Outlanders 14 Hell Rising, page 26
Measuring the distance, he slid his Sin Eater back into its holster, cast aside his Copperhead and hurled himself forward in a flat dive.
Although Kane knew the water would be cold, its icy temperature nearly made him cry out in shock. He stroked furiously through the boiling wake, hearing over his splashing progress the whine of turbines throttling up. He increased the speed of his arms, clawing water aside. His flailing left hand secured a grip on the end of the rope. Absently, he noticed it had been sliced cleanly through by a very sharp blade. He managed to close his other hand around it just as the Cromwell gave a great leaping surge, engines roaring.
Dragged along in the frothing backwash, Kane kept his mouth tightly closed to keep saltwater from filling it. As it was, the sea forced itself into his nostrils and he had to keep snorting his sinus passages clear in order to breathe.
He was rolled and tumbled by the turbulence, but he climbed hand over hand up the rope. His right shoulder socket burned with a bone-deep, gnawing pain.
Inch by agonizing inch, he hauled himself up and slapped one hand on the cleat. With a muscle- wrenching effort, Kane chinned himself up and twisted his body over the side and onto the deck.
Gasping, he raised himself to all fours, clothes heavy and sodden, his right arm once more feeling dead. Blinking against the stinging brine, raking his wet hair away from his face, he began to lever himself upright.
Then, over the engine throb and turbine whine, he heard Fand's shrill scream of pure terror. "Ka'in—!"
Adrenaline jolted through him, and he frantically palmed saltwater away from his eyes, regaining his vision just as the one-eyed giant slashed at him with a mirror-bright blade.
Chapter 26
A bitter fire burned in Aubrey Quayle's brain, an extension of the hot wire that ran through his left hip. He panted as he ran, dodging among the trembling pipes, the shivering support pylons, the quaking girders. He had failed to maintain the Imperium. Worse, he'd been betrayed, sold out by that vicious vixen of an Irish slut—damn her delightful mouth—and then by one of his own kind, the hapless Harper. The pain of the stab wound inflicted by Morrigan was nothing compared to that scorching his soul. The cut in his hip was superficial, puncturing only a roll of flab, but it felt as if it went straight to his heart.
He made his way toward the concrete jetty, to the Cromwell's berth, ducking his head against the bullets slicing the air overhead. The cutlass of Lord Nelson gleamed unscabbarded in his huge fist.
A few despairing dragoons still fought on behind him, but they had ignored his commands to man the pumps and save Northstar 40, so they had earned whatever fate befell them, either at the hands of the Celts or in the merciless bosom of the sea.
An Irish warrior, blasphemously decked out in the colors of the Imperium, lunged out of a wedge of shadow between two girders, swinging a broad-bladed ax. "Balor, you fat bastard!"
There wasn't room to swing the cutlass in a decapitating stroke, so Quayle stabbed it forward in a short, hard thrust. It sank deep into the man's midsection, and he rocked to a halt, eyes going wide. Quayle gave the long blade a twist, shearing through flesh, muscle and entrails, then whipped it loose. Blood drenched the handle of the cutlass, followed by an explosion of blue-and-red-sheened intestines.
The man fell to his knees, trying to raise his ax above his head to chop at Quayle's lower body. Quayle hammered down on the head of the weapon with the cutlass hilt, then drove the point through the Celt's eye and into his brain.
As the body fell forward, Quayle spit contemptuously, "A bloody ax! Who do you think you are, Brian fucking Boru?"
Wiping the blade clean on a sleeve, he continued on his way, clenching his teeth at the exultant shout from deep within the platform: "Erin go bragh!"
Quayle's hand tightened on the slippery cutlass handle, but he didn't look back. He had tried to rally a concerted resistance, but the Celts swarmed all over Northstar 40, scattering hither and you like rats. They skulked and spied from bolt-holes, then sprang to the attack. His own men spread out in futile pursuit and offered easy targets.
The Cromwell heaved into view, Wand behind the window of the bridge housing, he glimpsed the shadowy outline of Dodd, his navigator. Only he and Morrigan knew he planned to set sail for Lyonesse that very morning. He had intended to take only a skeleton force of dragoons with him, but now he would have to settle for just beaky-nosed Dodd.
Quayle lumbered across the gangway from the berthing dock to the deck of the Cromwell, feeling it sag beneath his weight. From behind him, clashing, groaning shudders shook Northstar 40, causing the gangway to sway dangerously. Before it tipped over, he stepped down over the side and, rather than cast the mooring line loose, he slashed it in two with the cutlass. Swiftly, he moved along the deck and sliced through the other rope, then turned toward the staircase leading to the elevated bridge.
Quayle had envisioned himself moving regiments, ordering battalions and divisions, inspiring a fanatical devotion in all who served under his command. He wasn't quite ready to give up that vision. The Imperium was lost, but there was always an opportunity to build another one. He had the will to make that dream come true. There would be temporary setbacks, but in his mind his destiny was certain. He would extend a new empire beyond that of Strongbow's ambitions, to rule all of Europe and even the Mediterranean basin.
Quayle climbed the ladder one-handed, grunting in exertion, a little annoyed by how much effort it required. Opening the door, ducking his head, he announced sharply, "Power us up, Mr. Dodd—"
The remainder of his order clogged in his throat. It wasn't Dodd who whirled away from the control console but a tall, slender figure dressed outlandishly in brass helmet, combat vest and leather leggings.
Even with only one eye, Quayle discerned the female figure swelling beneath the unflattering ensemble, not to mention the smooth complexion and full lips. He also saw the long wooden staff topped by an egg-shaped knob leaning against the plot board. His eye flicked down its length and rested on Dodd, curled in a fetal position on the deck. A discolored welt showed on the side of his head.
In a clear, exceptionally strong tone, the woman declared, "I'm called Sister Fand. Your man here refused to follow my instructions." Dodd groaned, eyelids fluttering. "He's not dead," the woman added unnecessarily.
Quayle didn't waste any breath on demands. He lunged across the bridge room, like a flesh-and-blood typhoon, swinging the cutlass in a fast, flat arc. As fast as he was, Sister Fand moved with an eye-blurring, fluid grace, snatching up the staff and parrying the blade with the ovoid knob.
He wasn't sure from what material the egg-shape was fashioned, but the impact sounded like steel striking flint. The thought of nicking the four-hundred year-old blade filled him with anger. Rather than take another chance with it, he dropped the cutlass to the deck and closed in on the helmeted woman, grabbing the staff and wresting it from her grasp.
At least, that was what he tried to do. To his astonishment, Quayle couldn't pull it from her hands. Muscles rippled up and down her slender bare arms, and Sister Fand's grip did not break.
Snarling wordlessly, Quayle pivoted at the waist, yanking the woman bodily off the floor. He released the staff and, carried by momentum, she slammed against the far bulkhead.
Without sparing her another glance, Quayle's big hands slapped at the controls, thumbing the ignition button, activating the turbines and keying on the main engines. He nudged up the throttle lever, and Sister Fand struck him on the back of the head with her knob-tipped staff, knocking off his beret. She barked,
"D 'anam don diabhal!"
Quayle spun around, not knowing what she said, but he guessed it had something to do with the devil. He swung a keg-like fist at her head, but she ducked and his knuckles banged painfully on the crest of her helmet, knocking it askew. Reflexively, she tried to adjust it and Quayle's massive hands closed around her throat. Savagely, he jerked her erect, holding her so her toes barely scrabbled on the floor plates.
Gagging, Sister Fand pried at his fingers with a startling strength. Accustomed to manhandling Morrigan like a child, he was dismayed by this woman's strength, which was little short of superhuman.
He bore down, tightening his stranglehold before she could pry loose any of his fingers and possibly break them. "Who are you, bitch?"
Hoarsely, she half gasped, "I am one with the hills, the winds and the gray seas of Erin. I am the spirit of the same land that has sent your empire into defeat!"
Enraged, Quayle shook her violently, as if she were a rag doll. The woman's helmet wobbled loosely on her head and fell to the deck with a dull bong. He stared at her. She was lovely, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, but her inhumanly huge eyes sent a chill stabbing through his heart—they reminded him of Strongbow's. He spit in her face.
Sister Fand's lips curled and she spit back, scoring a direct hit in his good eye. The fleeting notion of keeping the woman alive long enough to bugger her to death vanished in an inferno of homicidal fury. Teeth bared, Quayle dug both thumbs into her windpipe. She clawed for his face, but a sudden forward shift in the motion of the Cromwell sent them stumbling the length of the cabin.
Quayle cast a swift glance over his shoulder and saw Dodd upright, apparently groggy but able to handle the controls. "Good man!" he said. "Full speed ahead!"
"Aye, sir." Dodd pushed up the throttle lever, and the ship lunged into the open sea like a killer whale in pursuit of prey.
Quayle lowered Sister Fand to the floor. Her head lolled loosely on her neck, and her tongue protruded from her mouth. Her eyes, veiled by heavy lids, bore a glassy sheen. He wrestled her limp weight to 'the door, fumbling to turn the latch. He managed to get the door open. "Mr. Dodd, my sword, if you would be so kind."
Dodd stooped and picked up the cutlass as Quayle put his back to the doorway. He removed his right hand from the woman's throat. Dodd tossed the cutlass and he caught it smoothly by the handle. No sooner had his hand fitted into the basket guard than Sister Fand threw her full weight against his chest, back- heeling him with a foot in the same motion.
Caught off balance, Quayle toppled unceremoniously out the door and past the ladder, and landed on his back with a meaty thud. The back of his skull cracked sharply against the desk.
Air exploded from between his thick lips, and multicolored pinwheels spiraled before his eyes. Half- expecting Sister Fand to jump straight down onto his groin, Quayle elbowed himself to his left side, then used the rungs of the ladder to achieve a crouching posture. He dragged air into his laboring lungs, swung his head up, and saw the woman standing in the doorway with a stricken expression on her face.
She wasn't looking at him. Quayle followed her gaze and saw a soaking-wet, dark-haired man on his hands and knees port side aft. Rising to his feet,
Quayle ran toward him in a ponderous rush, cutlass held high for a decapitating stroke. He heard Sister Fand's shrill cry of pure terror. "Ka'in—!"
KANE HURLED HIS BODY into a sideways roll as the bright blade sliced down, chiming loudly against the black deck plates, a little burst of sparks flaring at the point of impact.
He rolled into a crouch and flexed the tendons in his right wrist—or tried to flex them. His arm was completely numb from the shoulder to the tips of his fingers.
Quayle hacked at him again, and Kane dodged the cutlass's razor-keen length by a fractional margin. After a half second of fumbling, he whipped his fourteen- inch, tungsten-steel, titanium-jacketed combat knife out of its scabbard.
The long sword in Quayle's hand swept toward him in a whistling backstroke. Kane parried, and the recoil of the meeting blades nearly sent him falling over the side.
Quayle lunged while the echo of the first clangorous strike still hung in the air. Kane leaned away from the polished blade, and the tip opened a rent in his shirt, only warming the flesh beneath.
Kane stepped back carefully, seeing Fand climbing down the ladder from the bridge housing but not interfering. She knew if she distracted Kane, Quayle could swiftly plunge his cutlass into his heart. As it was, both men's movements were cautious due to the rocking of the Cromwell.
Kane felt awkward holding his knife in his left hand, and though he wasn't ambidextrous, he was a veteran of dozens of vicious close-quarters melees. He constantly shifted position, sidestepped and circled in order to stay on Quayle's right side, his blind side. He noted the spreading bloodstain on the man's left hip.
He watched Quayle's one good eye. The man was immensely strong and far faster than a man of his bulk should have been. He let his weight soak up the attacks. The tip of the cutlass teased the combat knife, nudging it playfully to one side in preparation for a lunge.
Quayle said gutturally, "The point always beats the edge, sir."
He feinted with the sword, then lunged with it. Kane parried, steel clashing loudly against steel, twisted his knife over so the hilts of both weapons scraped and he lunged himself.
Quayle parried the lunge, point downward, and then turned his sword with such speed the tip missed Kane's throat by less than a quarter of an inch. The cutlass darted forward like the tongue of a steel snake, and Kane blocked it with a side sweep. Again the blades met, edge to edge, and the shock jarred Kane's arm, shook his body. He whipped his combat knife toward Quayle's good eye, and the man weaved to the left. He saw Quayle's face screw up at the pain in his hip as he was forced to balance all of his ponderous weight on his left leg.
The pain only made him angry. Quayle counterattacked with blinding speed, his cutlass crashing against the knife like a hammer against an anvil. Kane staggered, nearly driven completely around by the force of the strike. His misstep rescued him from a scything, skull-splitting back swing from the cutlass. Kane bounded to the side, and a vicious follow-up thrust of the cutlass missed his midsection by a finger's width, though he felt it slide against his upper right leg.
Kane didn't even realize he had been stabbed until he felt the sudden wet warmth flowing down his leg and saw bright blood bubbling out of the cut in the fabric. A bone-deep, boring pain spread over his upper thigh where the steel had sliced through flesh and muscle.
His leg buckled for just a fraction of an instant. That sliver of a second was all Quayle needed to press his attack. His cutlass hammered on the knife blade, twisted it with a scraping slither and tore it from Kane's hand.
Quayle lunged, aiming not for his heart but for his groin and the femoral artery. An accomplished duelist the man might be, but he was also an experienced down-and-dirty back-alley fighter.
Kane avoided being skewered only by a back-wrenching twisting leap, part broad jump, part cartwheel. Falling heavily to the deck, he skidded across it on his left side. He heard Fand cry out in fear. He clenched his fingers to secure a grip on the welds and, to his overwhelming relief, the fingers of his right hand curled. The Sin Eater slapped solidly into his gloved palm.
With a snarl of bloodthirsty satisfaction, he flipped over, blaster leveled at the end of his extended arm, questing for target acquisition. He framed Quayle's bulky outline within the Sin Eater's sights and his finger curved toward the trigger stud—then froze.
Although Quayle stood before his gun, so did Fand—and the tip of the cutlass pricked her jugular vein. A thread of blood inched down the side of her long neck.
Panting heavily, Quayle said, "Always the point, remember that. I'm presuming your name is Kane. Very well, Mr. Kane. You will divest yourself of that rather unique firearm or I will take great pleasure in cutting this Irish mutie's throat. I don't care if you kill me immediately afterward. Putting this whore to death would be worth my death. I'll die knowing she can spread no more of her half-human spawn on the Earth."
Moving with deliberate caution, Kane rose to one knee, aiming at Quayle's round head squatting on his shoulders like a bloated albino toad. The man yanked roughly on Fand's braided hair, jerking her head to one side and dragging a short cry of pain from her lips. The point of the cutlass dug deeper into her soft flesh, and more bright blood spilled down her pale throat.
Quayle's pendulous lips twitched in a spasmodic imitation of a smile. "I know you're wondering if you can get me with one clean head shot before I kill her. Let me assure you that you cannot—kill me before I kill her, that is. Lower your weapon, Mr. Kane. You have three seconds. Three...two..."
Kane pushed the Sin Eater back into its holster and let his right arm drop to his side.
Quayle's smile broadened, the scar on his cheek acquiring a deep crease. "I have the strangest sensation we've met before, Mr. Kane. But that's hardly likely, is it?"
Kane shook his head. "I think I'd remember a slug like you, Captain."
Quayle inclined his head a fraction of an inch in a parody of a gracious nod, but he didn't remove the cutlass from Fand's throat. "True. I pride myself on leaving a lasting impression on those I meet. Now, sir, you will disarm and kick your weapon over here."
