James Axler – Shadowfall

There was a bone-hilted knife sheathed on Ditchdown’s belt, and Dean kicked out at Straub, breaking free of his hold for a moment. He dived at Ditchdown and grabbed the knife, dodging the man’s frantic grasp at him and launching himself straight at Micah.

The sec man opened his mouth to scream, but Dean was quicker. He stabbed the man through the heart, holding the knife point-upward, giving the blade a twist of the wrist before withdrawing it again, as his father had taught him.

The steel slid like silk between the ribs, cutting open the thudding walls of Micah’s heart.

Straub grabbed at Dean, locking his fingers into his hair, yanking backward. His right hand reached for the boy’s wrist and made him drop the knife.

“You little bastard,” he said. But even in that moment of highest tension, Dean noticed that Straub didn’t seem to be particularly angry. “Sort of spirit I’d expect from the son of a baron. Even a sad geek like Weyman.”

“My father isn’t a sad geek!” Dean lashed out backward, feeling his heel connect sharply with the man’s shins.

The note of grudging respect vanished instantly from Straub’s voice. “That hurt, you dwarf prick.”

He held Dean by the collar with his left hand, slapping him across the face with the right, hard, mechanical blows that made the boy’s head rock from side to side, making his ears ring, his eyes losing their focus.

Straub uttered cold, bitter words in time with each roundhouse slap. “Don’t ever do that again unless you want me to flay you alive.”

Dean could feel his nose beginning to bleed, more blood trickling from both ears. The pounding was so brutal that the boy felt himself beginning to slip away into darkness. He was trying to speak, to ask Straub to stop hitting him.

“Stop hitting him, Straub.” His voice sounded totally unfamiliar and puzzling to him.

But the blows carried on, remorselessly.

Dean wasn’t even aware that he’d become unconscious, not until he opened his eyes and stared up at the leaden afternoon sky. He felt a few spots of rain falling into his face, heard two angry voices arguing above him.

“He’s our passport, Straub.”

“He caused me pain. Nobody does that and walks away.”

“You’ve beaten him to the dirt. What more do you want from him?”

Straub laughed, a sound that sent the short hairs curling at Dean’s nape. “Today or tomorrow, Ditchdown? What does it matter? It is a good day to die, my brother. It is always a good day for death.”

“Not now, Straub. Might be that his father wants some proof Jamie’s alive.”

Dean sat up, wiping his nose on his sleeve and blinking up at the two men. He looked beyond them to where the corpse of Micah was slumped in his bonds. There was surprisingly little blood spilled from the knife wound. The boy felt a pang of regret that it had been necessary to kill the helpless old man.

But it had been necessary.

“Get up, lad,” Ditchdown said, not unkindly. “Go back to the tent and mind your own business.”

Straub tapped him on the shoulder. “Your ears are bleeding, kid.”

Dean shrugged away from him. “You want to pick on someone your own fucking size,” he said.

“Temper, kid. Control that temper. Chilling that old guy.” Straub leaned closer, his dark eyes with the whirling silver specks drilling into Dean. “I have a good idea why you did that, kid. But I’d like to hear it from your own lips.”

Dean swallowed hard, tasting the salt bitterness of his own blood. He glanced past Straub to where the children of the village were amusing themselves by cutting bits of flesh off the corpse of the sec man.

“Look,” he said. “You’d have let them do that while the poor bastard lived. I had to do what I could to spare him that. Loyalty’s a two-way street.”

He unconsciously quoted one of Trader’s favorite sayings. “Chilling him was the only way I could save him from your torturing. All right?”

Straub turned around. “All right, kid.”

Dean turned around. “And stop calling me ‘kid,’ will you? I don’t like it.”