“I salute you, brother,” he called. “I am sorry.”
Aleksandar looked across the bloody battlements at the samurai, storm crashing around him, the cacophony of slaughter thick in the air. He wondered who this man was. What drove him. Whether he lost any sleep at the thought of the butchery his people had committed. Was he a bloodthirsty warmonger? Or just a soldier following orders?
In the end, did it matter?
Aleksandar thought of his mother. His sister. His father. And then he replied in perfect Shiman, voice dripping hatred.
“I am not sorry,” he said. “And you are not my brother.”
And then he charged.
Aleksandar thundered across bloody stone, black rain in his eyes. The downpour made a noise on his shield like a thousand tiny drums, his lightning hammer raised high, poised to pound its own rhythm on this slaver bastard’s skull.
Thunder cracked overhead as they met, hammer whistling harmlessly past the samurai’s head as he sidestepped, a burst of sparks illuminating a spray of black water as the chainkatana sheared away a chunk of Aleksandar’s shield. The Kapitán swung a backhanded blow, hammer ablaze with electricity, the samurai leaning back as the weapon crackled past his face. Within a heartbeat, the slaver was on the front foot again, clipping another corner of Aleksandar’s shield away and tearing a jagged gouge across his breastplate.
Aleksandar lunged, two rapid strikes deflected, sparks bursting, blue-black smoke snaking from the clunking engine on the slaver’s back. He dipped a toe into the gore at his feet, kicked up a clod of blood toward the samurai’s face, landing a solid blow on his opponent’s shoulder. The samurai went rigid as raw current crackled over his armor, smoke rising from his skin. Aleksandar was sure the electric shock would have finished him there and then, but a riposte sent him staggering back, sparks flying as chunks of iron disappeared from his shield. The slaver was a master swordsman, fully aware that his chi-powered armor gave him an edge. For Aleksandar to become entangled was to die. To drop his guard was to die. To parry the samurai’s strikes was to risk his weapon being cleaved at the haft, and thus, to die.
Aleksandar fell back, sidestepping rather than deflecting and countering. Fuel spilled down the samurai’s back from crumpled tanks, coating his legs with thick, bubbling red. It wouldn’t be long before the tanks ran dry—the both of them knew it. The slaver sought to finish him before his armor’s speed and strength failed, for then he would simply be a man. Not a terror towering over frightened children in the streets of Krakaan or Veschkow. Not a demon cutting through men like sunlight through motes of dust. Just one little man in a suit of lifeless iron.
Time was on Aleksandar’s side. He could simply play defensively and wait for the armor to fail. But to topple a cripple in front of his entire command? He would not have his sons remember a day like that. He would have to defeat this man, stronger, faster, sharper, by using the one weapon the chi-mongers could not build for the oppressors.
His wits.
The chants of his men fell away, the army at his back fading alongside. He was back in the forest again, thirteen years old, all the bravado and energy of his hatred dissipating as the wolf stalked from the darkness, lips peeling back from fangs like knives. Great Kirill, alpha of the Dires. Terror of the Blackwood. Slayer of a hundred men.
Fooled and butchered at the last by a thirteen-year-old possum.
Aleksandar stepped forward with his lightning hammer high, allowing his shield to drop. Seeing the opening, the samurai struck, chainblade scything toward the Kapitán’s throat. Ready for the blow, Aleksandar brought his shield back up, the blade tearing through the metal as if it were butter. But though the slaver was strong as five men, though the blow would have cut a body clean in half, it was not quite enough to shear through two feet of tempered steel. The sword was snarled in the ruined shield, three inches shy of cleaving it through. Aleksandar dragged it down, bringing the samurai’s blade with it, and sent his hammer crashing into the slaver’s face.
A burst of sparks. A spray of blood. The samurai staggering back as another blow crashed into his helm, wrenching his head across his neck, buckling the iron as if it were tin. Current danced across the samurai’s armor, blood spraying between the rain as he dropped to one knee and Aleksandar brought his hammer down with both hands.
A bone-shattering crunch. Metal splitting metal. A wet sigh. The slaver collapsed, leaking blood onto sodden stone, belly-down before the Dragon flag. Aleksandar stood, shoulders slumped, trying to catch his breath from the poisoned air. The roars of his men were deafening, filling him to bursting. Finally, he stepped forward and tore the samurai’s banner loose, threw it onto the stone at his feet. And turning to the legion around him, he pointed to the keep with his crimson-slick hammer and roared at the top of his lungs.