Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech (9 page)

“Is that a fact,” the bounty hunter sneered. “How obliging of him.”

From the corner of her eye, Taryn could see Rutger’s cage being raised into the air. “You know Rutger. Treats his ’jacks like they were alive. Couldn’t stand to see them being beaten into scrap.”

Kalder nudged her into the arcade. “As I said, very obliging of him. You see, Miss di la Rovissi, I’m not interested in your friend.”

For an instant, Taryn felt a flush of relief. Kalder wasn’t hunting Rutger! But how was it the bounty hunter knew
her
name? No, it had to be some sort of trick. “If you think you can use me to find Rutger, you’re going to be disappointed. This vendetta you have against him . . .”

“Vendetta!” The bounty hunter laughed, a cold, mirthless sound. “No, I don’t think so. I put vendettas behind me when I sent a bullet into Duke Skarholt’s brain. Now I kill only for money and a lot more than what the watch is offering.”

“Then why?”

Kalder’s voice was like the rasp of a serpent. “I said I wasn’t interested in Shaw. I’m here for
you
. It seems I’m not the only one who’s made a habit of gunning down dukes.”

Taryn froze, the bounty hunter’s words cutting deep into her heart. No one could know about that. No one.

It had happened years ago, before the Khadoran conquest of Llael. There had been a young duke, a man as cruel as he was handsome, as arrogant as he was wealthy. When Taryn rebuffed Duke Dextrel di Dormio, the nobleman was furious. Out of spite he goaded Henri into a duel by making salacious statements about her mentor’s relationship with Taryn. It wasn’t even a contest. Henri was one of the best marksmen in Llael. Duke Dextrel was
the
best. He shot down Henri before his pistol even cleared its holster, before Taryn’s eyes. Grief-stricken, Taryn had demanded her own duel with the duke. He refused, declaring she wasn’t worth his time, and ordered his retainers to remove her from his estate.

For months, Taryn plotted revenge. Then the Khadorans came, sweeping down upon Llael like a horde of iron locusts. The invaders were bombarding Laedry when she turned a corner and found herself face to face with the duke. Before she knew what she was doing, she drew one of her magelocks, put it against his heart, and pulled the trigger. It happened so quickly, she didn’t even have a chance to savor her revenge.

But no one had been there to see her kill the duke! She was certain of that!

Kalder prodded her onward. “It’s a long way to Merywyn,” he said. “I’d prefer not dragging a corpse across half of Immoren, but that’s just what I’ll do if you make trouble. The Duchess di Dormio’s paying a bonus if I bring you back alive.”

A bitter laugh rose from Taryn’s lips. “You’ve been on my trail a long time if you’re working for that bitch. She was killed when the Khadorans sacked Rynyr. You’ll drag me all the way back and have nobody there to pay you.”

A cold smile worked itself onto Kalder’s face. “That’s a new one,” he said. “I’ve never had someone tell me the folks offering a reward for them are dead. Usually I get to hear all about how I have the wrong . . .” He suddenly caught hold of Taryn, turning her around, putting her between himself and the excited Midlunder running toward them.

“Taryn!” Marko shouted. “We have to see Vulger! I wasn’t able to change my bet before Rutger’s fight started!” The thief’s eyes grew three sizes bigger when he saw who was standing behind the gun mage. Marko’s face contorted into an embarrassed smile, and he fled back the way he came.

Kalder let the thief run. “Rutger’s fight,” he repeated. He dug the barrel of his pistol into Taryn’s back and forced her to turn around. The bounty hunter laughed when he saw Rutger locked inside one of the cages.

“You said you weren’t interested in Rutger,” Taryn growled at her captor.

“If I leave here with you, we both know Rutger will come looking for me,” Kalder said. “I’ve hunted men long enough that I don’t want anyone, much less someone like Rutger, hunting
me
.”

Taryn thought about the precautions Vulger had taken to disarm the Scrapyard’s patrons, and why. “You don’t dare shoot,” she said. “If you did, this place would explode around your ears!”

“True,” Kalder agreed. “That is, if I kill him during the fight. If I shoot him afterward, this scum won’t even bat an eye. We’ll just bide our time and wait for them to let him out of his cage. Once the crowd starts to leave, nobody’s going to pay much attention to what happens down in the tunnels, least of all a man who’s just been fighting to keep his fingers.”

The bounty hunter guided Taryn into the stands, where they would have a good view of the fighters.

The attendant wore a sadistic smile as he closed the cage door behind Rutger. The mercenary scowled at the dusky-skinned Radiz. The man wrapped a heavy length of chain around the door and closed it with a massive iron lock, a cunningly designed mechanism that would defy the attentions of almost any lock pick.

Rutger’s tiny cell shuddered as the crane hanging above began to retract the cable bolted to the top of the cage. He grabbed the wrought-iron bars to steady himself. Down below, the Radiz grinned up at him and made a snipping gesture with his hand. It was a cruel reminder of what would happen if he lost the fight.

As the cage was swung out over the pit, Rutger saw Rex below him, smoke belching from the funnel at its back. The warjack’s head pivoted back on its neck socket, its glowing optics seeming to focus on its master’s prison. Steam hissed from Rex’s vents. The Toro’s immense hands tightened into fists.

“We’re okay, Rex,” Rutger called down. He turned his eyes out across the shouting crowd. Even in the trenches, he couldn’t remember seeing so many bloodthirsty faces. “We’re okay,” he repeated to himself.

Across from him, the second cage was being winched into the air. The other operator was a stocky Morridane, who wore a shirt with the sleeves torn away to expose brawny arms stained black with bands of tattoos. From this distance, Rutger couldn’t read the letters; he could only tell that each tattoo was a word of some kind. His opponent noticed the attention. With a grisly smile he tapped the bare skin beneath the lowest tattoo with a four-fingered hand. Then he nodded at Rex in the pit below.

“Marko,” Rutger said, “if Taryn doesn’t kill you, I will.” The letters he couldn’t read were names, the names of ’jacks. The tattoos on the Morridane’s arms were victory rings—too many to be easily counted. Rutger instead did a quick count of his adversary’s fingers. He was only missing two. So he could be beaten, just not very often.

A thunderous cheer rose from the audience as the people rose to their feet and applauded. Even over the tumult, Rutger could hear the booming tread of the ’jack marching down into the pit. He stared down and cursed Marko vigorously. If the sight of the obviously experienced operator hadn’t convinced him this would be no easy preliminary, the brutal machine in the pit below now did.

It was no stockyard laborjack but an armored warjack just like Rex. The brute had started its existence on the chassis of a Nomad, but since leaving the factory it had been so heavily modified as to be almost unrecognizable. A veritable forest of steel spikes was welded to its hull, jutting from its shoulders and chest plates at extreme angles. Only those spots where a hatch or vent opened on the warjack’s hull were clear of the spear-like protrusions. A fringe of longer spikes was bolted to the steel collar that protected the machine’s neck, surrounding its head in a thorny metal mane. Thick plates of iron had been bolted to the ’jack’s forearms, adding mass and striking power to its immense fists. A wicked spur projected behind each forearm, acting not only to partially shield the vulnerable pistons of the upper arm but also to rake an enemy should the Nomad’s fist fail to connect.

Only one factor gave Rutger some measure of hope. With all the extra metal that had been bolted and welded to it, the Nomad was a ponderous, lumbering machine. From the start, Rex would have the advantages of speed and mobility.

The crowd began to chant, “Bruno! Bruno!” The yell became a frenzied roar when the Nomad turned its head to stare up at them. Bruno vented a plume of smoke from its boiler, driving a fresh burst of excitement from the spectators.

A steam whistle sounded. Bruno flung itself toward Rex, driving at the Toro with its monstrous fist. The Morridane hadn’t needed to order that attack. The experience locked inside the Nomad’s cortex told it how to react when the whistle sounded. Rutger and Rex were caught utterly off guard by the sudden assault. Bruno’s fist plowed into Rex’s chest, buckling the armor and denting the hull.

“Guard!” Rutger shouted to his ’jack. Rex raised his arm, blocking Bruno’s other fist as it came pounding toward the Toro. The spur bolted to the back of Bruno’s arm slashed across Rex’s hand, scouring the metal and severing the guide cables in two of the fingers.

“Grab it!” In tandem with Rutger’s howl, the unimpaired fingers of Rex’s hand closed around the spur. The shriek of crumpling metal rose from the pit as Rex bent the spur into a twisted lump.

Bruno’s other fist lashed out and impacted against the side of Rex’s armored collar, popping several of the bolts and sending them shooting into the pit walls. Rex staggered. Again, the Nomad’s spur raked across, leaving an ugly scrape along the side of the Toro’s head.

Rex countered with a vicious jab to the Nomad’s waist, trying to strike at the drive shafts controlling its legs. Bruno lurched forward before the blow could land, forcing Rex’s hand to smash higher up on its hull. Sparks flared from the Toro’s fist as steel spikes stabbed into it.

Rutger screamed at Rex, commanding his ’jack to defend itself. Bruno pounded both its fists into the Toro’s sides. Rex refused to budge, remaining locked beside the armored Nomad. For an instant, Rutger thought his ’jack had suffered cortex damage. Then Rex reeled away from Bruno. Clenched in its hand was one of the spikes, ripped free from the Nomad’s hull. Rex’s frame shuddered as Bruno delivered another savage punch, but the Toro seemed oblivious to the bolt-popping blow. Its optics were focused on Bruno’s right leg. Rex drew its arm back, then threw its full weight into a brutal thrust. The spike stabbed deep into Bruno’s driveshaft, and lubricants and coolants sprayed from ruptured pipes and hoses.

The Nomad took one step back. Then its damaged leg locked up, seized, and became dead weight. Bruno threw out its arm, steadying itself against the wall.

“Close in!” Rutger ordered. Up close, Bruno would be unable to bring the full force of its punches to bear. Indeed, the extra weight would prove a crippling hindrance for the warjack. “Strike for the head!”

Bruno did its best to avoid the blow Rex threw at it, pivoting its torso so the spiny metal mane took the brunt of the strike. Rex pulled back, catching Bruno’s arm as it lashed out, trying to pound the steam engine at the rear of the Toro’s hull. With its other hand, Rex grabbed hold of one of the spikes bolted to Bruno’s collar. The shriek of tortured steel rang out again.

Two, three, four of the spines were forced backward and in. Rex was turning the protective ring of spikes around Bruno’s head into a cage to blind the Nomad’s optics. Across from him, in the other cage, Rutger could see the other operator in abject panic. Rutger was almost ashamed to admit it, but the Morridane’s distress was an exhilarating sight.

Rutger returned his attention to the fight below. In a desperate gamble, Bruno lurched away from the wall, clawing at Rex with the arm it had been using to keep itself upright. The Nomad was depending on Rex’s restraining grip to maintain its balance. It was the simplest tactic for Rutger to counter. All he had to do was tell Rex to let go.

Before he could give the order, Rutger’s cage jostled violently and leapt upward in the air. He was thrown to the bottom of the cage as it came hurtling downward again and the restraining cable caught up the sudden slack.

Rutger’s ears were ringing from the echoes of a tremendous explosion. Plumes of dust and smoke rose into the air. Following them, he saw a great jagged rent in the outer wall of the arena.

Shouts of confusion and alarm turned into screams as a horrifying shape scurried through the fissure in the Scrapyard’s wall. It was a ghoulish, grisly fusion of advanced mechanika and blackest magic, an evil amalgam of the arcane and the profane. A stocky metal hull within blazed the ghoulish glow of balefire. Large, thick fangs reinforced a skeletal maw of exposed bone. Clawed talons of bone and steel propelled the ravenous horror across the floor.