Chapter 3 Samson #2
As if on cue, pain cracked up his shoulder.
Samson wrestled back a gasp, gritting his teeth so hard he felt ash grind between his molars.
It had started after he had summoned the flames.
Like always. The pain was as loyal to him as his inferno, and the dichotomy of both almost made him laugh.
Even now, it slithered down his shoulder, inched up his neck.
He blinked quickly as the Jantari approached.
“It’s fine,” he said.
The Jantari general was a stout man with a face meaner than a blade’s edge.
From his thin cheekbones to his angled chin, he reminded Samson of Jantari steel.
Pale, wicked, crude. Though he had not been subjected to metal transformation like other soldiers, the man reeked of metal.
Samson could smell the oil, the tangy bite beneath. He could never forget the smell.
The general’s lip curled as Samson offered his hand. He made no move to take it. “Sesharian.”
“Jantari.” Samson smiled, folding his hand behind him. Four Jantari soldiers formed a half ring around them, their zeemirs gleaming. “A pleasure.”
“There’s been a change of plans. Dismiss your commander and let us talk between each other.”
Chandi started, but Samson stayed her, his eyes never leaving the general. “That would make it five to one. That’s hardly fair.”
“Let me revise: Dismiss your commander, or else I’ll start shooting hostages.”
Samson scowled. He was suddenly grateful that Elena was not within hearing; otherwise the general would not be standing now, and negotiations would have gone to shit. “You’d lose your leverage, then.”
“I have thousands. Tick tock.”
Samson rolled back his shoulders, sighing. “Go on, Chandi.”
“Blue Star—”
“Go.”
With a huff, Chandi relented. The general nodded, his eyes cool and triumphant, and Samson bit back a smile. Let him have a small victory, if only to give him a false sense of security. They hardly knew what was in store.
“Search him.”
Two soldiers stepped forward. They frisked him, their hands harsh and coarse. When one touched the urumi looped around his waist, Samson winked.
“Careful, you might cut yourself,” he said.
The soldier warily unlooped the blade and held it out in front of him as if it were a live bomb.
The general frowned. “You were supposed to come unarmed.”
“I am, now. I give my weapon, my pride and joy, to you.”
“Pride and joy of a Sesharian beggar,” the general spat. He took the blade as the soldiers stepped back.
“He’s clear, sir.”
“See, Edmund,” Samson said, reading the tag on the general’s chest. “I’m true to my word.”
With a flick of his wrist, the general snapped the blade open. It cut Samson across the cheek. A soldier drove the butt of his zeemir into Samson’s side and he gasped, doubling over in pain. There came a shout from behind, from Chandi, but Samson held out his hand.
He wheezed and peered up at the general with a bloody grin. “Well, at least we’re on a first-name basis.”
Edmund said nothing as the soldiers propped Samson up. Gingerly, Samson touched his cheek. Pain shot up his cheekbone, into his eye. Samson winced.
“You betrayed our king,” Edmund said, his mouth screwed up in distaste. “He was going to make you a Ravani king, and you slapped the hand that raised you.”
“If I remember correctly, your king betrayed me. Partnering with the Arohassin to murder the royal family? Killing my soldiers on the wall? He never told me about that.” Samson nodded toward the north, toward Rani.
“I hear now that your lot is in a stalemate with the Arohassin in the capital. Funny, how in the end, they betrayed you too.”
“Our reinforcements will be here soon,” Edmund said, his voice flat. “We’ve taken down your blackwings. Your men are outnumbered. Save us all the time, and surrender.”
“Quite the threat.” Samson grimaced. He wiped off the blood from his fingers and met the general’s gaze. “But it’s utterly unconvincing.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
Samson cocked his head. “Are you sure?”
Edmund narrowed his eyes as he gripped the urumi’s hilt. “Make a decision.”
“I already have,” Samson answered. He stepped back and nodded up toward the sky. “Tell me, when exactly did you send for the reinforcements?”
At this, the general frowned. “What?”
Samson searched the empty sky. “A little bird tells me no reinforcements are coming.”
“You’re bluffing,” Edmund said, but before he could say anything else, a rumble echoed through the canyons. They all looked up as a blackwing streaked in from the south. It wheeled around twice, and Samson smiled at the code.
“You see, the bird tells me that no messages have gone out in the past three hours. In fact, they’ve all been intercepted, rerouted back to you.”
“Major—” Edmund turned to the man on his left, but he was cut short as loud snaps thundered through the city. One by one, the lights went out. The orb above them fizzled and died. The street plunged into darkness, and the soldiers let out little yelps.
“Hold,” Edmund cried, but then he stilled. So did his soldiers. They heard it then.
The soft hiss.
It came from everywhere. From the city center to the Black Scale front line. The fire had been creeping around them for some time, low and quiet, embers waiting to rise. Slowly, the hiss grew louder until it seemed to vibrate from the air itself. Tiny flickering flames edged Samson’s vision.
Elena had held to her promise. She had coaxed the fire, guided it as far as he had asked.
And what had she asked of him?
No more civilian deaths.
“I suggest you surrender, now, before you force my hand,” he said.
“Are you mad?” Edmund snapped. “You’ll burn us all down.”
“Not us, just you,” Samson replied.
And before Edmund could respond, Samson leapt forward, quick as a snake, and grabbed the urumi from his hand.
With a flick of his wrist, the weapon ionized.
The Jantari shouted, some reaching for their zeemirs, others for their guns.
He whipped around, slicing two of the soldiers across their chests.
Blood sprayed, hot. Fetid. Edmund backpedaled as the others scrambled for their triggers, but Samson was all momentum, a typhoon.
He slashed down, cutting one soldier diagonally from neck to waist. He toppled in half. Samson whirled, blade singing—
“Kill the hostages!” Edmund howled as he ran for the barricade. “Kill the Rav—”
Red and blue flames burst forth, blocking his path, surrounding them. Edmund wheeled around just as Samson knocked the zeemir from the remaining soldier’s hands.
“Tell. Me. Edmund,” Samson said, each word punctuated as he rammed the hilt of his urumi against the soldier’s head. The man wobbled, sank to his knees. Slowly, Samson gripped his chin from behind. “Do you know the smell of burning flesh?”
He whipped his urumi with a sharp crack, and the blue flames leapt.
They swept past Edmund and jumped onto the soldier, biting and tearing, cutting his bloodcurdling screams short.
Still, Samson held up the sagging body as the scent of burning flesh became unbearable and the soldier became a blackened, broken husk of a thing.
Edmund gagged, vomited. “Devil,” he cried. “Butcher.”
Finally, Samson let go. The corpse toppled as he bent down and slowly wiped his hands on the white flag. Then, carefully, he folded it. Held out the peace offering, its surface marred with blood, and smiled at Edmund.
“I think it’s time for you to surrender.”