Raising his ruined, useless hand to eye level, the hulking creature rent the air with another of those shrill, womanish screams, then pressed the bleeding palm and fingers against his torn belly, from which a pinkish-purple loop of gut was working. But he did not halt his shuffling advance.
To fall or even stumble would presage a messy death. Geros backed cautiously, his knees flexed, his feet feeling a way across the uneven footing of blood-slick pavement, dropped weapons and still or twitching bodies. The sergeant was suffused with cold, crawling terror, for well he knew that no sane man would so stalk an armed and armored opponent, while lacking any sort of weapon but bare hands. And he would have run, save that the giant now stood bejween him and Thoheeks Bili, still lying stunned where he had fallen. And, despite his all but unmanning fear, he could not willingly desert his young lord.
The monster, though, was the one who stumbled and would have fallen on his face had he not slammed his wide palm on the slimy ground. And Geros danced in, his point quick as a striking viper, sinking deep, deep into the left eye of that upraised face. The shudder that racked the gargantuan body almost wrenched the broadsword from his grasp. Then the tree-thick left arm bent and the dead man’s huge head thumped the paving stones.
Old Pyk, the Freefighter weapons master, clucked concernedly while he wrapped bandage about Bili’s thigh. “It’s stopped bleeding, my lord. Still, I think it should be burnt, else you might lose the leg to the black stink.” He finished the lapping and neatly tied the ends, adding, “And a burning be much easier, my lord, an’ you’ve no long time to think on it.”
Bili lowered the canteen of brandy-and-water from his lips and smiled. “Thank you, Master Pyk, but no. When we be back in camp, I’ll have Master Ahlee see to the wound. I’ve had such burnt ere this, and I much prefer the soft words of his mode of healing to your red-hot spearhead.”
The young nobleman leaned back, refusing to allow his face to reveal his pain, while his orderly, Makz Bineht, folded the slit leg of the blood-caked breeches over the bulk of bandage, then pulled the boottop back up and secured its straps. Then he stood, remarking, “My lord, Captain Raikuh is coming back.”
Bili opened his eyes and levered himself into a sitting posture on the parapet of the outer works, took another pull at the canteen and resolutely corked it. It would not do to have fuzzy wits if push came to shove and he had another shouting match with sub-strahteegos Kahzos Kahlinz, now commanding the Confederation troops in the conquered salient.
Pawl Raikuh strode across the carnage he had helped to cause, stepping around bodies where possible. All at once he stopped, bent to look, then drew his dirk and squatted beside a dead rebel. After wiping his blade on the dead man’s clothing, he sheathed it, dropped something shiny in his belt purse and continued on his way. When he had climbed the ladder to the outer works, he paced deliberately over to Bili’s place and, after removing his helm, saluted. The padded hood which covered most of his head was sweat-soaked, there was a crust of old blood around his nostrils and on his upper lip, his scarred face was drawn with fatigue.
Bili waved to the stretch of parapet on his right, saying, “Pawl, sit down ere you fall down. Here, try some of this brandy-water-most refreshing.”
After the briefest of hesitations, the captain sank with a sigh onto the proffered seat and gratefully accepted the canteen. He took one mouthful, spit it downhill, then threw back his head and upended the bottle, his throat working.
“What,” asked Bili, “did our esteemed colleague say when you told him that his troops could now begin clearing the field?”
Raikuh grinned. “Very little of a repeatable nature. Duke Bili. His remarks tend to leave the impression that he has little use for Freefighters and even less for Middle Kingdoms-trained country nobles who fail to give him and his pack of pikepushers the respect that he feels they deserve.”