“Thanks, Movefast. Your sister is fortunate to have a friend and brother such as you. But the challenge stands.”
Shootstraight made a gesture with his hands. “I don’t know which one of you is crazier, my sister or you. But there’s honor in what you say, and I hope you skewer Surekill like a newly slaughtered dooth. Come, we must head for the surface.”
Booly looked at Windsweet, saw her kneel beside her father, and did as he was told. The last of the villagers were heading up the path in front of them. Shootstraight spoke again.
“Tell me, human, are you good with a knife?”
“I taught hand-to-hand combat in the 2nd REP.”
Shootstraight gestured his approval. “That’s good, very good, because Surekill is an expert. It’s our experience that humans prefer to kill at a distance, avoiding personal combat when they can, a fact that influenced Surekill’s decision. He assumes that you lack the necessary skills, and more than that, are afraid of cold steel.”
Booly produced a twisted grin. “I am afraid of cold steel. Aren’t you?”
Shootstraight laughed. “Of course! That’s why I avoid affairs like this one. Now, listen carefully. Surekill’s arms are longer than yours, so stay outside his reach, and watch for tricks. He likes to trip his opponents, slash them as they fall, and finish them on the ground.”
The legionnaire nodded. “And if I manage to disarm him? What then?”
Shootstraight looked surprised. “Then kill him. He’s not the sort of enemy to leave alive.”
Booly was still thinking about that last piece of advice when he pushed the dooth-hide curtain aside and stepped out into the snowstorm. Snowflakes danced, whirled, and performed intricate pirouettes all around him, adding their substance to the shroud of newly fallen snow.
It was cold, and a driving wind made it even colder, causing the legionnaire to shiver. It was dark and the villagers had started a fire. The flames leaped higher as a flammable liquid was poured into the pit. The form master appeared at his elbow.
“Markers have been erected. The combatants must stay within them. Please follow me.”
Snow crunched under Booly’s boots as he followed the oldster towards the fire. The markers consisted of poles driven into the ground. Each boasted a pennant of red cloth. They pointed towards the east and snapped in the wind.
Surekill stepped out of the storm. He loomed large in front of the fire. “So, alien. You have the courage to face me.”
Booly shrugged. “Talk’s cheap. Let’s get on with it.”
The warrior bared his teeth and started to say something in reply, but the form master stepped between them. He held a tray. It supported four knives, all of which were about eighteen inches long.
“Each combatant will choose a weapon.”
Booly examined the blades with a critical eye. Each was handmade and therefore different from the others. Some of the knives were double-edged, some had evil-looking serrations, and some came equipped with blood gutters. He looked at Surekill.
The warrior reached out, selected something akin to an ancient bowie knife, and ran the edge along his naked forearm. A thin line of blood appeared.
Booly nodded approvingly. “I’d like to see that again ... only deeper this time.”
“Choose,” the form master said sternly.
The legionnaire chose without looking. The knife felt heavy and cold. “What about rules?”
“There is one rule,” the form master replied. “Stay within the area marked by the pennants. Leave it and your life is forfeit.”
Snowflakes tickled the legionnaire’s face as he looked around. He saw the pennants, the crowd, and Windsweet. She stood next to her father. She raised her right hand and placed it in the center of her chest. The Naa sign for affection. Her father stiffened and looked straight ahead.
A tremendous warmth suffused Booly’s body, for he knew what the gesture had cost her, and would cost her far into the future. He smiled, made the same gesture in return, and turned back to his opponent.
“When do we start?”
The form master raised his arm, stepped backwards, and brought it down. “Now.”
Booly threw the knife underhanded, aiming upwards at his opponent’s chest, hoping to end the contest before it began. But the legionnaire hadn’t practiced in a long time, and instead of penetrating Surekill’s chest, the weapon struck him between the eyes hilt-first.
The force of the blow might have felled a lesser being, but Surekill shook the pain off and moved forward.
The human swore silently, marked the place where his knife had fallen, and waited for the warrior. Knife attacks can be categorized as high, middle, or low. Surekill held the weapon in his right hand, waist-high and edge-up. He planned to come in close, open Booly’s abdomen with a jab, and rip his way upwards.
Light reflected off Surekill’s blade as he lunged forward. The human stepped away from the knife and transferred his weight to his right foot. Then, using his left arm to block the thrust, the legionnaire launched a side kick to the warrior’s left knee.
Something gave, the chieftain staggered, and Booly aimed a palm-heel strike at his opponent’s nose.
It didn’t work. Where humans had semi-soft cartilage, the Naa had solid bone, which could take a great deal of punishment.
Surekill recovered, swept the knife in from the right, and was rewarded a thin scarlet line across the legionnaire’s abdomen. It didn’t hurt but would before long.
Booly backpedaled and Surekill limped forward. A thin layer of snow had settled on the warrior’s head and dusted his shoulders.
“Watch the markers!”
The voice belonged to Shootstraight. Booly looked and saw that he was running out of room. Surekill grinned, lifted the knife high, and shuffled in for the kill.
The legionnaire stepped forward, grabbed Surekill’s knife arm with his left hand, and reached under the warrior’s armpit with his right. The human’s hand closed on his opponent’s collar, his hip provided a fulcrum, and the chieftain went down. Booly hung on and tried to twist the knife from Surekill’s hand. The crowd groaned.
But no sooner had the warrior hit the ground than he kicked upwards, aiming for Booly’s groin, but hitting his thigh instead. Forced to let go, the human staggered backwards and felt his feet slip out from under him. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs.
Now it was Surekill’s turn to take the offensive. And the situation was exactly the way he liked it. The human was on the ground, unarmed, and vulnerable to attack. He stood, limped forward, and dived.
Booly rolled to the right, felt something hard beneath the snow, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his knife. Surekill hit the ground with a loud thump. Pain lanced across the legionnaire’s abdomen as he stood. The wound was shallow but long, and had soaked his pants with blood.
The warrior lurched up and out of the snow. His eyes were like slits, his teeth were bared, and a growl rumbled in his throat.
“Come on, pook ... it’s time to die!”
The human dived into a somersault, kicked himself out of it, and drove the knife upwards. The blade went through the warrior’s throat, severed a major artery, and left him choking on his own blood.
Slowly, like a man preparing to pray, Surekill fell to his knees. Blood stained the snow around him. Then, wearing an expression of surprised disbelief, he toppled forward onto his face.
A collective sigh was heard. Windsweet turned and buried her face against her father’s chest. The chieftain blinked as a snowflake hit his eye. He put an arm around Windsweet’s shoulders and patted her on the back.
Thoughts started to form. Perhaps the situation wasn’t so bad, after all, Hardman thought. Surekill was dead, a fact that virtually guaranteed his own continued ascendancy, and hiss daughter had turned to him for comfort.
Yes, the human was the problem. Get rid of him and everything would be fine. But he’d have to act carefully, very carefully, so his daughter would never suspect. H
ardman watched Booly give the bloodstained knife to the form master and smiled.
Snow whirled down past the wall-mounted spotlights, hit the updraft created by the spaceship’s repellers, and soared upwards as if returning to its source.
St. James waited for the vessel to settle on pad 7, then hurried out to greet its passengers. Snow squeaked beneath his boots and his breath appeared as jets of steam. The ship was not especially large but looked roomy and comfortable. The hull had a shape similar to that of a Terran crab, minus the legs, of course, and the stalk-mounted eyes. Metal pinged as it started to cool and some auto stairs positioned themselves in front of the lock.
What would Sergi Chien-Chu be like? A self-important businessman full of lofty rhetoric and dedicated to lining his pockets? St. James hoped not, because the message from his friend Alexander Dasser indicated that this man headed the Cabal and was the Legion’s best hope for the future.
The lock whirred open and a shaft of light hit the ground. A figure appeared, far too slight to be that of a man, and drew a cape around her shoulders. A hood hid her face, but there was something about the grace with which she descended the stairs that grabbed the legionnaire’s attention and held it. Then as the woman stepped off the stairs and the light hit her face, the interest turned to fascination.
The woman had a slender body, a long oval face, and enormous eyes. They looked haunted somehow, as if some horrible tragedy had befallen her, and was never far from her thoughts. Her voice was soft and gentle.
“My name is Natasha Chien-Chu. My father-in-law will be along in a moment.”
St. James was surprised by the strength of his own disappointment. If Sergi Chien-Chu was her father-in-law, then she was married, and as unapproachable as the Emperor himself.
“Welcome to Algeron, Madam Chien-Chu. My name is Ian St. James. I command the Legion’s free forces.”
Natasha frowned. Snow swirled around her face. “Thank you. It saddens me to know that General Mosby and her people are in prison.”
St. James raised an eyebrow. “You know the general?”
“No, but my father-in-law does.”
A short, rather chubby man appeared from behind her. His eyes were brown and filled with intelligence. “Who do I know?”
Natasha smiled. “General St. James, my father-in-law, Sergi Chien-Chu. We were discussing General Mosby and the fact that she’s in prison.”
“But not for long,” Chien-Chu said cheerfully. “We hope to break her out.”
Charmed by the merchant’s unassuming ways and startled by his directness, St. James found himself smiling. “Welcome to Algeron, sir. I have a feeling that the Hudathans are in deep trouble.”
Nothing remained of the snowstorm except for a few errant flakes that spiraled down from a lead-gray sky. The sun was little more than a dimly seen presence, so heavily shrouded by clouds that only a small portion of its light found its way to the surface. The Towers of Algeron, which would normally draw the eye towards the south, were completely invisible.
Roller knelt beside a pile of still-warm dooth dung and pushed the goggles up onto his forehead. His breath fogged the air around him. He’d known very little about tracking when he’d arrived on Algeron but learned a good deal since.
There had been six animals. The first or second dooth had defecated and the rest of the pack train had ground the feces into the otherwise pristine snow. The depth of their tracks indicated that the animals had been heavily loaded, and judging from the way that the imprints overlaid each other, the caravan had traveled single file.
The absence of Naa tracks reinforced his impression that the dooths had been ridden rather than led. While that made it more difficult to tell how many warriors there were, he could make a fairly accurate guess. There had to be at least six Naa, one per animal, and could be as many as twelve individuals, if they rode doubled up.
As to identity, well, the hoofprints left little doubt as to that. The tribes liked to brand their livestock in two ways: with a symbol burned into their hides, and with marks filed into the circumference of their hooves. The first approach allowed them to pick their animals out of a large herd, and the second permitted them to track their property even when accompanied by dooth belonging to someone else. But these hooves bore no tribal markings, which suggested they had been burned away with acid or filed down. A bandit trick, designed to save them if caught with stolen merchandise, or at least lighten their punishment. Not that the tribes were inclined towards mercy where bandits were concerned. Most of them died head-down in a campfire. Roller stood and looked around.
His unit was substantially understrength, as were all the patrols from Fort Camerone these days. There was Gunner, crazy as ever, hull-down in a gully, scanning the wastelands with his sensors; the Trooper II named Villain, who, in spite of her last performance, showed every sign of developing into a fairly decent soldier; her understudy, a newbie named Salazar, who was so green that it hurt; and a pair of bio bods, both of whom rode in the quad. It was a relatively small force, entirely inadequate for any sort of tribal action, but more than a match for some raggedy-assed bandits. Or so Roller hoped.
The fact was that the Old Man had stripped Algeron in order to reinforce the rim world outposts. Roller understood the theory but wondered if it would work. Could the Legion stop the Hudathans all by themselves? And what about the Navy? What if the Emperor sent them against Algeron? The noncom shook his head in wonderment. Oh well, his job was clear, and that being the case, he’d get on with it.
The snow creaked as he walked towards Villain, circled, and stepped up behind her shoulders. He pulled the goggles down, strapped himself in, and activated his radio.
“Roller One to Roller Patrol. There’s bandits up ahead. Let’s move it.”
The sleeping cubicle was one of many that had been carved from the earthen walls. A generous supply of dooth-wool blankets provided sufficient warmth, and a curtain made from trade fabric supplied the illusion of privacy.
Booly heard movement nearby. His hand slid down to grip the piece of conduit that lay by his side. It was of Terran manufacture and had originally been part of a shuttle that had crashed fifty miles to the north.
Day was fading to night aboveground, which made it just right for one of the one-hour naps that the Naa took every six hours or so, or an attempt on his life.
Not that anyone had made any threats or actually moved against him. No, it was a feeling, that’s all, a sort of simmering resentment that made the human nervous. He’d be glad when they left Surekill’s village for Hardman’s, or better yet, when he could escape altogether. But what about Windsweet? The thought of leaving her behind, of losing her for all time, made his heart ache.
There was another sound, closer now, and Booly sat up. The pipe wasn’t much as weapons go but would be better than nothing. He pushed his back into a corner and prepared to defend himself. The curtain slid aside and a cloud of perfume enveloped him. Windsweet!
The curtain closed as she slipped in beside him. No words were said or required. Lips found lips, bodies came together, and hands slipped along unfamiliar flanks. The attraction was so strong, so powerful, that Booly found himself gasping for breath. The combination of her sleek sensual fur, the hard muscle just under the surface of her skin, and the tongue that explored his mouth brought the human to a state of instant arousal. Even the pain caused by his wound did nothing to lessen his excitement.
Feeling Booly grow hard, and taking pleasure in it, Windsweet wrapped her fingers around his erection and moved her hand up and down. The legionnaire shuddered, made her stop, and started his own gentle exploration.
Time passed, and the intensity of their lovemaking increased, until Windsweet could stand no more. She sought his penis and pulled it inside.
Booly bit his lip against the pleasure of it, forced himself to hold back, and matched the rhythm with which she moved. He didn’t know which was better, the physical pleasure or the wonderful intimacy of being with the woman
he loved. For that was the way he thought of her, as a woman, rather than an alien.
Slowly, but with the surety of any natural force, the pace quickened until both reached climax together, biting each other’s shoulders in an attempt to remain silent, and riding a tidal wave of pleasure. A wave that turned back on itself, became a whirlpool, and sucked Booly down into an ocean of sensation.
There was a long silence when it was over. It felt wonderful to lie there, with Windsweet by his side, kissing his neck and whispering endearments in his ear. He kissed her in return, told her that he loved her, and knew that he meant it. It was that knowledge that made the words so hard to say.
“Windsweet . . .”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“You said that.”
“And I meant it.”
“Good.”
Booly did a push-up and looked down into her eyes. “But there’s a problem.”
“You have to leave.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I knew from the beginning. The way all females know.”
“And yet you came?”
A tear rolled down Windsweet’s cheek. She made no attempt to wipe it away. “I came to say goodbye.”
“I’ll be back.”
“It would be better if you stayed away.”
“I don’t think I could.”
“Then what is, shall be.”
Booly nodded. “Exactly.”
“Then leave now, while we’re in a village other than my own, where my father would be duty bound to follow.”
“He’ll let me go?”
“I think he’d show you the way if he could. Nothing would please him more.”
“What about food? Weapons?”
“Father left both for me to find,” Windsweet replied. “I left them right outside.”
“So I should leave.”
“Yes,” Windsweet replied softly, “but only after we make love for a second time.”
Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned Page 28