Bunch, Chris & Cole, Allan Sten 2 The Wolf Worlds

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appropriate then, is it not?"
Parral had the good grace to smile before walking to the center of the dance floor as a servitor
Finished-sweeping the last of the gore aside and sprinkling fresh sand. The body was being lugged out by
two of Froelich's long-faced retainers, who must've bet on their ex-leader.
"It would appear." Parral said, relieved at finally being able to go through the rigamarole, "that both
challenged party and challenger are unable to settle their differences except by blood. Am I correct?"
Sten nodded, as did Trumbo as the two men walked toward each other, each gauging his opponent.
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"Then blood is the argument," Parral intoned, "and by blood it shall be settled." He bowed twice and
backed off the floor.
Trumbo went on guard. At least he wasn't holding his poig-nard like an icepick. Instead he had his left
hand flattened out in front of him, fisted into a guard and held chest-high. His poignard was held low,
pommel lightly resting on his left hip. He crab-walked toward Sten.
Sten stood nearly full-on, with right hand, fingers curled, held forward, waist high. His poignard was held
slightly to the rear and slightly lower than his right hand.
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Sten, too, began crab-walking, trying to move to Trumbo's offside. Come on in, friend, he thought, eyes
carefully wide open. Come on. A bit closer. And who trained you, clot? as Trumbo's eyes narrowed and
predictably he lunged, going for Sten's chest.
But Sten wasn't there to meet the blade. He sidestepped and snapped his right palm into Trumbo's
temple. The man staggered back, then recovered.
And came in again. And Sten's knife flicked out, flashing under Trumbo's guardhand, into the flesh of his
knifewrist. Blood started dripping slowly as Sten went back on guard.
Trumbo was becoming canny. First thing in a knifefight is try for the cheap kill. But if you're facing an
experienced man, the only way of winning is to bleed your opponent to death.
And so he next tried an underhand slash, coming straight up for Sten's knifehand. Sten easily parried the
stroke, arm-blocked the blade, and stepped close inside Trumbo's guard. The razor tip of his poignard
sliced Trumbo's forehead open.
And Sten doubled back, ready position, moving, moving, shuttling from side to side. Trumbo closed in
again and ... oh, clottin' amateur... tried the old knife-flip, tossing the knife from his right to his left hand.
The maneuver should've thrown Sten off-guard, and Trumbo would have continued his lunge, driving the
poignard deep into Sten's gut.
But somewhere between Trumbo's right and left hand was Sten's snap-kicked foot, and the poignard
pirouetted high into the air, gleaming blade flashing reflection, and Sten reversed his grip on the poignard
and smashed the pommel into Trumbo's chin.
Trumbo thudded back, stunned. Sten waited for movement, then flipped his own poignard into the air. It
thunked, point-first, into the dance floor. The fight was over.
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Sten bowed to Parral, who was again looking surprised, and started back toward...
"No!" was the scream from what Sten thought/hoped was Sofia, and he was crouched, head-down,
duck-spinning as Trumbo came off the floor, grabbing Sten's poignard and driving it forward, and Sten's
fingers scooped, his own knife came out of his arm and he overhanded a slash from his knee.
His knife blade hit the poignard's keen steel and cut through it like cheese.
Trumbo's eyes gaped at the impossible and then Sten back-rolled and was on his feet, Trumbo still
stumbling forward as Sten sidestepped, whirled, and slashed again.
The knife neatly parted Trumbo's skin, ribcage, heart, and lungs before Sten could pull it free. The body
squished messily to the floor.
Sten sucked in air that tasted particularly sweet and decided he'd try another bow to Parral.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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"YOU DISAPPOINT ME, Colonel," Parral said gently.
"Ah?" Sten questioned.
"I thought all soldiers were hard drinkers. Poets. Men, I believe someone wrote, who have an
appointment with death."
Sten sloshed the still-untouched pool of cognac in the snifter and smiled slightly.
"Most soldiers I've known," he observed dryly, "would rather help someone else make that
appointment."
Parrel's glass was also full.
The two men sat in Parrel's art-encrusted library. It was hours later, and the fete had broken up with
excited buzzings and laughter. Parral had let Alex and Sten freshen and change in his chambers and then
had wanted to talk to Sten alone.
Reluctantly Alex, Kurshayne, Ffillips. and Vosberh had left the mansion. After all, Sten had pointed out
reasonably. I'm in no particular danger. No one except an absolute drakh-brain would kill his mercenary
captain before the war's won.
"I find you fascinating, Colonel," Parral observed, touching his glass to his lips. "First, we in the Lupus
Cluster are ... somewhat isolated from the mainstream of Imperial culture. Second, none of us have had
the advantage of dealing with a professional soldier. By the way, aren't you rather ... young to have held
your present office?"
"Bloody wars bring fast promotions," Sten said.
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"Of course."
"The reason I asked you to stay behind is, of course, primarily personally to compliment your prowess
as a warrior ... and to gain a better knowledge of what you and your people intend."
"We intend winning a war for you and for the Prophet Theodomir," Sten said, being deliberately obtuse.
"No war lasts forever."
"Of course not."
"You assume victory, then?"
"Yes."
"And after that victory?"
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"After we win," Sten said, "we collect our pay and look for another war."
"A rootless existence... Perhaps... Perhaps," Parral continued, staring intently into his snifter, "you and
your men might find additional employment here."
"In what capacity?"
"Do you not find it odd that we have two cultures, both very similar, at each other's throats? Do you not
find it odd that both of these cultures espouse a religious faith that you- a sophisticated man of the
Galaxy-must find somewhat archaic?"
"I have learned never to question the beliefs of my clients."
"Perhaps you should, Sten. I know little of mercenaries, I admit. But what little my studies produce is
that those who survived to die without their swords in hand became... shall we say, politically active?"
Parral waited for Sten's comment. None came.
"A man of your obvious capabilities.. .particularly a man who could develop, let us say, personal
interests in his clients, might find it more profitable to linger on after his contract was fulfilled, might he
not?"
Sten stood and walked to one wall, and idly touched a gouache of a merchant's tools-microcomputer,
money converter, beam scales, and a projectile weapon-that hung on the wall, then turned back to
Parral.
"I gather," he said, "that the key to success as a merchant is an ability to fence with words.
Unfortunately, I have none of that. I would assume, Seigneur Parral, that what you are asking is that, after
we destroy the Jannisars, you would wish us to remain on, with a contract to remove Theodomir."
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Parral managed to look shocked. "I would never suggest such a thing."
"No. You wouldn't," Sten agreed.
"This evening has run extremely late, Colonel. Perhaps we should continue the discussion at a later date.
Perhaps after more data have become available to you." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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