Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [80]
But smoke was rising, from the mouths of cannon beneath me, and from the first battleship in the Nyshphalian line. Even as I watched, I saw that ship list and begin to slide sideways and down. Its masts crashed to the decks, the great canvas sails torn and blackened. I saw the flames lick up, ugly and orange as the hull caught fire. And there, at the heart of war, I saw men go spinning over the dying ship’s rails, screaming to their deaths.
From behind, I was struck and knocked flat on the ledge with someone on top of me. It was Bryce, snarling.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WRATH
I’d not heard the door to the pyramid open behind me, but Bryce had come through, had knocked me down. And now he grabbed my head from above, smashed me chin first into the gritty stone of the ledge. My lips tore; a tooth chipped.
“I’ll kill you,” he growled. “Kill you with my hands!”
A hard knee pressed like a brick into the small of my back. My head was slammed forward again and I just managed to turn my face to save my nose, feeling instead a brilliant lance of pain that exploded in my cheek as it split over the bone. I tasted blood from my mangled lips.
The pyramid’s cannons boomed a second time—in a wall of thunder. The ledge shook but I couldn’t see, didn’t know if another Nyshphalian galleon had been hit.
Blind fury rolled over me. I shoved myself up by my hands, lifting Bryce off the ground as I thrust to my knees. His boots rang on stone as he caught his weight on his legs. He snapped an arm around my neck, noosed it tight. I locked hands together in front of me and smashed them like a mallet back into his face. Twice I hit him. Heavy blows. He only snarled, lowered his head, wrapped his other arm about my throat in a stranglehold.
Choking for breath, I got my feet under me, stood. I was taller than he. He tried to hang on but I threw myself backward into the iron balustrade that curved the outside length of the ledge. The blow jarred us both. I felt Bryce’s arms loosen and reached up, grabbing his wrists. I tore him free as I jackknifed forward and flung him over my head. He crashed heavily down upon the ledge.
Rushing forward, I tried to stomp him, but he spun on his back and lashed a kick into my thigh. His face was a rictus with blood, the lips drawn back in a feral snarl. His kick slowed me and he rolled away to come to his feet in a crouch.
Again I rushed. He didn’t wait for it but launched himself into me, head low. I was ready and swayed aside, like a matador with a bull, then smashed downward with the heel of my hand to catch him on the jaw. He went down and I kicked at his side. He caught my boot at the ankle and shoved me away, then flipped backward to his hands and from there to his feet.
He dropped to a fighting stance, the milkstones pulsing in his throat and his hellish eyes casting red shadows on his pale cheeks. But I charged into him again, too enraged to fence with fists and feet, wanting to get my hands on him. He was as full of wrath as I.
We came together, swinging, fighting in primal silence except for grunts of effort. Bryce slashed a fist into my side, above a place where I’d been cut. The wound opened but I felt no pain, only the blood running. I swung at his chin but the blow bounced off his shoulder. He was ducking, weaving as he worked his fists against me. I tried to head-butt him and could find no opening. He hit me again in the same side. Again and again. Triphammer blows. Now it did hurt.
I shoved him off me. He spun off his left heel and snapped a kick at my face. I blocked with an elbow, chopped down with my other hand into the muscle of his thigh. That muscle spasmed and when I pushed him away, he fell.
I kicked him brutally in the ribs and heard him grunt, but his reaction time was phenomenal. He twisted like an eel onto his side, bringing his legs