Styke stepped past Prost, slamming the hilt of the sword across Prost’s face and falling among the infantry. Two were down before the others even knew what was happening, and the surprise allowed Styke to make short work of the rest. Less than a minute later, he stood panting, chest heaving, his arms, face, and jacket coated in blood. One of the infantry had gotten off a shot, the ball skimming Styke’s shoulder, while another had managed to slash him along the ribs with a bayonet.
“Ben,” Dorezen breathed, while his wife led the children away from the fire.
“Sorry I came so late, Mayor.”
“Ben, I…”
Styke recovered himself and shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath. There’s more of these bastards on the other side of town. Looks like he brought most of his company with him. You should get out of here while you still can.”
Dorezen looked down on Prost, who began to moan and squirm, clutching at his face. Styke had never seen Dorezen utter an ill word about anyone until this night, yet the mayor leaned over and spat on Prost’s face before he and his family hurried into the night without a word. Styke knelt down next to Prost while the Kez major attempted to gather his wits, and didn’t move until he heard the sound of hooves in the darkness. He snatched up the cavalry sword and braced himself for a cuirassier charge, only for the familiar sight of lances and sunflower yellow jackets to emerge into the light.
Blye stared down at Prost and the bodies. “Styke, are you all right?”
“Took you long enough,” Styke grunted.
“Fifty of these assholes tried to barricade the doors to the barracks and set the building on fire. We spent the last twenty minutes slaughtering the bastards. Then we saw the flames and came as quickly as we could.”
Prost managed to roll over onto his hands and knees, attempting to stand. Styke grabbed him by the back of the jacket and lifted him one-handed. “Is that all the fighting you assholes learned out on the frontier? Setting buildings on fire and hoping it does your work for you?”
“What do you know about fighting?” Prost croaked, his feet moving in the air. Styke turned him so that they faced each other. Prost lashed out with one fist. Styke caught the blow and broke that wrist, then shook Prost until he stopped screaming.
“You’re a real arrogant son of a bitch, you know that? How many men do you have with you?” Prost clamped his mouth shut. Styke backhanded him hard. “How many?”
“A hundred and sixty!” Prost squealed.
Styke looked up at Blye. “I killed maybe thirty or forty on the way over here.”
“Kresimir,” Blye breathed.
“The rest are still burning down Fernhollow. Get out there and finish them off. Hunt them down like dogs. Go!”
Blye barked an order and the lancers spread out, heading across the town square at a gallop. Within moments, the sound of a carbine blast sliced the air. Then another. They continued intermittently, and the brief sounds of fighting flared up as the rest of the Kez realized that they were no longer alone.
Styke idly carried Prost over to the fire, as close as he could stand, then held Prost face-first toward the flames. Prost cried and thrashed, trying to escape his grip, until Styke took a few steps back and turned him once more so that they faced each other. “Does that feel good, you cowardly prick?” Styke demanded. He threw Prost to the ground, then kicked him in the stomach hard enough to send him hurtling through the air. He fetched Prost, pulling him from the ground by his hair.
Prost blubbered, his neat goatee singed by the flames, his face coated with blood. He cradled one arm. “I’m a monster, Prost,” Styke said. “I know what I am. But I don’t kill kids or burn civilians. I don’t approve of suffering, either, but for you I’ll make an exception.” He leaned forward until their faces were almost touching. “You came to Fernhollow with two hundred men. Where’s the other forty?”
Prost blabbed so incoherently that Styke made him repeat himself twice. “They’re at camp, six miles north of here. Captain Cardin and everyone else who refused to come with us tonight. They will be court-martialed for insubordination when we return to Landfall.”
“They wouldn’t help you burn women and children, and you’ll have them court-martialed?”
“Insubordination!”
“Your brother gave the order, right?”
Prost’s eyes widened. “Yes. Yes! He gave the orders. He said we needed to protect the family name. That we must be feared, or things will get out of hand.”
“He has no idea what getting out of hand actually means,” Styke said, searching the grass for Rezi’s knife. He found it and wiped it on Prost’s jacket. He knelt down beside Prost, staring thoughtfully at the blade, doing his best to hold at bay the fury and grief that threatened to incapacitate him. “Do you really think you’re going to get back to Landfall alive?”
Prost swallowed hard and raised his chin. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Dare?” Styke looked around incredulously at the bodies. “I just killed dozens of Kez soldiers and probably five or six officers. Why the pit would I give a shit about one more?” He sighed, closing his eyes, swallowing that grief. He wouldn’t be able to for much longer, so he needed to get on with things. He held Rezi’s knife up between Prost’s eyes. “Now, would you like me to do this after you’re dead? Or do you want a few more minutes of life?”
“Do what?” Prost tried to scramble backwards. He put weight on his broken wrist and screamed. “I want to live,” he wailed.
“Kind of a stupid answer. But I’ll give you a few more minutes while I work.” He raised the knife and began to hum a lancer’s hymn.
Styke buried Rezi on a hill outside of town, in a spot where the sun came through the willows first thing in the morning. The fires still smoldered all over town, and he stood by the grave for nearly an hour before he walked to the half-burnt barracks and fetched Deshnar from the stables left untouched by the blaze. He brushed Deshnar down, taking his time while he swallowed what was left of his love of this place, and then rode back into the center of Fernhollow.
Ashen-faced citizens stared dumbly at the remnants of their homes. Blye and the mayor attempted to rouse the people to get bodies buried and put out the last of the fires. Styke rode to Tel-islo’s inn, which, ironically, was one of the few places that had survived the raid. Tel-islo stood fearfully in the doorway, blunderbuss in hand, no doubt expecting some reprisal. His wife ran in and out of the door, bringing beer and bread to the wounded.
Blye stood on the stoop of the inn, trying to look like an authority figure and clearly failing. His face was haggard, his eyes red and his shoulders slumped. He told Mija, still cradling her husband’s body, that they needed to bury him soon, then raised his hand in greeting to Styke.
Styke dismounted, tying up Deshnar outside the inn. Blye came close. “These people are shell-shocked. They’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Why would they have?” Styke retorted. He forced himself to remember that Blye was a friend and softened his tone. “It’s never easy the first time. Or the second. You can only get used to it.”
“Some of the men deserted after we slaughtered the Kez last night,” Blye said. “They ran scared. I can’t blame them. There will be consequences for this.”
“I don’t blame them either,” Styke said. “Let them go. Forget they were here.”
“I…” Blye fumbled on his words, scratching his head as he looked down the street at the burnt husk of what had once been a sleepy town. “We were right to fight back, weren’t we? If the Kez come, they’ll court-martial us, but we were just protecting ourselves.”