10th July, early evening; New old acquaintances

Mayden was last seen here.



Christ but it was hot. Even with twilight drawing on, it was bloody hot. It was a complete opposite to the last time he'd been in Spain. Then, it had been snowing and freezing cold. Now Mayden was almost tempted to wish for that miserable weather back, as a relief to this soul-draining heat.

He sucked greedily at his half-empty canteen, glad at least he'd struck upon a loose friendship with one of the sutlers. It was worth taking on a bit of fetching and carrying at the sutler's whim, as it meant unrestricted access to the man's casks of water.

Feeling mildly refreshed, Mayden propped himself against the side of a parked wagon and swept a grubby sleeve across his forehead. At least, he told himself, he had the luxury of choosing a comfortable place to sleep tonight. Somewhere that wasn't a rocky, sun-baked patch of earth.

Boots crunched over the hard ground from behind him, signalling someone's approach. "The devil you been all the day, Jack?" Mayden asked without looking, busy as he was taking the ever-so-slightly wasteful step of sprinkling some water over his upturned face in an attempt to cool it.

It was not the cove with the knife -- Jack, was it, now? -- but no matter. His mate would suit Sykes' purpose just fine. Without slowing his pace, he aimed a kick at the rifleman's head.

That there was no verbal response to his greeting should have been a warning of impending trouble, but the hard sole of a shoe colliding with the side of his head gave him little time to process the danger.

His canteen tumbled from his hand to slop its remaining contents onto the parched ground. Mayden himself hit the dirt equally hard, quite firmly knocked mostly onto his front by the unexpected kick. "What in the f - " he began, his ears ringing mightily.

The man had hardly hit the ground before Sykes struck again, this time for his back, just beneath the ribs.

Get up. That quickly became the foremost thought in Mayden's mind, even as another kick slammed hard against his back and prompted a curse.

Despite the flare of pain in both his back and head, Mayden shoved at the ground with his elbows, trying to get himself levered up enough to get his legs beneath him.

As the Greenjacket started to lift himself, Sykes hooked another kick under him. If he could get the man onto his back, this could be over quickly, and comparatively cleanly. For himself at least.

His stomach clenched, hard, and he thought sure he was about to vomit. Fortunately, he only retched, then swore with feeling. The kick had knocked him flat again, taking the wind momentarily out of him.

Get up, though. He had to get up. Good luck with that, with this unknown bastard having a go at him. Mayden rolled partially onto his side and grabbed blindly for his assailant's feet.

With a curse, Sykes yanked his leg back and aimed another blow at the Greenjacket's face, though with less force than he would have liked.

His tactic had been partly successful. He'd put his attacker off-balance. Sort of. The man was still able to lash out freely at him and Mayden's eyes watered in an instant when the kick flattened his nose.

Get up. But how was he supposed to do that when every attempt he made to do just that was answered with a damned strong kick? Mayden sucked in a breath and in a sudden, sharp movement half-rolled, half-scuttled toward his assailant and grabbed for the man's trousers. He'd either knock the bastard down or use him as leverage to get to his feet.

Shit. Sykes barely had time to think it before he hit the ground, lashing out blindly with both feet. He wrenched himself sideways, grunting as the slash across his ribs made itself known, and tried to roll to his feet. He should have been ready for that, damnit!

That had been more successful than he'd expected. Despite the continued ringing in his head from the opening blow, Mayden had enough wits about him to recognise this opportunity. He started to lurch awkwardly to his knees, just in time to catch the second of the man's flailing feet squarely in the jaw.

Whatever intention he had of getting a bit of his own back was mostly squashed, for his unsteady balance was lost. He flopped hard onto his back, again stunned. Suffering Christ!

With a short, breathless laugh, Sykes dropped onto the man's chest, pinning him as best he could with his knees. "You tell your mate," he hissed, drawing back one arm to deliver a sharp jab to the greenjacket's face, "You tell him I'm onto him. An' you tell him to stay the **** away from the 33rd."

The heavy pressure of knees in his chest made it difficult to breathe. He was only partially successful in blocking the punch aimed at his face, still dazed from the previous kick to the jaw. But the mention of the 33rd got his fighting blood up properly.

Mayden did his best to punch back, though as he was quite well pinned down, his efforts were not terribly effective. It was better, perhaps, to try throwing the man off - a feat hopefully managed by suddenly twisting his body sideways and flinging an elbow up as hard as he could toward the man's stomach.

Well, now, touched a nerve, had he? His hoarse laugh transitioned swiftly into a grunt of pain as the greenjacket's elbow caught him in the gut. Struggling to maintain some hold, as the man's sudden twisting pitched him sideways, Sykes dug one knee into the dirt and threw his weight forward, grabbing for the man's arm and shoulder in an attempt to thrust him once more onto his back.

God damn it. He'd nearly got the bugger onto his heels. Or maybe not, really, but it had been a better result than his previous efforts had yielded. Mayden swatted at the man's face with a closed fist, aware that if he was put onto his back again, he was done for.

"Bleedin' 'uff!" Somebody snarled from above and a great blur of motion crashed solidly into Mayden's assailant. Jack had arrived, delivering a mighty kick as he ran.

Sykes had enough presence of mind to use the momentum to roll clear and to his feet, backing away as he yanked his bayonet from its scabbard. "Been lookin' for you, Jack," he said, breathless, doing his best to ignore the pain which slowly seemed to be consuming the entire left side of his chest. His ribs had only just healed, damnit.

The appearance of the bayonet was invitation enough for Jack. His own blade materialised in his hand and the wicked expression on his face suggested he would not be satisfied until blood was drawn.

"Foun' me then," he said and darted forward, the short-bladed knife in his hand slashing out at a downward angle, from left to right.

Sykes dodged back, just barely avoiding the blade, then launched himself forward into the opening. If he was quick enough, he might be able to pin the rifleman's knife arm between their two bodies, if he wasn't... Clenching his grip on the bayonet, he thrust for the stomach.

The redcoat was quick. Annoyingly so. But so was Jack, even with the use of only one hand. He twisted sharply to the side, managing to avoid most of the thrusting bayonet's edge, but his good arm was caught between him and his opponent.

This was bad and had only one solution. Jack slapped hard at the redcoat's head with his splinted wrist and in the same instant scythed his feet against the man's ankles. Get him down. Get him down and gut him like a fish.

He pulled away instinctively from the smack, but that was a mistake. There was a sudden wrench at his ankles and he went down. But not before grabbing a fistful of the greenjacket's coat.

His goal of knocking the redcoat down was successful. It was also a failure in the same moment. Jack found himself pulled down by a firm grip on his dusty coat. This wasn't good. But he still had a grip on his knife and as he fell, he jabbed downward with it, putting as much force behind the strike as he could - which was not much, considering.

Sykes felt the bite of the blade as the impact lent its own force to the greenjacket's thrust, and with sudden desperation drove his bayonet up beneath the rifleman's arm.

The bayonet was in before Jack was even aware the blade was in motion. It was an action he should have expected and been prepared for, but it came as a complete surprise. A stupid, beginner's oversight and one he knew in an instant to be impossible to recover from. Strangely, however, there was no pain beyond the initial flash of agony when the bayonet struck home. Was that bad? Probably.

He tried, with his remaining strength, to force his own blade deeper into the redcoat's shoulder, but his fingers could not seem to grip the knife's hilt firmly enough. His grip on the weapon fell away and despite a slow fumble of effort to keep himself upright, Jack sagged sideways, the long bayonet protruding out from under his arm.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, he thought irritably, and closed his eyes.

"Jesus f--agh!" Sykes groaned, tugging the knife out of his shoulder. The bloody bastard--- Sykes cursed again and levered himself up with his good arm. He retrieved his bayonet, not bothering to clean the blade, and braced himself against the ground once more. He needed to get up. He needed to get out of here.

Throughout the brief fight, Mayden had sensibly remained motionless where he lay. Now, however, he stirred. This outcome was not one he would ever have expected. Not with Jack involved.

"Bastard," he growled, lurching off the ground and swinging awkwardly at the redcoat. One punch, maybe two, and he was going to grab for Jack's knife and do for this bugger himself.