Dies the Fire by S. M. Stirling

mask. There were three strips of steel that came to a point just below his nose, and it gave him a bird-of-prey look; the grin beneath it did too, and the nodding plume of raven feathers. He took up the shield, sliding his arm through the loops, and drew the long double-edged sword. It glittered in the firelight as he twitched it back and forth easily, making the whisssht sound of cloven air.
    Marquez, his numbers man, leaned aside and hissed in Emiliano’s ear: “This hijo is crazy! Four on one?”
    â€œShut up,” Emiliano murmured back. “We’ll see how crazy right now.”
    Arminger smiled yet more broadly at the low murmur of understanding and rustle of interest that went along the tables.
    â€œYou men,” he said loudly, addressing the prisoners. His sword pointed to a trash can. “There are weapons in there. Take them and try and kill me. If you win, you go free.”
    â€œYou expect us to believe that?” the black soldier said.
    Arminger’s grin was sardonic. “I expect you to believe I’ll have you doused in gasoline and set on fire if you don’t fight,” he said. “And you get a chance to kill me. Don’t you want to?”
    â€œ Shit yes,” the soldier replied; he walked over to the garbage container and pulled out a machete in each hand. The others armed themselves as well—an ax, a baseball bat, another machete. The watchers stirred and rustled as the armed prisoners circled to surround the figure in the rippling, glittering mail.
    Then things moved very quickly. The black soldier started to attack, and Arminger met him halfway. There was a crack as one machete glanced off the shield, and a slithering clang as the other hit the sword and slid down it to be caught on the guard. And another crack, meatier and wetter-sounding, as Arminger smashed his metal-clad head into the black man’s face.
    The big soldier staggered backward, his nose red ruin. Arminger’s sword looped down as he turned, taking the soldier behind a knee and drawing the edge in a slicing cut. The scream of pain matched Arminger’s shout as he lunged, the point punching out in a stab that left three inches of steel showing out a policeman’s lower back. In the same motion the shield punched, hitting the other cop on the jaw and shattering it.
    That left the smaller soldier an opening. He jumped in and slashed, and the edge raked across Arminger’s back from left shoulder to right hip.
    Sparks flew; Emiliano thought he heard a couple of the steel rings break with musical popping sounds. And Arminger staggered, thrown forward by the blow.
    That didn’t stop him whirling, striking with the edge of the shield. It hit the soldier’s wrist with a crackle of breaking bone, and the machete went flying with a clatter and clang on the hardwood floor. He shrieked in pain, clutching at his right forearm with his left hand, then screamed briefly again in fear as Arminger’s sword came down in a blurring-bright arc.
    That ended in a hard thump at the junction of shoulder and neck. The scream broke off as if a switch had been thrown; the sword blade sliced through the neck and into the breastbone, and the killer had to brace a foot on the body to wrench it free. Then he made sure of the others—the big soldier was trying to crawl away when the point went through his kidney—and scared-looking men and women came out with wheelbarrows to take the bodies, and mops and towels and squeegees to deal with the mess. Another of the pretty girls in lingerie sprayed an aerosol scent to cover the smells.
    Every eye fixed on Arminger as he turned, shield and sword raised.
    â€œGentlemen, power no longer grows out of the muzzle of a gun. It grows from this .”
    He thrust his sword skyward. The blood on it glistened red-black in the light of the candles and lanterns. The armored men around the walls cheered, beating their weapons or their fists on their