The Fighter King

The Start of The Fighter Queen Saga

Sample

The foliage along the stream bank suddenly ended as the farmhouse came into view. A wide lawn stretched from the stream to the back door, and his only cover was to keep his head down and hug the bank nearest the house. He could no longer see the sled, but did hear a dog barking. He moved carefully, deliberately, almost panting with anxiety.

He got past the house, and had just reached the point where the foliage sprang up again when he heard a scream. It was faint, from inside the house, and he froze. He listened, and heard it again, louder. It was blood curdling, and Oliver felt rage well up inside him.

It sounded like Jacquje.

"Jesus!" he whispered. What did he do? What the hell did he do?

He wanted more than anything to keep going, to walk away from here, but somehow he couldn't. Yet he had no weapons. The Sirians had taken his rifle and he didn't even have a pocketknife.

Now the screaming was constant, punctuated by the yelling of angry men. Oliver realized with a start that he heard two women screaming.

He looked around on the stream bank and found a section of tree limb about three feet long and an inch thick. It had been broken off, and was jagged on one end. He snatched it up and peeled the leaves off, gripping it with both hands like a spear. He looked toward the house again, his rage turning to indecision.

He jumped at the sound of a gunshot. God! Someone was being murdered in there! Oliver shrugged off his backpack, picked up his spear and — ducked down again as the back door sprang open. A woman charged out at a dead run, shrieking hysterically. She was about fifty, naked from the waist up, her breasts swinging heavily as she blindly fled the house.

Oliver held his breath as a man charged out right behind her, also at a dead run. He looked about nineteen, his face flushed with anger. He wore a grey uniform.

Oliver flattened against the stream bank as the woman raced helter-skelter in his direction, screaming at the top of her lungs, obviously too distraught to think about where she was going. When she reached the bank, she lost her balance and tumbled head over heels into the dry sand. The soldier saw her fall and never slowed down. He raced to the bank and leaped, intending to land beside her.

Oliver sprang out of hiding and thrust his makeshift spear upward just as the Sirian came down. The two men collided like a pair of asteroids, and Oliver went down into the sand with the Sirian on top of him. Suddenly unable to breathe, he struggled in panic to get free. It took him a moment to realize the other man wasn't moving, and only when he managed to push him off did Oliver realize he was covered with blood. The tree limb protruded from the Sirian's stomach, along with some of his intestines.

Oliver retched, but nothing came up. A few feet away, the woman was struggling to her feet, still screaming in horror. She turned and fled down the middle of the stream, mindless with fear.

Oliver let her go, and she was soon lost to sight around a bend.

He still heard cries from inside the house.

He bent over the Sirian, checked his pulse, found none. Shaking from adrenaline, he spotted a bayonet hanging from the dead man's belt. Without hesitation, he took it, peered toward the house, and crawled out of the streambed.

The dog was barking and lunging against its chain, but Oliver ignored it. The screams were louder now, more insistent – the woman inside sounded desperate, hysterical.

He slipped inside the house, moving carefully, gripping the bayonet. He found a Vegan man lying in a hallway, bleeding from a wound in his chest, probably the husband of one of the women. A few feet farther stood an open doorway to what looked like a bedroom. The screams were coming from inside.

Oliver's fear faded as hatred surged through him. Sliding along the wall, he peered through the doorway.

The second woman was much younger than the first. She was pinned against the bedroom wall, most of her clothing ripped away, fighting for her life. The second man from the gunsled had her by the throat and was driving his fist into her face, trying to subdue her.

OLIVER!!! HELP ME!!!"

His fear forgotten, Oliver stepped through the doorway, bayonet in hand. The soldier’s eyes sprang wide at the sight of him. For one extended second the two men stared at each other, then the Sirian released the woman and his right hand snaked toward his sidearm.

Oliver sprang forward, his pudgy body hitting the taller man like a railsled. They crashed into the wall and rebounded into a dresser. Fragile knick-knacks shattered, porcelain flew. The woman scrambled out of the room as they struggled; the Sirian’s laser pistol was out, but before he could fire Oliver drove the bayonet into his side. Hot blood splashed the floor, but the Sirian wasn’t finished. He cracked Oliver’s skull with the pistol, but couldn’t get the muzzle into position for a kill shot.

Oliver realized he was outmatched – the Sirian was a trained killer, and Oliver wasn’t trained at all. In desperation he stabbed the man a second time, hitting a rib that deflected the blade. Panting and grunting, the two men crashed sideways again, into another piece of furniture. Oliver tried desperately to stab his opponent a third time, but the Sirian got an arm around his neck and spun him around, pushing him backward toward the bed. The pistol cracked against his skull again and stars flashed behind his eyes. The Sirian was forcing him backward now, and his legs hit the edge of the bed; he lost his footing and toppled onto his back.

The Sirian was above him now, panting from exertion and blood loss, murder in his eyes. The pistol swung toward Oliver’s face, but he managed to grab the soldier’s wrist with his left hand, struggling to queer his aim. Unable to overcome Oliver’s grip, the Sirian used his other hand to grab Oliver’s left wrist, and jerked the pistol free. His eyes narrowed with rage as he spoke for the first time.