I saw Osterway troops hunkered down among rocks, behind trees, and in folds in the ground, banging away at the town’s defenders. I glanced at Flint; she was waiting for me to move. She knew what we had to do.
I got to my feet and then, in a crouch, ran at the nearest Osterway soldiers, some regulars. The first saw me at the last second, but it was too late; he died with my knife in his brain. The next along vanished under Flint, who rose again, blood dripping from her muzzle. I scooped up the rifle of the man I killed, and we started along the line, me shooting and stabling, Flint biting and clawing, both of us killing, over and over.
A shot snapped our way. Another. Shouts went up, some warning, some in panic. I heard more shouts rise in turn, orders from officers or sergeants, as they tried to get their line, suddenly under attack, rallied and reorganized to defend itself.
Now for the hard part.
I raised the rifle and blew off a man’s face, splinters of bone tearing his flesh apart in a fatal wound that dropped him stone dead. The soldiers around him raised the alarm. More shots cracked past, one punching bark off a tree; I dodged, then started shouting, issuing my own orders for a non-existent force I was leading to pull back to town, before we got overrun. Then, I turned and ran.
It all came down to how disciplined Venari’s troops were, along with exactly what they’d been ordered to do. I could only hope that fear, and adrenaline, and fatigue from days of marching, along with simple frustration at being thwarted over and over, would provoke them out of their position, and . . .
And, sure enough, a large part of Venari’s left flank was moving, charging out of cover, racing downhill after me and the force of townsfolk they thought I was leading. They smelled blood, an easy kill, and maybe even a chance to end this protracted, exasperating battle once and for all.
“Let your blood get hot, kids. Come on down,” I murmured, watching them break protocol without hesitation.
When they were well clear of the treeline and committed to their attack, I stopped under cover with Flint, dug a flare gun out of my pack, raised it, and fired a flare that arced into the sky, trailing sparks and smoke. After a pause, an answering flare went up from Watermanse. I tapped Flint and we set off again, the Osterway forces a hundred paces behind us. Bullets cracked past, followed by more gunfire rippling along the Osterway line. I angled right, to the east, meaning to get clear of the attack I’d provoked.
Sometimes, though, you’re too successful.
Looking back up the hill, I saw most of the Osterway line had broken cover and were charging toward the town—and Flint and I were caught right in the middle, between the attack and the Watermanse defenses, which were about to erupt with return fire.
I pulled Flint down into a hollow in the ground just as the air around us seemed to turn to bullets, their song filling my ears with the threat of death.
The ground shook under a heavy impact; an instant later, the concussion of a heavy blast hit us. Watermanse had opened up with its mortar, only this time they’d caught much of the Osterway force out in the open, and much more tightly grouped than the first time they’d fired it. I heard shouts, then a few screams, and then long howls of pain that came from soldiers who would never rise to fight again. Gesturing for Flint to stay down, I lifted my head to look through some dry grass on the edge of the hollow.
A column of brown smoke wafted away, blown by the breeze coming off the lake. The Osterway force had stopped, gone down and taken cover. They were going to regret doing that—
Wham.
Another mortar round hit among them, only about a hundred paces away from me and Flint. The ground rattled again, and clods of earth pattered down in a staccato beat. More screams rose from near the impact, the air filling with a chorus of pain.
If the Osterway troops stayed where they were, the mortar would keep chewing them up . . . and they knew it. They either had to pull back, or push on.
I didn’t want them pulling back. I lifted the rifle, took a careful aim, and shot one man in the head, dropping him instantly. Swinging the rifle, I aimed again and blew another man’s shoulder apart, the round spinning him like a ragdoll as he lurched to the ground, howls of pain erupting from his throat. Then I whistled to Flint and we got up, leaping out of the hollow and dashing toward Watermanse again.
Bullets snapped and cracked past, in both directions. I could only hope the flare, which I’d prearranged with Kai, Reyna, and Aldebar, would alert them to me being out here and have Watermanse watch their shooting . . . making sure they identified their targets before opening up. I also desperately wished for the crew on the mortar to not screw up and drop a bomb short—
Wham.
Another blast from behind. I glanced back and saw what seemed like the whole Osterway army up and charging after me, blood in their eyes and one voice lifted in a formless bellow of hate.
A bullet slammed through my pack. Another grazed my bicep, leaving a bright line of pain. Flint and I reached another hollow about a hundred paces away from the outer ring of Watermanse defenses; we dove into it, catching our breath. I looked back and saw Venari’s troops closing fast, shooting as they ran. We could probably make it back to the town’s outer defenses if we . . .
Something—or rather, someone—caught my eye.
There, following behind the line of Osterway attackers, was a man whose flat, broad face I recognized.
Egnor.
“You fucking swine,” I said, surveying the land even more closely.
I held my place, then scanned the oncoming line of Osterway troops. Those heading directly for Flint and me were regulars. Egnor had a few Huntsmen clustered around him—a personal guard, I guessed. The bulk of the line, though, were clearly slaves. They were only armed with hand-weapons, axes and hammers and spears, and had what must be overseers trailing them, armed with rifles, carbines, and shotguns. As I watched, a mortar round landed behind them, blowing one overseer to bloody chunks, knocking two more down and, unfortunately, wounding or killing several slaves. An overseer tried to rise, the slumped to the ground, too busy holding his guts in to walk another step. Good.
Okay, I was only going one direction—back into the Osterway line.
I glanced at Flint. “You don’t have to follow me this time, girl. Kinda wish you wouldn’t, in fact—”
Her growl cut me off. She was waiting for me to move, so she could move with me.
I blew out a breath. “Okay . . . we go, then.”
I popped up, lined up the rifle on one of the overseers, and fired. The man fell in a liquid tumble, the round having cut his spine. I swung to the next one, fired, and he pitched backward. I managed to gun down a third one before fire from the regulars started snapping around me, then I glanced back toward Watermanse, muttering, “Come on—”
Wham.
Another mortar round landed, close enough to Egnor and his escort that they hit the dirt, cursing loudly. Something, a rock or a hunk of shrapnel, buzzed overhead. The Osterway fire slackened as their whole line flinched at the impact—
—and I was up, dropping the rifle and charging the Osterway line. Flint lunged after me, but I shouted and pointed, urging her to the right to close with the regulars. They were only twenty paces away now, barely giving them time to recover from the mortar impact, get their bearings, and raise their weapons again before Flint was among them. I slammed into the regulars nearby, chopping down one and crushing his throat under my foot, then grabbing his rifle and hip-shooting the next two in the line. I got the rifle raised before the next one had fallen and had blown apart of the skull of another overseer before anyone even tried to resist. A regular dodging away from Flint tried to butt-stroke me with his rifle; I caught the impact in my hand, twisted the weapon aside, then kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. His face went almost comically red and he went down, hands clutching at his groin as he worked his lips in a soundless scream.
The slaves had stopped. The remaining overseers screamed at them to get moving,
and one raised a rifle to make his point; I shot him through his open mouth, sending teeth and tissue streaking out of his skull in a gleaming ribbon. One of the young male slaves saw there were now only a few overseers behind the line of him and his fellows, so he turned with a wild yell and leapt at the nearest overseer, jamming his spear into the man’s gut. More slaves turned, raising their weapons against the overseers, but I had to turn back, dodging a bayonet thrust from a regular. Beyond him, I saw Egnor gesturing and shouting orders.
I looked at the man who’d just attacked me, snapped, “No fucking time for this,” and punched him in the throat. Cartilage cracked and he staggered back, gasping and wheezing as he began to strangle right before my eyes.
I glanced around, stepping over the man who was busy dying like a landed fish. In the brief moment that had passed, the slaves had overwhelmed their overseers; most were breaking from combat, racing for cover. Fortunately, the next mortar bomb landed well to the east, among troops closing on the defenses. In the other direction, Flint had torn through the Osterway regulars, leaving a bloody swath. A handful were pulling back, probably looking for cover and a place to regroup—or run.
That meant Venari’s entire left flank had collapsed, leaving only Egnor and his bodyguard in the immediate vicinity.
I didn’t hesitate. Planting the rifle on my hip, I pumped rounds in Egnor’s direction as I charged. He and his escort flinched, fired a few, ineffective shots in my direction, and then I was among them, Flint at my side . . . and Egnor finally in reach.
17
“Egnor!”
Shouting out the name of the man you intended to kill wasn’t smart. This wasn’t some ancient story, with opponents stepping apart to engage in some honorable duel. But I didn’t care. I thought about Egnor’s vile words the night I overheard him in his tent . . .
. . . the old ones are getting stale. Once they’re completely broken, they just lay there. It’s like fucking a corpse . . .
. . . when they’re new, still got fight in ‘em . . . that’s when it’s fun. When they think they can fight back.
I wanted him to realize I knew his name, knew him, and that I was coming to kill him.
His fat, flat face turned at my shout. He saw me and snapped orders to the Huntsmen with him. At once, two of them turned, raising and aiming their weapons, a rifle and a shotgun—
—which was a mistake; they should have just opened up, forcing me to react. Instead, the one with the rifle vanished under a dark, shaggy shape, gurgling a blood-filled scream as Flint tore out his throat. I just fired from the hip as I ran, one round snapping between Egnor and the man with the shotgun, making them both flinch, the second hitting the shotgun and blowing it apart. The shrapnel and shot took him in the gut, making him double over and drop to his knees as Egnor looked on in mute horror. He was a salty fuck, and he regained his sneer in seconds, but wavered when he saw that I was coming straight for him.
My rifle clocked on ammo, so I flung it aside and just kept running, straight at Egnor. His eyes widened, and he braced himself; I knew there was another Huntsmen or two nearby, but again . . . I didn’t care. I had a mission, a plan, a need—and it ended with my hands around his worthless throat.
At the last instant, Egnor dropped into a fighting crouch. He knew something about close quarters combat . . . more, anyway, than just using his fists on helpless, bound, or drugged slaves. I immediately dodged right, and he shifted his weight that way, but my tech let me reverse instantly, going left. Pain flashed through my body when I did, muscles and tendons bruised and abused by days of fighting, long marches, and little sleep protesting as they slammed through sudden moves.
But my tech kept the pain isolated, packaged away in its own little compartment inside me, letting me turn the shift of direction into a lunge. I slammed into Egnor, taking him completely off-balance, and he stumbled back, flailing wildly, desperate to keep his feet.
One of his flailing fists slammed into my face, hard.
A deep part of me actually appreciated the irony—I outclassed this man in virtually every way, and yet, thanks to blind luck, he’d landed a solid blow on me. Everything flashed green and the world rang like a gong, fading into a high-pitched whine. If I hadn’t been a Legacy, I would have probably gone down like a sack of rocks, and that would be that. But I was a Legacy, and my tech did something I’d only experienced a couple of times before.
It took over.
For the next few heartbeats, I was just a passenger in my own body, frantically trying to shove aside the effects of a solid, concussive hit. My body, though, continued to dodge and strike out, mimicking the moves my Legacy tech seemed to have learned were my preferred fighting style.
I gave myself a furious mental shake, trying to throw off the splotchy grey threatening to wash my awareness away. I was able to throw a punch, clipping Egnor’s head and making him reel back. Somewhere nearby I heard a sharp yelp—Flint!—but I couldn’t afford to back off or split my attention now. I followed up with a kick that buckled Egnor’s leg, driving him to one knee. As much as I wanted to make this man-shaped piece of shit suffer, I didn’t have time. My next move would be to grab his head and twist, breaking his neck . . . but a shadow suddenly loomed to my right. I turned to find a Huntsman right there, an axe about to slam down into my head.
Well, shit.
That deep part of me that appreciated irony really appreciated this. Even my Legacy tech would have trouble working around a split head—
Wham.
I felt the blast, so close it filled my head with that piercing whine again. Not a mortar this time, though . . . the muzzle-blast from a weapon so close to my head that I winced as heat flashed across my face. At the same time, the Huntsman’s head burst—blood, brain matter, and fragments of bone erupting from the back of his skull. I glanced at the shooter and saw Nicolet, the muzzle of her carbine still less than an arm’s-length from my head. She’d come up behind me and practically fired over my shoulder.
I didn’t give me time to even consider it, yanking my attention back to Egnor, who was struggling to rise from one knee.
I lifted my foot and slammed it down on his thigh, snapping his femur like a green branch.
He shrieked.
Nicolet shouted something at me. I heard part of it in my left ear, the one not just inches away from her carbine’s muzzle when she fired. Something about Flint.
My stomach clenched, hard.
I turned and saw Flint a few paces away, down. Nicolet’s face appeared.
“Go to her!”
I turned back to Egnor. He writhed on the ground, clutching his shattered leg and screaming. Scanning around, I saw that the battle still raged off to our left, but here, on this part of the field, we were alone. The Osterway forces were either down, or run off.
Nicolet grabbed me again. “You go to Flint. Let me take care of that shitbag.” She nodded toward Egnor.
The look on her face, in her eyes, wasn’t a pleasant one. Echoes of old pain and fear edged it, and anticipation of vengeance hardened it.
I looked at Egnor, meeting his eyes.
He hissed, “Please . . . I’ll give you anything.”
A smile creased my face, and even though I couldn’t see it, I could feel how horrific it must have appeared.
“He’s all yours,” I said to Nicolet, making sure he heard me. Then I headed for Flint. It was only a few paces, but they were long ones, my fear and anxiety mounting with each.
I reached her and knelt, bracing myself for the worst . . .
But smiled.
Flint glared back up at me. If anything, she looked pissed. She’d taken a deep gash on one leg, the skin opened cleanly to muscle. She was able to stand, but she limped badly.
“Sorry, girl,” I said, grabbing her scuff and squeezing it, “but you’re done fighting today.”
She growled at me . . . or rather, she growled at the hard truth of the matter.
A few minutes, and several sharp, plai
ntive wails and screams passed before Nicolet was done. I saw that look on her face—the one that often follows vengeance long sought. It was dark satisfaction, tinged with the realization it didn’t really change anything. There are some acts that disappoint us forever, no matter what outcome we get. Still . . .
“I assume Egnor won’t be a problem anymore.”
She grimly shook her head, then flicked blood from her thumb with a sniff. “How’s Flint?”
“Angry, because she’s out of the fight.” I looked across the field, a few hundred paces away and beyond, where the Osterway assault on Watermanse still raged and seemed to be gaining ground. “Can you make sure she gets into Watermanse, or at least off the field?”
Nicolet nodded. “Of course. I’ll stay with her. I guess you’re going back into battle?”
I watched a mortar round detonate, killing more Osterway troops closing on the outer defensive ring. “Yeah. One way or another, I’m going to fucking end this.”
I left Nicolet and Flint, glancing back to see them limping off the field. Flint looked back and caught my eye briefly, then they both vanished into a fold in the ground.
I turned eastward, dropped into a crouch, and headed again for the racket of gunfire and screams.
As I approached the fighting, I angled to the south. As much as I wanted to help the Watermanse defenders, I knew I could probably do more good in the Osterway rear. Moreover, in the intense fighting now engulfing the outermost ring of the town’s defenses, it would be hard to distinguish friend from foe. I didn’t want to tickle that ironic part of myself again, by being shot by someone defending Watermanse—especially Reyna, or Kai, or Aldebar.
Legacy Page 17
