Valyaine came at him again, smashing fists against Styke’s arms, jabbing his ribs. Styke swung hard and low, ignoring a blow to his face in order to land his own. He felt something crack beneath his knuckles, and Valyaine suddenly retreated again, holding his side.
Valyaine grinned. “Pit, I forgot how strong you are.” He spat out more blood. “You know, Ben, it’s been so long I forget what it was that Fidelis Jes said that made me decide to betray you. He prodded at all of us, you know—for over a year. He even tried to get to Ibana. Didn’t anyone warn you?” He shook his head. “Nah, of course not. You don’t warn Ben Styke. That’s like warning a hurricane. What good would it do?”
Styke wished Valyaine would shut up and focus on the fight. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t meant to be fun—not for him, and definitely not for Valyaine. This was just a man taking care of business. He swung with his left fist, letting Valyaine duck under it, following up with his right and grabbing Valyaine by the neck, lifting him and slamming him against the wall. Styke felt a kick against his knee and suddenly lost his balance. He gasped in pain as he fell, then felt Valyaine’s fist slam into the side of his temple with the force of a warhorse kick.
Styke staggered to the side, seeing double, and turned back toward Valyaine.
“I’ve killed people with that punch,” Valyaine stated with an almost maniacal laugh. “I never liked you, Ben, but I damn well respect you. You’re a bloody mule. I love that. I love that you never go down. You know what? I remember what Jes said now—why I agreed to help him. Because he told me what it would be like having a monster like you roaming the countryside after the end of the war.”
“That’s it?” Styke demanded, trying to blink his vision back to normal. “That’s all it took you to betray me? Some hypothetical image?”
“Hypothetical? Pit, Ben! What kind of shit did you smoke in the labor camps? I was there. I saw the terror that was the Mad Lancers. We were a goddamned force of nature. Cutting off the head was the only way to stop us.” Valyaine shook his head. “I wish it didn’t come to that. I wish we’d all just gone home, but instead we had to leave with the worst kinds of scars.” He tapped the side of his head. “Agoston spent all his money to climb into the bottom of a bottle for the last decade. Tenny Wiles got himself a wife and buried his head between her legs. Worst of all, Dvory got put in charge of a whole field army as his reward from Jes. Between you and me, he never did care. I may dislike you, but Dvory … he hates you.”
Styke’s vision finally began to clear. “And you?”
“Me? It bothered me for a year or two. Then I forgot about it. Got a career. Made money. Started to help people in the community. I sate my bloodlust in the ring and I’ve only killed a few men doing it. Sometimes I go on a mala binge. Helps me forget about the things we did in the name of freedom.”
Styke could see Valyaine settle his weight on his back foot, coiling like a snake ready to spring. He fell back a half step and when Valyaine leapt forward, he was ready. He caught the wrist of Valyaine’s right arm and jerked him past, grabbing his neck and using Valyaine’s own momentum to lift him clear off the ground. He spun, flinging Valyaine with all his strength through the arena doors.
The doors burst open, one of them snapping off the hinges as Valyaine stumbled through them and into the street, reeling until he finally collapsed in the mud.
Styke followed him out, removing his knife from his belt. To his surprise, Valyaine wasn’t even unconscious. He lay in a puddle with about as much grace as a man could, looking back up at Styke through hazy eyes and laughing quietly to himself.
“What’s so funny?” Styke asked.
“You,” Valyaine said. “I always told Dvory that you would never die. He insisted you were already gone, that Jes had put you in front of a firing squad and a doctor pronounced you dead.”
“And that’s funny?”
“It’s always funny when Dvory’s wrong.” Valyaine coughed and, slipping and sliding in the mud, slowly regained his feet. He eyed Styke’s knife. “What’s really funny is that you don’t even know what you actually are. You always demand the closest loyalty from your own men, but you never give your own.”
“I’ve always protected Fatrasta,” Styke protested. He wondered why he bothered—he needed to step over and finish this with a swing of his knife.
“Bah,” Valyaine spat. “A concept. You’ve never been loyal to a person. You’ve never listened to a set of orders without thinking about how you were going to disobey them. You’ve never been Commander Ben Styke, the officer that everyone else can depend on. You’ve just been that force of nature. They pointed you at the people they wanted dead and hoped you didn’t come around and get them all killed.” Valyaine looked at the knife in Ben’s hand and raised his fists. “Let’s finish it, big man.”
Styke stared at Valyaine. He stared hard, letting the words rattle around inside his mind. He needed to kill Valyaine, to finish this whole thing off. He stepped forward, setting his foot for good purchase in the mud and took a swing.
Even as he went through the motion, he knew it was half-hearted. Valyaine knew it too. He stepped into the swing, catching Styke’s weak wrist with a quick jab that made his hand go numb. His knife fell from his hands. Valyaine’s next punch came all the way across the boxer’s body and slammed into Styke’s chest with immense power. Styke stumbled back, slipped in the mud, and fell.
He struggled to breathe, looking up at Valyaine. Slowly, Valyaine lowered his fists. He took one step to the side, picking Styke’s knife out of the mud, then tossing it to him hilt-first. “I never wanted you dead, Ben. I just wanted things to end. You think about that real hard. Go slaughter Dynize until you swim in blood. If you still want more, you can come back here and gut me. I’ll even open my shirt for you.”
Valyaine turned around and walked back into the arena.
Styke struggled to his feet. He’d killed men before for walking away during a fight. He watched until Valyaine had disappeared, then limped across the street to where Ka-poel and Celine waited with Amrec. Passersby stared. He ignored them.
Celine had a strange look on her face, Ka-poel a scowl. Styke took the reins from Celine and realized that she’d probably never heard anyone talk like that to him—like an equal who was sick of his shit. She asked in a quiet voice, “Why didn’t you kill him?”
It was an echo of the question she’d asked when he failed to kill Tenny Wiles. Styke sighed, knowing he was never going to hear the end of this from Ibana. Because he beat me fair and square almost came to his lips, but instead he said, “Because he wasn’t wrong,” and limped down the street with Amrec in tow.
Everything hurt—he hadn’t been beaten that hard since the labor camp, and it wasn’t a good kind of memory. He felt around with his tongue, making sure he had all his teeth, and gingerly touched his face. Broken nose. Split lips. Maybe a cracked rib. He still had a hard time breathing. He’d need a big supply of horngum before he left town.
They’d gone a few blocks when Styke suddenly spotted something out of the corner of his eye. He handed the reins to Celine, who still sat alone on Amrec’s saddle, and limped down the street toward an old man he’d spotted leading a horse.
“You there,” he said, tapping the man on the shoulder.
“Eh?” The old man turned, looked up at Styke, and did a double take. “What do you want?”
Styke did a quick circuit of the horse, looking at teeth, eyes, hooves, and legs while the man looked on, bewildered. “It looks like a midget Rosvelan draft horse,” Styke said.
“Not bred that way. She’s just a runt. Can I help you with something?”
“How does she do with noise?”
“What’s this about?” the man demanded.
“Noise?” Styke said. “How does she do with it? Quick movements, large crowds, all that?”
“She does great,” the man retorted. “She’s a damned miniature warhorse, just too small for a soldier. What the pit do you want?”