Thousands of troops on the field and that crazy fucker manages to find me in the melee.
With a hateful roar, the bastard charged her, his sword raised to take her head off. “Lying fucking whore!” he howled so loudly, she could hear every word over the battle cries and dying screams around them.
As his sword descended fast, Gypsy launched herself forward and dove into the mud. When her fingers fell upon her sword hilt, she pulled with all of her strength, yanking the blade free of its squishy grip. She swung her sword toward the slender, fast moving shadow of Dzabol’s sword. She blocked Dzabol’s blade two inches from her face. The crazed curses blurring his speech were so angry she could barely understand a word he railed at her, not that it mattered what he was saying.
It was the frenzy of blows he rained down on her that garnered a hundred percent of her attention. The blood soaked mud made the grip of her sword shiny and slick like an eel’s flesh. Only the scaly raptor skin lining the palms of her gloves made holding on to it possible.
Unexpectedly, Dzabol twisted his blade back and kicked Gypsy in the stomach. It was enough to loosen her grip, allowing him to wrench her weapon free of her hand and fling it away. The point of his sword lightly rubbed the tip of her nose, and she could imagine his hateful sneer beneath his helmet.
“By the time I’m done with you, bitch, you’ll be begging me for death.” he growled, dismounting in one fluid move so graceful it belied his massive size. When he stepped forward to grab her, his foot slid in a conglomerate of thick muck and slimy gore. In the second it took him to recapture his footing, Gypsy ducked under his reach to come around at him from behind. She pulled Gavin’s dagger from the sheath at the small of her back and leapt on him before he could turn to face her.
With raucous growls he labored to dislodge her, but she was small and much too fast, for him. With one arm around his neck, she slipped her fingers into the gap between his helmet and his body armor only to find the area well protected by thick pieces of banded, chain mail.
Seething hatred from every pore, Dzabol grabbed the edge of her chest plate and violently threw her over his head. Gypsy lit on her back—hard. The impact momentarily stunned her, and before she could draw a breath, Dzabol pounced on her like a great lion on a hapless rabbit—not that she considered herself hapless…or helpless. But Dzabol had to weigh over three hundred pounds in his armor, enough weight to press her an inch or two into the bloody muck at her back.
Gypsy wondered if he would succeed in killing her. The very thought enraged her. No! She refused to lose this battle. I am not going to die at the hands of this unworthy piece of shit!
They grappled, stalemated, in the mud as Gypsy searched for a space in his armor where she could bury either her blade or fingers. As they tumbled, large chunks of bloody sludge caked her face, some of it forcing entry into her mouth.
It was clear this needed to end because enemy soldiers were still afoot. Dzabol was so ensconced in his personal vendetta he no longer cared if he lived or died, as long as he got to kill her first.
If he kills me, the woman warrior, he’ll be a legend even if he dies in the process.
Because he had the advantage of weight, position and some exceptional custom armor, he felt free to remove his helmet, dropping it to the ground. With his hand in the middle of her forehead, he slammed her head back on the ground, again and again. Her head bounced around inside her helmet like the clapper of a bell, making her ears ring. Her knife slipped from her grip and fell into the mud.
Dzabol wrapped a huge gauntlet clad hand around her throat and grinned triumphantly down at her. “You fucking bitch, you are mine now.”
“In your dreams, Dzabol.” She used both hands to find access to the flesh of his torso, but everywhere she was met with a steel barrier.
Baring his teeth, his grip tightened just enough to narrow her windpipe, but not hard enough to completely cut off her air supply or break her neck. Yet terror streaked through her like a lightning bolt. With just a squeeze of his hand, she’d be dead.
In a panic, she brought her hands up to grasp his. She tried to wrench them from her throat, but it was no use. The males she fought were always going to be bigger and stronger. If she survived this she knew this disadvantage would plague her entire career.
Seconds ticked by and her determination began to lose ground to dizziness. It was almost impossible to think anymore. As her oxygen starved lungs began to shut down, the sights and sounds of her surroundings began to waver and cloud. Then a sharp sound broke through her delirium. She wasn’t yet too far gone to fail to recognize Declan’s strident bugle. Dzabol snarled and began spitting one curse after another.
With threadbare awareness, she saw her hyperia running directly for them in a full charge, his head lowered and teeth bared.
Releasing his grip on her neck, Dzabol stood and brandished his sword at Declan. “Come on, you crazy beast! I’ll carve out your foul heart and eat it!”
Gypsy coughed and coughed, finally pulling in some ragged, gasping pants. Her lungs greedily took in air. Declan, bless his gallant heart, had stayed close by, and now she could feel his pounding hooves through the ground beneath her. Growling, he sank his teeth into her attacker’s thigh. Dzabol shrieked in pain, but managed to twist around with his sword to score a brutal slash that drew Declan’s shrill scream. As the commander’s saber, drenched in Declan’s blood, came back into her view, Gypsy knew she didn’t have much time.
She quelled her confusion and worked to clear her eyesight, still blurry from the prolonged lack of oxygen. Fortunately, she could see well enough now to make out what was happening around her.
Having succeeded in driving Declan back, Dzabol tossed his sword aside and began to fumble with his pants. She guessed he didn’t want her dead before he raped her.
How comforting. All her fear and grief evaporated as intense hate and a burning need for vengeance filled her heart. Watching him with detached calm, it was almost impossible to suppress the joy that infused her. Yet another male stupidly distracted by his penis. Men had size and strength, but as with her military discharge plea, Dzabol had underestimated her cunning and capabilities. He believed she was defeated the moment he’d engaged her in combat. As with Drake, the instinct to kill her quickly and triumph was trumped by his need to subjugate her sexually.
Falling to his knees, he grasped the front of her pants, tearing them apart, exposing her lower abdomen.
Time to die, asshole, she thought as she worked her hand through the gory mud, patiently searching until her fingertips touched steel. Slipping her fingers into the grip holes she was once again indebted to her father for giving the weapon to her.
A better soldier would have noticed, but not Dzabol. He was much too busy licking and biting her exposed hip. While one of his hands pulled out his dick, the other tried to jerk her pants down.
In a flash of speed she sat up, and with all the strength she could muster, she slammed the blade of her knife into his temple. It crunched through thick skull into his brain until only the hilt stuck out. She yanked the blade free, and blood poured from the wound. His eyes bulged in disbelief as hot, sticky blood soaked her bare abdomen and pants. Moments later, he toppled over on top of her, dead.
The last thing he deserved was a quick death, but that’s what he got. Her survival, she thought, was more important than exacting revenge.
Had Dzabol crept up on her after her mount had fallen and killed her right away, he would draw breath now instead of her. Maybe being a woman in this warrior world isn’t a liability after all, she thought, shoving his body off her with utter disgust.
She climbed to her feet and leaned down to use Dzabol’s chest plate to scrape his blood off her dagger. She sheathed it in the scabbard at the small of her back and tucked the waist of her torn pants up under the bottom of her chest armor before tightening the side straps. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep her pants from falling down.
She scanned the mud around
her until she found her sword. It wasn’t until after picking it up that she saw she was the only one standing in a sea of mutilated corpses. At her feet, Dzabol released a few agonal breaths as blood still oozed from his head wound. Off in the distance the sun was coming up. The emerging light only made the landscape look more horrific.
Although her body still trembled with the adrenaline-filled rush of combat, she was beginning to feel pain through the natural numbing agent. There was no part of her that didn’t hurt, inside and out.
A very large soldier approached, backlit in the hazy dawn. Though his weapon was drawn, it wasn’t raised nor was he rushing her. So she remained still. It was Kharon. Advancing cautiously, he gave a passing glance down at Dzabol. He watched her for a long time and Gypsy wondered how much of the fight he had seen or sensed.
“Nice kill. Was it personal?”
Gypsy felt strange. No emotion seemed to inhabit any part of her now. Something had pulled a plug in her soul, causing everything to drain out like the blood of the dead soldiers. She felt dead too. All she wanted was to scrub the remnants of the battle from her flesh and fall into a dreamless sleep.
“We have won the day,” Kharon’s voice cut the silence. “The soldiers who haven’t fled have surrendered. Most have taken a loyalty oath. This is done for now; let’s rejoin our unit.”
She merely nodded and got to her feet to find Kharon’s attention riveted on a rider in the bleary distance. Although she couldn’t see the rider’s uniform clearly, his size, shape and movements were known to her. For the first time it gave her solace rather than fear. As always, he was alone. Slowly, he scanned the sea of dead, stopping a few times to listen.
Kharon was going to pull his sword, but Gypsy placed her hand over his to still it. "That’s Major Senika Black, the royal executioner. He mercy kills the soldiers who can’t be saved." Gypsy watched Black dismount, check a few bodies, then continue on, leading his mount. He didn’t seem to care what uniform was worn. She guessed it didn’t matter, mercy was mercy.
“We need to go back.” Kharon’s deep voice broke her fixation on the Major. He extended his hand but she made no move to take it.
Amidst all the carnage she didn’t feel she had the right to any comfort. Her rebuff didn’t deter him; it never did. Grasping her limp gloved hand in his, he guided her forward. She didn’t even know which direction they were going. She had lost her bearings during her scrap with Dzabol and now she just didn’t care.
Kharon had taken control when she was most vulnerable. The I-have-something-to-prove soldier part of her resented his interference, but she didn’t resist. Gypsy stepped softly behind him, feeling like a ghost in a graveyard. The physical contact between them settled into her wounded soul, providing some desperately needed nourishment.
Behind them, the choppy thud of cloven hoofs through the moist ground made her stop and turn around. Declan was following them at a distance. There was nothing left in her that could smile but she was elated nevertheless. “I’m so happy he’s okay. That big prick is the only reason that I am not dead right now.” There was a long slash in his flank and blood dripped down his right rear leg. It wasn’t fatal, but probably very painful.
Kharon noticed him too. "I’ll tether him so he doesn’t run off.”
“No need. If he wanted to flee, he would have done so when I was unseated and I’d be dead. I told you he was perfect for me.”
Since Kharon had lost his own mount, they both continued on foot. A few times Kharon urged her to mount Declan and ride on ahead without him, but she kept walking. So they journeyed back to central command on foot, with Declan bringing up the rear. The beast’s wound had stopped bleeding, but still needed suturing.
Gypsy tried not to look at the faces of the dead as they passed. Far too many were known to her. Many were academy acquaintances and enlisted who’d merely chosen the wrong side. She wondered how many would feel sad if they’d walked by her bloody corpse.
Chapter 24
Riding down the road from her villa, Harlan was mesmerized by the scenery. For the first time in months, the Imperial streets were clean, having been restored to their previous luster. All of the garbage that had been collecting in the gutters and overflowing the city receptacles was gone. Custodians worked in teams to recoup the sanitary standards present before Megolyth stopped paying his bills. Hyperia drawn carts, heavy with barrels of soapy water traveled down the streets as the men splashed the mixture onto the road stones and scrubbed the built up grime with long handled brushes.
Many of the citizens who had fled the civil unrest were returning. Businesses, shuttered because of looting, had reopened as well. After seeing the city desolate for so long, Harlan found it nice to hear the hawkers again. There were fewer beggars and even fewer starving children roaming the back alleys. The empire was getting back on its feet, thanks to Grand Duke Augustus von Goth.
Because of his understanding of how the empire should be run, he had restored services quickly. It was easy to recognize that he was a born leader, not just a stogy bag of pomp and rituals. Harlan credited her friend, the Grand Duke Molitov Von Goth, Augustus’ father. She was confident it was by his urging that his son had taken over as regent.
Like his father, Augustus didn’t have any egotistical designs on ruling an empire. He saw it for what it was and what his father had before him—a giant pain in the ass. But like Molitov, he understood the necessity for a stable realm and was willing to take on the burden of leadership to make it so. If he hadn’t, the empire would probably have collapsed already, leaving roving bands of self-appointed warlords battling over every building and scrap of land.
Harlan also knew there were enough ambitious kings in the outlying territories who would be happy to absorb the failed realm. She had seen it happen before. Those rulers were just biding their time to see what happened and, if necessary, strike when the empire was at its most vulnerable. She was sure Augustus’ initiative didn’t please them at all.
“How is your family, Nathan?” she asked, addressing her escort.
He was one of Gavin’s most trusted foot soldiers and had been one of her protectors for many years. One would think this soft duty would be an insult to a middle-aged male, but it wasn’t. Nathan had married late in life and had been blessed with five children—five very young children. Though a few were separated by a year or two, the youngest were less than eight months apart. The thought of having five AEssyrian children under the age of ten nauseated Harlan. They grew so fast in the first year they were more like a four-year-old human child, only more rambunctious.
Nathan’s eyes darted around and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “They are all well, doctor, thank you for asking.”
A second passed and Harlan was going to respond when he spoke up. “I’m truly sorry about your little one, and I hope you find her soon. I can’t imagine what you and the general are going through.”
The thought of her baby out there in the wilderness, seized her with emotion. But the last thing she wanted was for him to feel bad again. After Caraculla’s drunken visit to Fossix, when he had threatened to rape her and kill Missy, Nathan had been plagued with guilt because he had allowed the Razorback into the house. It wasn’t his fault. He had always seen Caraculla as a close family friend. Only a few were aware of Caraculla’s drug abuse. Though Harlan had been the one who’d dismissed Nathan to the courtyard, she could tell he still felt responsible. It had taken almost a month to get him to converse with her again.
“We’ll find her. It’s just going to take a little time.”
Harlan reined up her hyperia at Gypsy and Kharon’s villa. It was hard to be here because Harlan knew Gypsy was just as wounded over Missy’s kidnapping as she was. But, as Kharon had told her when he had extended the invitation to dinner, Harlan and Gypsy needed to talk.
Thus far, talking to her eldest daughter had been impossible because Gypsy had done everything in her power to avoid her. Much like her brother when he didn’t want
to be found, Gypsy had retreated to border patrols and other remote duties. Desmond had taught her well.
Harlan tried stopping by the villa two days ago but only Kharon had been home. That was when he suggested an ambush dinner.
That evening Kharon flexed his Imperial authority and scratched Gypsy from her remaining duty rosters. Tonight was the first time Gypsy and her husband had been home together in weeks. Harlan was hurt to think her daughter felt she couldn’t face her own mother. The only thing that made her feel better was that Kharon wasn’t embarrassed to discuss their problems with her. He never complained. There were just times when he was at a loss about the best way to handle some difficulties with his wife. Harlan tried to help where she could without interfering.
Kharon emerged from the four stall stable and held Harlan’s mount as she dismounted.
“What time would you like me to return, Dr. Theron?” Nathan asked.
Kharon responded for Harlan. “You don’t need to return for her, corporal. Either I or my wife will ensure she gets home safely. You are dismissed for the remainder of the evening.”
Her escort’s face fell. Poor Nathan looked terrified. He had strict standing orders from Gavin regarding her protection—which Harlan often morphed into her own instructions—but now he was having a commander tell him to disregard them Gavin’s orders. His gaze darted from Harlan to Kharon and back again; he seemed to be at a complete loss.
Harlan offered him an out. “Thank you for the escort, Nathan. Go home to your family. Between Commander Kharon and my daughter I will return home safe and you know that is all that matters to my husband.”
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