Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (36 page)

“Then prepare to die!”

Stunned, and shocked at the way in which his plan had turned from triumph to disaster, Hardman tried to intervene.

“No, the human could never marry my daughter. Therefore ...”

“Silence!” Ridelong shouted, causing Hardman’s son and the rest of his retainers to reach for their sidearms. “I have been challenged. No one—I repeat, no one—has the right to refuse such a challenge except me.”

Hardman looked at his daughter. Where he had hoped to see joy there was anger, sorrow, and pity. He had unintentionally betrayed her, and she would never, ever forgive him. The alcohol-induced warmth was sudden
ly gone, washed away by the cold icy knowledge of what he’d done, and the chieftain felt tears well up in his eyes. But there were no words that could ameliorate what he’d done or stop the bloodshed that would inevitably follow. He sat on the ground, lowered his head, and cradled it with his arms. His retainers moved in around him but allowed their hands to drop from their guns.

An elder known as Deepwell Gooddig stepped forward. He had white fur with black spots. His manner was solemn. He looked from Surekill to Booly.

“The challenge has form, and as form master, it is my duty to see that you observe it. The human will choose the time. Surekill will pick the weapons. I will select the place. Human?”

The legionnaire heard himself say “Now,” and wondered if it was the right choice. What the hell was he doing anyway? Fighting over a Naa maiden when he should be on his way to Fort Camerone. General St. James would want to know about the Hudathans, and he, Sergeant Major Bill Booly, had a duty to tell him. A duty it would be damned hard to fulfill if he was dead.

The form master turned away. “Surekill?”

The warrior looked the human in the eye, grinned, and said, “Knives.”

The way Surekill said it left little doubt as to his expertise with the weapon or his desire to use it on Booly.

The oldster nodded, gave the matter some thought, and announced his choice.

“The fight will take place aboveground at the center of the village. Each combatant is allowed one assistant, who will give such advice as they can, and ensure that the proper forms are observed. Who stands for Surekill?”

A dozen voices rang out, but Surekill nodded towards a warrior named Easymove Quietstalk, a big rugged-looking individual who stepped into the firelight with the confidence of a natural athlete.

Gooddig signaled his approval.

“Good. Who stands for the human?”

There was a long silence finally broken by the rasp of hobnails on stone. Heads turned as Windsweet’s brother, Movefast Shootstraight, stepped forward and stood by Booly.

“I stand for Booly.”

Pleased by Booly’s challenge, yet sorry at the same time, Windsweet was touched by her brother’s support. Never, in even her worst nightmares, had she envisioned something like this. Her father had created a situation in which no one could win and everyone would lose. Fear filled the pit of her stomach and gradually turned to lead.

Surekill grabbed her arm. “There’s no need to worry, my sweet. I will split the human in half and dump his entrails at your feet.”

Windsweet jerked free of his grasp and spit the words out one at a time. “Never—I repeat, never—touch me again.”

Anger blazed in Surekill’s eyes. “So that’s how it is! You’d rather grunt and groan beneath the weight of a furless alien than marry one of your own kind!”

Windsweet’s hand made a cracking sound as it hit the side of Surekill’s face.

Surekill gave a surprised grunt and the crowd gasped with horror. They had never seen anyone treat Surekill in such a manner and live. The warrior started to say something, spat into the fire instead, and turned away. Backed by his warriors, he stalked towards the surface.

More than a little embarrassed, and unsure of what to do, the assemblage broke up and headed for the main passageway. Maidens tittered over Windsweet’s disgrace, warriors discussed the upcoming battle, and cubs ran every which way, shouting their excitement and squealing when cuffed behind the ear.

Booly felt a hand seize his elbow. He turned to find Shootstraight by his side. The warrior’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“Listen, human ... for there is little time. I have a smoke grenade. I’ll throw it the moment we reach the surface. The villagers will scatter and prepare for an attack. Run, make your way into the hills, and hide for three days. It will be safe after that. Head for the place that you call ‘Camerone’ and don’t come back.”

The offer was tempting, very tempting, since it would allow him to do the very thing that duty demanded. But to lose Windsweet, to cede her to someone she hated, was more than the legionnaire could stand.

His eyes found Windsweet’s. She was waiting there beside the path, her eyes bright with determination, her lip quivering with pent-up emotion. He spoke loudly enough for her to hear.

“Thanks, Movefast. Your sister is fortunate to have a friend and brother such as you. But the challenge stands.”

Shootstraight made a gesture with his hands. “I don’t know which one of you is crazier, my sister or you. But there’s honor in what you say, and I hope you skewer Surekill like a newly slaughtered dooth. Come, we must head for the surface.”

Booly looked at Windsweet, saw her kneel beside her father, and did as he was told. The last of the villagers were heading up the path in front of them. Shootstraight spoke again.

“Tell me, human, are you good with a knife?”

“I taught hand-to-hand combat in the 2nd REP.”

Shootstraight gestured his approval. “That’s good, very good, because Surekill is an expert. It’s our experience that humans prefer to kill at a distance, avoiding personal combat when they can, a fact that influenced Surekill’s decision. He assumes that you lack the necessary skills, and more than that, are afraid of cold steel.”

Booly produced a twisted grin. “I
am
afraid of cold steel. Aren’t you?”

Shootstraight laughed. “Of course! That’s why I avoid affairs like this one. Now, listen carefully. Surekill’s arms are longer than yours, so stay outside his reach, and watch for tricks. He likes to trip his opponents, slash them as they fall, and finish them on the ground.”

The legionnaire nodded. “And if I manage to disarm him? What then?”

Shootstraight looked surprised. “Then kill him. He’s not the sort of enemy to leave alive.”

Booly was still thinking about that last piece of advice when he pushed the dooth-hide curtain aside and stepped out into the snowstorm. Snowflakes danced, whirled, and performed intricate pirouettes all around him, adding their substance to the shroud of newly fallen snow.

It was cold, and a driving wind made it even colder, causing the legionnaire to shiver. It was dark and the villagers had started a fire. The flames leaped higher as a flammable liquid was poured into the pit. The form master appeared at his elbow.

“Markers have been erected. The combatants must stay within them. Please follow me.”

Snow crunched under Booly’s boots as he followed the oldster towards the fire. The markers consisted of poles driven into the ground. Each boasted a pennant of red cloth. They pointed towards the east and snapped in the wind.

Surekill stepped out of the storm. He loomed large in front of the fire. “So, alien. You have the courage to face me.”

Booly shrugged. “Talk’s cheap. Let’s get on with it.”

The warrior bared his teeth and started to say something in reply, but the form master stepped between them. He held a tray. It supported four knives, all of which were about eighteen inches long.

“Each combatant will choose a weapon.”

Booly examined the blades with a critical eye. Each was handmade and therefore different from the others. Some of the knives were double-edged, some had evil-looking serrations, and some came equipped with blood gutters. He looked at Surekill.

The warrior reached out, selected something akin to an ancient bowie knife, and ran the edge along his naked forearm. A thin line of blood appeared.

Booly nodded approvingly. “I’d like to see that again ... only deeper this time.”

“Choose,” the form master said sternly.

The legionnaire chose without looking. The knife felt heavy and cold. “What about rules?”

“There is one rule,” the form master replied. “Stay within the area marked by the pennants. Leave it and your life is forfeit.”

Snowflakes tickled the legionnaire’s face as he looked around. He saw the pennants, the crowd, and Windsweet. She stood next to her father. S
he raised her right hand and placed it in the center of her chest. The Naa sign for affection. Her father stiffened and looked straight ahead.

A tremendous warmth suffused Booly’s body, for he knew what the gesture had cost her, and would cost her far into the future. He smiled, made the same gesture in return, and turned back to his opponent.

“When do we start?”

The form master raised his arm, stepped backwards, and brought it down. “Now.”

Booly threw the knife underhanded, aiming upwards at his opponent’s chest, hoping to end the contest before it began. But the legionnaire hadn’t practiced in a long time, and instead of penetrating Surekill’s chest, the weapon struck him between the eyes hilt-first.

The force of the blow might have felled a lesser being, but Surekill shook the pain off and moved forward.

The human swore silently, marked the place where his knife had fallen, and waited for the warrior. Knife attacks can be categorized as high, middle, or low. Surekill held the weapon in his right hand, waist-high and edge-up. He planned to come in close, open Booly’s abdomen with a jab, and rip his way upwards.

Light reflected off Surekill’s blade as he lunged forward. The human stepped away from the knife and transferred his weight to his right foot. Then, using his left arm to block the thrust, the legionnaire launched a side kick to the warrior’s left knee.

Something gave, the chieftain staggered, and Booly aimed a palm-heel strike at his opponent’s nose.

It didn’t work. Where humans had semi-soft cartilage, the Naa had solid bone, which could take a great deal of punishment.

Surekill recovered, swept the knife in from the right, and was rewarded a thin scarlet line across the legionnaire’s abdomen. It didn’t hurt but would before long.

Booly backpedaled and Surekill limped forward. A thin layer of snow had settled on the warrior’s head and dusted his shoulders.

“Watch the markers!”

The voice belonged to Shootstraight. Booly looked and saw that he was running out of room. Surekill grinned, lifted the knife high, and shuffled in for the kill.

The legionnaire stepped forward, grabbed Surekill’s knife arm with his left hand, and reached under the warrior’s armpit with his right. The human’s hand closed on his opponent’s collar, his hip provided a fulcrum, and the chieftain went down. Booly hung on and tried to twist the knife from Surekill’s hand. The crowd groaned.

But no sooner had the warrior hit the ground than he kicked upwards, aiming for Booly’s groin, but hitting his thigh instead. Forced to let go, the human staggered backwards and felt his feet slip out from under him. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs.

Now it was Surekill’s turn to take the offensive. And the situation was exactly the way he liked it. The human was on the ground, unarmed, and vulnerable to attack. He stood, limped forward, and dived.

Booly rolled to the right, felt something hard beneath the snow, and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his knife. Surekill hit the ground with a loud thump. Pain lanced across the legionnaire’s abdomen as he stood. The wound was shallow but long, and had soaked his pants with blood.

The warrior lurched up and out of the snow. His eyes were like slits, his teeth were bared, and a growl rumbled in his throat.

“Come on, pook ... it’s time to die!”

The human dived into a somersault, kicked himself out of it, and drove the knife upwards. The blade went through the warrior’s throat, severed a major artery, and left him choking on his own blood.

Slowly, like a man preparing to pray, Surekill fell to his knees. Blood stained the snow around him. Then, wearing an expression of surprised disbelief, he toppled forward onto his face.

A collective sigh was heard. Windsweet turned and buried her face against her father’s chest. The chieftain blinked as a snowflake hit his eye. He put an arm around Windsweet’s shoulders and patted her on the back.

Thoughts started to form. Perhaps the situation wasn’t so bad, after all, Hardman thought. Surekill was dead, a fact that virtually guaranteed his own continued ascendancy, and hiss daughter had turned to him for comfort.

Yes, the human was the problem. Get rid of him and everything would be fine. But he’d have to act carefully, very carefully, so his daughter would never suspect. Hardman watched Booly give the bloodstained knife to the form master and smiled.

 

Snow whirled down past the wall-mounted spotlights, hit the updraft created by the spaceship’s repellers, and soared upwards as if returning to its source.

St. James waited for the vessel to settle on pad 7, then hurried out to greet its passengers. Snow squeaked beneath his boots and his breath appeared as jets of steam. The ship was not especially large but looked roomy and comfortable. The hull had a shape similar to that of a Terran crab, minus the legs, of course, and the stalk-mounted eyes. Metal pinged as it started to cool and some auto stairs positioned themselves in front of the lock.

What would Sergi Chien-Chu be like? A self-important businessman full of lofty rhetoric and dedicated to lining his pockets? St. James hoped not, because the message from his friend Alexander Dasser indicated that this man headed the Cabal and was the Legion’s best hope for the future.