NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: The Adventures of the Creeping Bam (BOOK 1: The Job)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: KESLA

Da's being murdered in front of my eyes and there's nothing I can do about it. The Terrors are everywhere, they've taken the barracks and they're killing every last one breathing who stands against them, man and boy both. We're fighting hard and they're killing us bad for it, looks like. It's brutal. I heard stories about Terror shock troops from some of the vets and they always sounded more like beasts than men, or maybe not beasts, normal animals don't kill for pleasure or even for vengeance, 'least not often. Men, on the other hand ...

I've killed so many I'm covered in blood myself, but so far I haven't been hurt much. Da taught me well, all right. Or maybe I am hurt, hurt real bad, I just don't know it, wounds can be funny like that, middle of a battle. One of the troopers is pressing me now, he's coming on savage and he's a big fucker so I'm having to give ground, but so far I've warded off his attacks all the same. My shield's a scarred mess, my sword notched, but they're holding up, and so am I. I scrabble back from his latest flurry in an attempt to open up a bit of ground between us, but in this press there's not much room to manoeuvre, and I think he knows it. Can't really tell through that faceless visored mask he wears.

Yeah, enough of this shit. I draw down low as I can and let out a savage cry, pushing all my weight to my back foot as I do it and then spring at the last, surging forward hard as I can. He's ready for me and brings his shield up, but I'm not going to attack with my sword this time, instead I just jam my shield into his with my full momentum and I feel the whole thing buckling and splintering with the force of the impact of our meeting. I just grit my teeth and press on, and it's enough, he was ready for an attack, not a charge, I catch him by surprise and barge him down hard. As he stumbles I slip free of my now useless shield and shove it aside along with his in the same motion, opening up a gap between us, and I'm already swinging my sword up overhead, bringing my freed left hand up to grip the lower haft of the hilt. He realises his mistake then but he's not quick enough bringing up his own sword.

They wear tough steel brigandine coats and laminar plates on their shoulders and vambraces at wrists and elbows, but their upper arms are dressed in thick, padded cloth alone, and I've still got enough of an edge to my sword. My hack is heavy, and well placed, and his arm cleaves just above the elbow, his own sword clattering to the floor with the now severed half still attached. He howls, I can hear it through the mask even over the riotous clamour in this training hall, and goes down on one knee now as his life's blood starts to pour out of the stump. I don't give him time to get his shield up again, dropping into a low crouching lunge and jamming the point of my sword up under the metal chin of the visor, ramming home through the soft flesh under his jaw. I don't stop until I see the red blade emerge again.

Time seems to jump now, I don't realise it until it's happened but suddenly I'm slumped on my knees and cradling da in my arms, and he's even bloodier than I am, more coming out of his mouth and a dozen wounds besides. It's pooling under him from a particularly savage wound in his back, while many of the others are much smaller, weird little round holes that seem to punch inwards through the lames of his armour. I heard stories about the Terror's secret weapons from the north too, what they call rifles, these strange tubes that burn explosive powders and spit metal faster than an arrow from a longbow, but I'd never seen them before today, didn't know what they can do. Well I've learned now and it's horrible. They've killed my da with their awful fucking weapons.

His eyes are glazed but they fix on me all the same as he works his mouth and blood keeps coming out of it along with wet, raspy breaths. It's a horrible sound, but it's not so bad as how broken and hollow his voice is now. "Adda ... Adda ... my love ... Adda ... I'm so sorry ... I can't find her ..." He doesn't even recognise me, I know he's seeing my mother now, I never got to see her even but he described her so well for me whenever I asked him that I could picture her sure as she must have been in my mind. I know I look like her, a little rougher round the edges maybe, none of her ladylike grace, and his northern blood paled her rich dark southern skin some in me, but he reminded me often enough what a likeness I still bear. So I just smile down at him as best I can because this hurts so fucking bad, I want him to go out remembering her love as much as he knows my own.