The chainmail over his face twists side to side. His hands are still bound under his back. I drop to my knees beside him, just where that ogrillo had been, and gently pull the hauberk down to his shoulders.
His eyes are squeezed shut like he’s afraid they’ll burst, and his mouth and chin and cheeks are thick with tear-streaked blood. He’s sobbing like a heartbroken teenager. I slide one hand under his head and stroke his hair with the other and say some stupid meaningless shit about how he can quiet down now because everything’s okay, it’s all over and it’s okay, and somehow that stupid meaningless shit must not sound stupid to him, because his breathing starts to even out, and pretty soon he lets himself open his eyes. “Who-?”
“It’s Caine, Stalton.”
“C–Caine? Caine, I. . hurt. It hurts, Caine.”
“Yeah, I know.” Fuck. Better if he dies now. Better if he died twenty minutes ago. Fuck. “Shh. Hush now. Let it go.”
“It’s not. . I’ve had worse. . it’s not too bad. The pain.” His voice is blurred. Shaky. “Like a little-little food . . food poisoning. . that’s all. Caine?”
I’d tell him to save his strength, but, y’know, for what? “Yeah.”
“Got. . water? Thirsty. Mmm, really thirsty.”
Me too. I don’t remind him what we did with our canteens. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I’ll get you some water. In a minute.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be like this. .”
Tears roll out from the corners of his eyes and trail down his temples. “Just a j-j-job, that’s all. Little. . bodyguarding. Lead to something better, you know? Nobody said it’d be like this. It’s not-it’s not supposed to end here. .”
“Yeah.” I lower his head back down to the sand-packed floor. The moon glows in over my shoulder. “I’d make it different if I could.”
“I, uh-I. . ahhh, fuck.” His back arches. “Can’t-can’t even sit up. .”
Not with his abdominals chewed away. “I know. Don’t try.”
“Can you-? Can you help me see-?”
“You don’t want to.”
“It’s really bad. .? I can’t see. It is. It’s really bad.”
“Trust me.”
I get to my feet and pick up the warhammer. It’s gained a ton or so; I have to rest it on my shoulder, and the weight still buckles my knees. I’ve killed men before. But I’ve never killed a man who’s real to me. Who’s a person. A guy I like.
A man I wish could have been my friend.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Caine, don’t-don’t-”
“It’s better like this. Quick.”
“No. No, not that. It’s okay. Just don’t-” Fresher tears roll along the streaks down his face. “-don’t tell anybody, okay?”
“Tell-?”
His raw streaming stare begs me to promise. “Don’t tell them I went out like a. . like a punk. Tell them I. . died fighting. Tell them. Okay?”
Like there’s anybody I can tell who’d care. But I guess that’s not the point.
“Yeah.” I shift my grip on the hammer. My arms tremble. My hands prickle sweat inside my gloves. “Ready?”
“Does it have to be-is there. . is there any way-? Marade or Pretornio or-”
“No. It’s just me. And I don’t know anything about Healing.” I show him the hammer. “This is what I know.”
His eyes fix on mine. “Don’t tell them I went out like a punk.”
“You won’t.”
The hammer goes up over my head and I bring it down like it’s an axe and his skull’s a log, and there is a crunch and a splatter and y’know in the end, I told him the truth. He didn’t go out like a punk at all.
Didn’t even close his eyes.
Tougher than me. .
What I just did bitches my candy ass before I get back out the window.
Reaction buckles my knees and throws me retching against the sill. I crumple just beyond the mess of corpses and skid myself into a corner. And all I can do is sit and shake.
Because I’m looking at my future. What’s left of it.
It’s here. It’s this.
Fighting them is pointless. I don’t really give a rat’s butthole about that glorious-last-stand crap I sold everybody on. Sounded good coming out of my mouth, but it was dogshit and I can taste it now.
This is a hell of a time to find out I’m no hero.
Only one thing I can still do for them. One thing. For these people I conned into dying ugly. I hope the next one is easier. No, I don’t.
Shit, I don’t know. Can it get easy to kill your friends?
What if it does? What does that make me?
Huh.
Guess I’ll be finding out.
HALF ELIGIBLE
I don’t have a clear memory of the Rite of Investment, which is probably a good thing. Like nearly everything else Khryllian-once you get past the pretty armor and nice white buildings and the defend-the-innocent-and-be-kind-to-peasants crap-what I do recall is flat-out nasty.
It all took place under the Regard of Khryl, which makes it bleed together in my head, but there was some bare-fingered ripping of flesh involved, hers or mine or both, and a lot of precious bodily fluid likewise, and at one point I’m pretty sure I had my hand inside her rib cage.
With my fingers wrapped around her beating heart.
Get what I mean about flat-out nasty?
Or maybe it was her hand and my heart. Like I said, I’m not real clear on the details. Somebody’s hand was inside somebody’s chest. Khryllians are big on sticking their hands into people. Penetration of flesh and shit. It’s that goddamn Healing of His. Once you sand the corners off consequences, people start to get really fucking weird.
Some people say that’s what happened to me. But screw them anyway. None of them could have lived through my consequences.
Anyway, I came walking down out of there with my right fist full of metaphoric Holy Foreskin, and it was not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever held.
But I was fucking right going to get my handjob’s worth.
Rounding the last curve of stair down into the Lavidherrixium, rubbing worm-threads of dried blood from my skin and hoping these sick bastards at least had a goddamn shower I could use before I had to go out in public, I didn’t notice how the murmur of breeze above became the murmur of voices below until the voices took on actual words.
“. . and that, my Lord, is a matter to offer up unto the Regard of the Lord of Valor. Which is none other than my full intention here, and which you, my Lord, have a truly astonishing lack of authority to prevent.”
I could clearly hear the nailed-shut clamp of Markham’s Lipkan jaw. “I repeat: You may not ascend. You must depart immediately. That is an order.”
“The Love of Our Lord of Valor has cleared the clamor from my ears, my Lord; I kenned you well at first breath. And every time since. What I have not heard is by what authority you propose to stand between a Knight of Khryl and the Regard of God, nor yet, precisely, how you propose to enforce this preposterous tyranny upon my person.”
“I am Lord Righteous in service to the Champion of-”
“Oh, aye, there is that, and the trifle of authority you wield is held in fief from her, true enough. But even Herself can stand between a Knight and Our Lord only if the unfortunate Knight in question is proven Recreant, Craven, or Base. Is one or more of these a charge you’d care to offer a poor halfcrippled Knight the barest glimpse of a wink to Answer? For the dispute can be settled between us right now, my Lord Righteous in Et Cetera. Assuredly it can; we need only step out where we will not defile-”
“I repeat. You may not ascend. You must depart immediately.”