Perdition (Dred Chronicles 1)
Page 72“They’re brain-dead shit birds.”
“You’ve a poetic nature, you know that? I rather like you, undertaker. Didn’t think I would . . . but here we are.”
“You’re not a complete wart on a toad’s arse, either,” the big man muttered.
“I feel a hug coming on. Should we?”
“I’d rather let you cut my face off with this axe.” Einar hefted the weapon hanging over his shoulder.
“Could do that, too, I suppose. That couldn’t make it worse.” He gestured to indicate the whole extreme ugliness Einar had going on.
Jael could’ve dodged the punch, but he reckoned he deserved it. So the hit landed on his ribs and rearranged some bones. They snapped back into place; sometimes there was a deep internal itch when the healing started. He stopped to let the work complete, then realized the other men were gaping at him.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nobody roughhouses with Einar, unless they’re looking for a broken neck.”
“I’m tougher than I look,” he said coldly. “There’s a reason the Dread Queen made me her champion.”
He dragged the other man off to call him names in private, but Jael heard every word. “There’s something off about that one. Try not to be stupider than you can help, all right? I don’t want to find somebody else to watch my back while I’m asleep. Keep mouthing off to the queen’s man, though, and I’ll have to, won’t I?”
“Sorry, wasn’t thinking.”
That small exchange put a damper on everyone’s mood, so the team sat in silence while they waited for Grigor to realize there was a problem. Hours turned into watches, as the men wearied. Jael took the first shift; frankly, he would prefer not to sleep with so many inmates all around him. Somebody might take a mind to stick a knife between his ribs, and then, well. Best not to tempt fate.
By his calculations, it was ten hours before they sent a second party to figure out where the first group had gone. They must be thirsty up in Grigor’s territory, too. This time, there were eight soldiers, all big bruisers, like the first four. He counted their footfalls to calculate how far away they were, then he whispered the ETA to Einar.
“Ready for some action?” the big man asked the team.
“More than. I sit here any longer, my ass will be rooted to the floor.”
“Pair up,” Jael said. “I need you fighting together, no mob rules this time. Pick a target, take him down together.”
“But we outnumber them,” a Queenslander protested.
“They’re bigger. Don’t ever underestimate your opponent. That gives him the advantage from the jump, and it doesn’t always matter how many people you’ve got.”
Jael eyed the other man with surprised approval. When he’d given him the estimate, he didn’t realize he was still counting down. Soon, the rest of the men could hear the approaching combatants. They were moving fast, too, all but running, so their treads came in heavy thumps. He swung out fast enough to surprise the leader, landing a kick in the enemy’s chest.
This one had some combat experience, as he checked two of Jael’s blows, but he glimpsed the flash of pain that came on impact. He was strong enough that even a block delivered enough damage to fracture a forearm. Jael speeded up his strikes, hands becoming a blur as he went at the leader. The other man couldn’t keep up; and Jael snared his wrist. Pop and twist—the bone snapped clean in two as he wrenched it behind the brute’s back. He combined the move with another kick; this one rocked the other man’s legs out from under him. Jael ended the fight with a boot to the throat, crushing his enemy’s larynx. He was trying to avoid a bloody mess, but around him, other men didn’t share the same concern.
A Queenslander dropped, taking a knife in the kidneys; he wasn’t dead yet, but he might as well be. No recovering from that. Despite his orders, the men weren’t fighting in an organized or unified fashion. Not their fault, really; they’d never drilled. These are prisoners, not soldiers. They’re used to mixing it up in riots, not orchestrating strategy. Still, that lack was costing them.
Another Queenslander fell, and Einar pushed forward to fill the gap. Jael shoved forward beside him, scowling as blood spattered on him from someone else’s knife. He curled his fingers around his blade and punched forward, shoving the knife through his foe’s sternum. In an efficient motion, he pulled it back, kicked the man out of his way, and went for the next victim. He raked the blade across the man’s eyes, then stabbed him up through the chin.
“Wish I had room to move my axe,” Einar bitched, as he hauled back to deliver a killing blow. The weight of his fist crushed the man’s lip, more blood spewed out, along with a mess of teeth. Fortunately, he wouldn’t live to suffer the loss.
When the last body fell, they were down three men, better than Grigor’s men should’ve done, frankly. “This is a hell of a mess. Clean it up.”
“Why should we?”
His jaw clenched. “Because I’ll kill you if you say another word. Try me.”
“Sorry. I was just asking,” the man muttered.
“How long will we be here?” one of the men asked.
He glanced at Einar, wondering if he knew. “Until the Dread Queen calls us back.”
“What if she never does?” the man persisted.
Jael snapped, “Then we fight here until we die.”
“Until we’re overrun,” the big man agreed. “It’s not for us to question.”
He suspected it wouldn’t be much longer. If Dred was right, Grigor’s men would soon be too drunk or too dehydrated to find their way down to the recycling center. Rebellion would begin within his territory, and then—only then—would the Dread Queen strike. All told, it was a cunning plan, well crafted and layered. He looked forward to executing it, step by step, and seeing Dred’s enemies brought low. At some point, this damned microwar had become more important to him than scouting possible escape routes.
In time, he told himself.