Best Served Cold

“Good.” Shenkt would have liked to be kind. But then this boy might have run and brought more men, and there would have been further entanglements. Sometimes you must take one life to spare more, and when those times come, sentiment helps nobody. One of his old master’s lessons that Shenkt had never forgotten. “I am sorry for this.”

With a sharp crack, his forefinger sank up to the knuckle in the boy’s forehead.

– 

T hey smashed their way through the kitchens, both doing their level worst to kill each other. Shivers hadn’t planned on this but his blood was boiling now. Friendly was in his fucking way, and had to be got out of it, simple as that. It had become a point of pride. Shivers was better armed, he had the reach, he had the shield. But Friendly was slippery as an eel and patient as winter. Backing off, dropping away, forcing nothing, giving no openings. All he had was his cleaver, but Shivers knew he’d killed enough men with that alone, and didn’t plan on adding his name to the list.

They tangled again, Friendly weaving round an axe-blow and darting in close, hacking with the cleaver. Shivers stepped into it, caught it on his shield then charged on, sent Friendly stumbling back against a table, metal rattling. Shivers grinned, until he saw the table was covered with knives. Friendly snatched up a blade, arm going back to throw. Shivers dropped down behind his shield, felt the thud as the knife buried itself in the wood. He peered over the edge, saw another spinning at him. It bounced from the metal rim and flashed up into Shivers’ face, left him a burning scratch across the cheek. Friendly whipped up another knife.

Shivers weren’t about to crouch there and be target practice. He roared as he rushed forwards, shield leading the way. Friendly leaped back, rolled across the table, Shivers’ axe just missed him, leaving a great wound in the wood and sending knives jumping in the air. He followed while the convict was off balance, punching away with the edge of his shield, swinging wild with his axe, skin burning, sweat tickling, one eye bulging wild, growling through gritted teeth. Plates shattered, pans scattered, bottles broke, splinters flew, a jar of flour burst open and filled the air with blinding dust.

Shivers left a trail of waste through that kitchen the Bloody-Nine himself might’ve been proud to make, but the convict dodged and danced, nipped and slashed with knife and cleaver, always just out of reach. All Shivers had to show for his fury by the time they’d done their ugly dance the length of the long room was a bleeding cut on his own arm and a reddening mark on the side of Friendly’s face where he’d caught him with his shield.

The convict stood ready and waiting, a couple of steps up the flight leading out, knife and cleaver hanging by his sides, sheen of sweat across his flat chunk of face, skin bloody and battered from a dozen different little cuts and kicks, plus a fall off a balcony and a tumble down some stairs, of course. But Shivers hadn’t landed nothing telling on him yet. He didn’t look halfway to being finished.

“Come ’ere, you tricky fucker!” Shivers hissed, arm aching shoulder to fingers from swinging his axe. “Let’s put an end to you.”

“You come here,” Friendly grunted back at him. “Let’s put an end to you.”

Shivers shrugged his shoulders, shook out his arms, wiped blood off his forehead on the back of his sleeve, twisted his neck one way then the other. “Right… you… fucking are!” And he came on again. He didn’t need asking twice.

– 

C osca frowned down at his knife. “If I said I was just going to peel an orange with it, any chance you’d believe me?”

Victus grinned, causing Cosca to reflect that no man he had ever met had a shiftier smile. “Doubt I’ll believe another word you say. But don’t worry. You won’t be saying many more.”

“Why is it that men pointing loaded flatbows always feel the need to gloat, rather than simply letting fly?”

“Gloating’s fun.” Victus reached for his glass, smirking eyes never leaving Cosca, glinting point of the flatbow bolt steady as stone, and quickly tossed back his spirit in one swallow. “Yeuch.” He stuck his tongue out. “Damn, that stuff is sour.”

“Sweeter than my situation,” muttered Cosca. “I suppose now the captain general’s chair will be yours.” A shame. He’d only just got used to sitting in it again himself.