle, the combatants’ honor was all that was needed to enforce the lines. As your species hasn’t shown such honor, we must do it the old-fashioned way.” The emperor—former emperor—removed his robe and cast it aside to be sliced to pieces where it intersected the energized defense. He wore what resembled high-tech chainmail, the links so fine Cross’s vision went blurry trying to separate one from another. In his right hand he held a hammer, the huge head stained sapphire. In his other, he wielded a strange, double bladed axe, about the size of a short sword. It had a point on the top, and overall it looked entirely menacing.
“Seems a little unfair, you with the armor and me with pretty much nothing,” Cross said. The alien regarded him, unblinking, then nodded.
“I wouldn’t have the story told that this battle was anything other than fair.” The fence descended, ending about a meter above the floor, and the palace guard handed Cross a set of gear retrieved from the skiff upon their capture. He buckled on thigh armor, forearm shields, and a chest plate. He whispered a small prayer of thanks to Gunnery Sergeant Murphy for insisting he train in the stuff, although he still believed it was mostly sadism on her part.
The fence returned to its full height. Cross loosened his arms, getting the feel of the sticks through the soft leather gloves that were the last piece of the combat gear he donned.
He stared at his opponent, waiting. The emperor bared his teeth at him. “First blood?” he asked, clearly some sort of ritual statement.
For a moment, Cross thought about accepting. Then he considered it again and wondered if he was fast enough to score a touch before the alien. He decided he knew too little to trust to that outcome. Plus, it could be another trap.
“No thanks,” he replied. “I’m looking forward to bashing your face in. I’ve been wanting to punch one of you for such a long time.”
The emperor laughed, genuine mirth in his eyes. “And I, one of you, human. Before we begin, I want you to fully understand this place. The lines of eight are prescribed in our holy book, the Dhadas Ve Xroe, as the ultimate answer to any question where opinion or belief is a factor. Through combat within this sacred space, we offer our dispute up to them. They’ll give he who is in the right, the strength to achieve victory and deny the same to his foe. It’s an act of worship we undertake, regardless of the outcome.”
Cross was momentarily stunned by the idea. “You truly believe that.”
There was no guile in the enemy’s eyes as he nodded and replied, “I do. Entirely.”
He raised his sticks in the salute that Sinner had taught him, bringing them up to gently touch his forehead and lowering them to his sides to point at a forty-five degree angle. “I wish we could’ve resolved this without all this violence,” he said. “If only you hadn’t sought revenge.”
The emperor—former emperor—shrugged. “If only you hadn’t trespassed. If only you hadn’t fired your weapons. If only, if only, if only. All that remains is the future.”
Cross nodded and stepped back and sideways with his right foot, bringing his sticks into a guard position, one middle-forward and the other high. His enemy advanced a cautious step at a time, then darted in and swung the axe in a horizontal slash at his head. He dodged the curved blades, but the point of the top scored to cut his cheek as he backpedaled. With a rush of fear, he remembered there was plasma loose behind him and skittered to the side.
Glad I didn’t choose first blood, he thought.
His opponent turned, a meter away, and stalked him with short steps that kept him pinioned near the fence. The alien feinted, and Cross brought his sticks up in an X to defend against the promised blow. His enemy gave another nod, and he realized that he was being researched.
“Oh no, you don’t, birdman,” he yelled and charged at Kraada. The emperor stepped to the side and lashed out with a sidekick, but Cross was already past. He delivered a circle strike to the outside of the extended knee. His opponent moved with the blow, lessening its impact, but the thick weapon hitting an unprotected joint had to hurt. He circled the center with his foe, each barely beyond an arm’s reach of the other, and noticed that the emperor’s leg was dragging.
Uh-huh, pull the other one, he thought.
He flexed toward his enemy, stomping forward and extending the stick at his face. The alien pivoted on his supposedly wounded limb to deliver a backhanded smash with the mace at his head. Cross brought both sticks around to block it but failed to get them there at the same moment, and the force of the impact rattled down into his arms. He jumped back to avoid the follow-through blow from the axe and took a kick to his unprotected shin.
Fire consumed his senses, and he fell to the ground in agony, instinctively grabbing at his wounded leg. His brain caught up and he rolled, narrowly avoiding the mace where it smashed down beside his head. Frantic kicks kept him rolling until he had enough momentum to spin up to his feet. He whipped the sticks before him like a shield as he rose, and they intercepted the axe again a feather’s width before his eyes. He disengaged and circled, limping.
The emperor stalked him again, waiting for an opportunity to capitalize on his diminished capacity. He delivered an overhanded chop with the axe that Cross blocked cleanly and followed through with a punch to Cross’s face. Fortunately, the mace was held sideways in the outstretched hand, or it would’ve smacked him in the forehead. As it was, the blow from his opponent’s mailed fist broke several teeth and filled his mouth with blood.
He spat at the enemy. “Is that all you’ve got?” he shouted, feeling his control slip. He strode forward, chest open, a stick held in ready position at each side and said, “Quit running, let’s do this.” The emperor took the offer, punching with his mace to slam the heavy head into Cross’s chestplate. The timing of the trap was flawless, and while one of his sticks was blocked by the axe, the other whipped through a short arc to smack into the alien’s temple, right on the circlet. Kraada staggered slightly as he stumbled backward. A glance at his own armor revealed the blow had cracked the plate in several places. It wouldn’t hold up against another shot like that.
“Dammit,” Cross muttered under his breath, and regarded his opponent through lowered eyes.
“You’re a worthier foe than I expected, human,” Kraada said, straightening to his full height. He reached up and freed the feathers atop his head, and they expanded into a shape similar to a Mohawk hairstyle. The emperor threw the axe aside and kicked it out of the circle, then tossed his mace from hand to hand. “However, I’ve taken your measure, and I find you lacking. The gods have clearly judged you inadequate, Captain Cross. It’s time to finish this.”
The alien waded in. He feinted high, then brought the mace around in a low blow that Cross barely got a stick in front of. The force of the strike carried both mace and stick into his thigh armor, which cracked, just like the chest piece had. Cross jammed a stick into the being’s shoulder to disengage, and his foe turned it into a spin, bringing an elbow around to catch him in the cheek. He felt the bone break despite his tumble to avoid the power of the strike. He spat again, scarlet drops against the sapphire of the arena’s surface.
“All right, birdface, it’s time to go old-school.” He spun his sticks once and ran at his opponent. The alien swung the mace as if he was going for a home run, but Cross had already dropped into a slide on the floor. He pulled back his leg and fired it at the enemy’s knee joint. The impact took Kraada to the ground. Cross pushed off with the other leg, sliding to avoid the mace as it sought his head again. A spin brought him to his feet, a
nd his opponent stood as well, now honestly favoring his clearly damaged limb.
Cross wiped a hand across his face to clear the sweat and cursed himself as an idiot for touching it as fire shot through him. Kraada was worried now, as concern replaced the confidence in his eyes. Cross charged again, twitching toward the ground. His enemy shifted his grip and swung his mace low, and Cross countered by going high. An acrobat he was not, but his boots were heavy and the impact of both striking the slender alien in the chest was dramatic. Cross fell to the floor hard, landing on his left arm, which went numb beneath him.
His foe coughed and staggered, as sapphire blood stained his lips. Cross pushed himself to his feet and swayed drunkenly, trying to shake off the sudden weakness coursing through him. “We’ll see who’s judged what,” he mumbled through his broken face, and charged the enemy one more time. Kraada backpedaled and swung his weapon in a massive rising arc, circling it down behind his back and up toward Cross’s chin. Cross knew the blow was strong enough to kill him, and he had no way to dodge it.
Instead, he shifted his numb arm into the mace’s path. The forearm guard and the bone beneath it shattered under the impact. With the time his sacrificed limb had purchased, he drew back his other one and planted his fist in the alien’s eye, then followed up with a quick strike of his stick to his foe’s temple. The alien was stunned, and Cross spun in a wobbly circle to reverse-strike the stick into his other temple. Kraada staggered sideways, dropping the mace and avoiding a fall into the plasma only by dropping to one knee.
Cross stood, panting, and waited. The former emperor was muttering something, but he couldn’t tell what. Then a look of bliss came over his face. He nodded, and Cross tensed. With a scream, the alien launched himself from the ground, the hand that had been occluded by his body whipping forward to hurl a bunch of small objects at him. Cross threw himself backward with a cry, bringing his stick up in a frantic defensive sweep. As he fell, he heard a sizzle and attributed it to one of the things hitting the fence behind him. The impact with the floor robbed him of breath, and he convulsed, trying and failing to roll to the side and avoid the mace that was surely coming for his head.
Victors Page 25