Caine Black Knife by Matthew Woodring Stover Page A

tendons of your knife hand. You twist sharp enough to knock
the groin stab aside, but you feel the tug below your navel and a
sudden flood scalds your crotch and thickens the air with sweet hot
blood. You flick the KA-BAR in a short arc and the blade sticks in
bone; the big one howls and wrenches his arm away into the table and
it collapses and he goes with it. The little one lunges fast as a pro
but your other hand comes out full of Automag and a single squeeze of
burstfire unlaces his belly and blows him spinning backward to crash
into the shack wall.
    The parchment
window rips. Sunlight stabs a curl of gunsmoke.
    A continuous
clang sings in your ears.
    The big one
cowers, kneeling, tears painting crimson streaks along his snout. The
hunchback sits crumpled against the wall, cursing in a low, steady
monotone while he tries to hold his guts in place with both hands. Fuckbitch. You got a gun. A fucking gun. You never say you got a
gun, you fuckbitch.
    You step over to
him, Automag leveled on the big one. Kopav Dust Mirror , you
remind him.
    Fuck my
bitch. I never be shot before. Fucking guns. This kills me, hey?
    Likely.
    You
fuckbitch.
    Want to go
easy? I track that. You squat beside him and show him the
knife. Want to go hard, I can track that too.
    He stares
through you.
    You shrug. Or
lie in your shit and hope a Knight comes. Maybe Khryl grants a
Healing after you tell him how you try to gut me for my boots, hey?
    His eyes drift
shut.
    What you
want?
    It’s
you, hey? You’re Kopav?
    Yah.
    You’re
Kopav ’Jurginget? Kopav Black Knife once?
    His eyes open
again. They’re the same color as yours. Once, he says. In puptime. Before the land hates Black Knives. Long gone now. I’m
Dust Mirror since the Horror. No more Black Knives.
    Your upper lip
curls under and your lower peels down, baring your tusks to the
roots. Except for me.
    His gaze fixes
on you, and there’s a hint of a spark there before a spasm of
pain smudges his face blank. What you want?
    You stand, knife
in one hand, Automag in the other. Submission.
    Huh. His
face goes old now, tired and sad. Just that?
    Yeah.
    Fuck my
bitch. Dint have to shoot me.
    You cock your
head half an inch. Dint have to rush me.
    So—submission. His jaw works. And?
    And you go
easy.
    He stares at you
for a long time. From outside come grunts and distant shouts and
shuffle and scuffle, drawn by the shots. Inside there is only blood
and bowels and the whimper of the bigger one clutching the spurting
gash in his forearm. You can see pain picking up steam by the waves
of emptiness that roll through the hunchback’s eyes.
    Finally he
hisses resignation. Dint have to shoot me.
    You wait.
    He rolls himself
forward off the wall, kneeling, and lowers his face until his
forehead rests on your insteps. You thumb the Automag over to single
shot.
    He says, I
give myself to you—
    You center the
muzzle on the crown of his spinal ridge.
    â€” fuckbitch.
    The slug
splinters a fist-size hole through the floor planks. A wet one. You
track the hunchback’s brains over to the other.
    Ignik? Ignik
Dust Mirror: Tchundiget?
    Uh. He
lifts eyes like bloody eggs. Kill me too, you gonna?
    You twitch the
Automag and point it between your boots.
    Down.
    Whimpering, he
presses his forehead into his sire’s gore. I, I, I give— he’s
snuffling so hard he can barely get the words out— I give
myself to you.
    You drop to one
knee and tuck the Automag back into its holster by your kidney. Ignik
gasps when you grab his wounded arm—bone scrapes together in
there: splintered ulna, maybe. You press the gash your knife left on
his forearm to the shallow rip his fighting claw gouged in your
belly.
    This is my
battle wound. This is your battle wound. Our wounds are one. Our
blood is one.
    His jaw hangs
open like he’s trying to draw flies to the rot on his teeth. I
uh I uh I uh—who are you?
    Use your
fucking feet.