Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [68]
Thanaer just waited. “Are you ready to die yet?”
“One more.” Where the bantha scribble had faded, Janson traced another design. It was a stick figure of a man with a ridiculously tiny circle for a head. “It’s Thanaer ke Sekae!”
Thanaer’s jaw tightened, the only change to his expression Wedge could see through the beard and ridiculous ribbons. Thanaer, all business, lunged.
Janson twisted toward the attack and brought Thanaer’s blade out of line with his own. Thanaer’s forward momentum brought them together, their hilt guards crashing into one another.
Janson brought his right forearm up in a blow that snapped Thanaer’s head back and smashed the man’s nose flat. With his right hand, Janson seized Thanaer’s sword hand and slammed it down across his upraised knee. Thanaer’s sword point hit the floor with a loud blaster pop and the hilt followed, dropping from Thanaer’s nerveless fingers.
Janson gave Thanaer a shove and the Cartann pilot staggered backward, suddenly disarmed and disoriented. Janson brought his boot heel down on the other man’s sword blade, just above the guard. The blade parted with a metallic sound and its point ceased hissing, ceased drawing glowing lines in the air.
Janson smiled at the man. “Your orders are simple.” He switched off the power to Cheriss’s blastsword and tossed the weapon, with feigned negligence, back in the direction he had come from. Wedge caught it out of the air. “I punch. You suffer. Got it?”
Thanaer responded by reaching for his dagger. Janson let him get it into his hand, then spun into a kick that further punished Thanaer’s sword hand and sent the dagger flying. It clattered to the ground near the edge of the crowd and skidded past the feet of the foremost observers.
“Forgot to mention,” Janson said, “on some worlds people fight with their feet, too. Feet, hands, rocks, pure cussed willpower—they’re warriors. You, you’re just a dilettante.” He brought his hands up in a standard unarmed combat pose, left arm and left side leading.
Confused and uncertain, blood streaming from his nose, Thanaer brought up his own hands in an imitation of Janson’s posture.
Janson smiled and waded in.
Wedge struggled to keep a wince from his face. It was a massacre. Janson fired off blows into Thanaer’s midsection. When the Adumari pilot tried to block those shots, Janson concentrated on his ribs, and Wedge could hear occasional cracks as bones gave way under his blows. When Thanaer tried to strike, Janson took the blows on his forearms or shoulders, or, in the case of especially clumsy shots, withdrew a handspan or two and let Thanaer unload his blows into empty air.
And always Janson returned to pounding, to beating, his blows sounding like someone using a hardwood club on a side of hanging bantha meat.
He didn’t hit Thanaer in the face again. Wedge knew this wasn’t mercy, but common sense—jawbones being more likely to break fingers than the other way around.
Thanaer’s final few blows made it clear that he could barely see and wasn’t thinking at all; he lashed out against empty air half a meter to the left of Janson’s position, then stared around, looking randomly for a foe in clear view a meter before him.
“At least you could say you were knocked out by a well-struck blow of the fist,” Janson said. “If I were going to be nice to you, that is.” He held up his open hand, palm toward his opponent, until Thanaer’s bleary gaze fixed on it. Then he stretched his hand full out to his side—and slapped Thanaer, a blow that sounded like the crack of an energy whip.
He drew his hand back again.
But Thanaer’s eyes rolled up in his head as a red mark the approximate shape of Janson’s hand appeared on his cheek, and his knees collapsed under him. He hit the floor with a grunt and his eyes fluttered shut.
Janson waved jauntily at the crowd and returned to Wedge’s side, whistling something Wedge recognized as a Taanabian dancing melody.
Applause broke out in the