accounted for five Enforcers at the cost of his remaining ammo. Still greatly outnumbered, he drew his knife and prepared for close combat.
A guildsman advanced and raised his rifle. Teg lobbed his blade into the weapon's forestock and immediately regretted the act. But his foe was thrown off guard, and Teg used the distraction to close the distance. It was too late to shoot by the time the Enforcer saw him coming. The guildsman thrust the rifle’s shoulder stock at his foe’s face, but Teg angled his upper body perpendicular to the blow, evading it by a hair’s breadth.
Teg grabbed the rifle, clasping one hand over the breech and the other under the forestock. Then he gave the weapon a sharp twist, pulling it toward himself. The gun came free of its owner's grip, and Teg seized it. He performed the maneuver his opponent had attempted; pistoning the rifle’s butt into the guildsman’s face and shattering his jaw. Another Enforcer tackled Teg from behind, spilling both men onto the hard volcanic plateau.
Teg barely registered the keening whine of the Shibboleth's drifters. The ground shook, and black geysers of rock sprayed upward as the ether-runner launched its forward torpedoes. Teg knew that the torps were of middling yield, but their human targets would have met prettier ends in the blades of a combine.
The ship landed within fifty yards of where Teg and the Enforcer wrestled. The guildsman fought like a rabid lion, commanding most of Teg's attention. But soon, the mercenary heard a shrill whirring that caught his notice. Daring to take his eyes from his opponent, Teg saw that the Shibboleth's rotary cannon had started spinning in preparation to fire. Furthermore, it was pointed in his direction.
“No! No!” Teg screamed in visceral denial. He threw all of his weight into a desperate roll that wracked his tortured back and spun the Enforcer into the space he’d just occupied. Then the flash and thunder of the cannon cast him into a sightless void.
He thought his mother hummed a song that she saved for the rare occasions when his father was home. But then Teg remembered that his father was years in his grave. He opened his eyes—actually, they'd already been open; but now they could see again. Teg found himself staring into a pair of bright silver eyes. He didn't find their color odd, but the face they peered from was upside-down.
“Teg?” asked a beautiful, hauntingly familiar voice. “Tegren?”
Teg's composure returned at the sound of his right name. “Only my mom calls me that,” he told Nakvin, who leaned over his supine form.
“We're evacuating,” she said. “Wake up and get on the ship.” Then she stood, straightened her robes, and started up the Shibboleth's boarding ramp.
Wincing from the pain in his back, Teg stood. Only then did the Enforcer's disembodied arms release his midsection and drop lifeless to the ground.
Jaren rounded on Crofter. “What in the Nine Circles was that!?” he cried. The Shibboleth’s forward gunner had fired into close combat involving his own crewmates. The reckless stunt had almost disintegrated Teg. In fact it would have, had the swordarm’s roll ended an inch too short.
Crofter returned Jaren’s look but quickly averted his eyes. “I don't know!” the gunner whined, his voice rising in panic. “Firing the torps made me feel like I was finally giving the Guild some payback. Then I saw that Enforcer wrestling with Teg, and I thought, 'what's this gun for if it can’t pick off one more piece of Guild trash,' right?”
Teg emerged from the armory as Crofter finished his sentence. He'd obviously heard the rest, because he drew a pair of fresh zephyrs and opened fire at the gunner's feet. “What's this gun for?” Teg asked between each shot. “What's this gun for?”
Bridge personnel hit the deck to avoid the ricocheting slugs. Crofter tried to flee but found his movements controlled as if he were a puppet and Teg's bullets the strings.
Jaren
A guildsman advanced and raised his rifle. Teg lobbed his blade into the weapon's forestock and immediately regretted the act. But his foe was thrown off guard, and Teg used the distraction to close the distance. It was too late to shoot by the time the Enforcer saw him coming. The guildsman thrust the rifle’s shoulder stock at his foe’s face, but Teg angled his upper body perpendicular to the blow, evading it by a hair’s breadth.
Teg grabbed the rifle, clasping one hand over the breech and the other under the forestock. Then he gave the weapon a sharp twist, pulling it toward himself. The gun came free of its owner's grip, and Teg seized it. He performed the maneuver his opponent had attempted; pistoning the rifle’s butt into the guildsman’s face and shattering his jaw. Another Enforcer tackled Teg from behind, spilling both men onto the hard volcanic plateau.
Teg barely registered the keening whine of the Shibboleth's drifters. The ground shook, and black geysers of rock sprayed upward as the ether-runner launched its forward torpedoes. Teg knew that the torps were of middling yield, but their human targets would have met prettier ends in the blades of a combine.
The ship landed within fifty yards of where Teg and the Enforcer wrestled. The guildsman fought like a rabid lion, commanding most of Teg's attention. But soon, the mercenary heard a shrill whirring that caught his notice. Daring to take his eyes from his opponent, Teg saw that the Shibboleth's rotary cannon had started spinning in preparation to fire. Furthermore, it was pointed in his direction.
“No! No!” Teg screamed in visceral denial. He threw all of his weight into a desperate roll that wracked his tortured back and spun the Enforcer into the space he’d just occupied. Then the flash and thunder of the cannon cast him into a sightless void.
He thought his mother hummed a song that she saved for the rare occasions when his father was home. But then Teg remembered that his father was years in his grave. He opened his eyes—actually, they'd already been open; but now they could see again. Teg found himself staring into a pair of bright silver eyes. He didn't find their color odd, but the face they peered from was upside-down.
“Teg?” asked a beautiful, hauntingly familiar voice. “Tegren?”
Teg's composure returned at the sound of his right name. “Only my mom calls me that,” he told Nakvin, who leaned over his supine form.
“We're evacuating,” she said. “Wake up and get on the ship.” Then she stood, straightened her robes, and started up the Shibboleth's boarding ramp.
Wincing from the pain in his back, Teg stood. Only then did the Enforcer's disembodied arms release his midsection and drop lifeless to the ground.
Jaren rounded on Crofter. “What in the Nine Circles was that!?” he cried. The Shibboleth’s forward gunner had fired into close combat involving his own crewmates. The reckless stunt had almost disintegrated Teg. In fact it would have, had the swordarm’s roll ended an inch too short.
Crofter returned Jaren’s look but quickly averted his eyes. “I don't know!” the gunner whined, his voice rising in panic. “Firing the torps made me feel like I was finally giving the Guild some payback. Then I saw that Enforcer wrestling with Teg, and I thought, 'what's this gun for if it can’t pick off one more piece of Guild trash,' right?”
Teg emerged from the armory as Crofter finished his sentence. He'd obviously heard the rest, because he drew a pair of fresh zephyrs and opened fire at the gunner's feet. “What's this gun for?” Teg asked between each shot. “What's this gun for?”
Bridge personnel hit the deck to avoid the ricocheting slugs. Crofter tried to flee but found his movements controlled as if he were a puppet and Teg's bullets the strings.
Jaren
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