Free World War IV: Empires by James Hunt

Fullock’s hand, Dean thrust the tip of the sword through Fullock’s stomach, the axe falling to the dirt.
    Blood spurted from Fullock’s mouth, and he gasped for breath. His bloodshot eyes found Dean, his mouth twisted in rage. He slammed his empty right fist into Dean’s cheek and knocked him to the ground.
    Dean spit out a tooth, and his ears rang from the vicious blow. He looked up to see Fullock pulling the blade from his stomach, a bloodcurdling cry bellowing from the depths of his body. The blade exited slowly; inch by inch it retreated, dripping with blood and bits of the chief’s innards. When Fullock finally had the sword out, a spurt of blood followed, and the exertion caused the chief to slump, but he kept hold of the hilt of Dean’s blade.
    Dean eyed Fullock’s battle-axe in the dirt and lunged for it, needing both hands to wield the heavy weapon. His arms and shoulders burned on the swing toward the chief, who blocked the attack with Dean’s blade. Dean pivoted awkwardly with the large axe, trying to leverage the momentum with each swing, but his hands slipped, and the axe missed its target.
    Fullock’s swings with the blade were slower now, his blood and energy draining from him with each movement, but even with the lack of vigor, the warrior chief refused to quit. He shuffled his large feet forward, his thick thighs keeping him off his knees and the rage in his eyes refusing to diminish. “You cannot kill me, Governor! The burned gods will never let my ashes touch the earth!” He sliced the sword down, Dean deflecting the blow with the edge of the axe.
    Dean quickly scooted inside and thrust the end of the axe into the hole where the blade had opened Fullock’s stomach and knocked him off feet, the force of the blow sending Fullock to his back. Dean lifted the axe’s head high above him then brought the heavy blade down and lodged it into the chief’s chest, the crack of bone and slosh of blood ending the motion.
    Fullock convulsed, choking on his own blood and last few breaths of life, while Dean fell backward into the bloodied sand, his body fatigued and aching. His ears could make out the cheers of his men behind him, his mind was too tired to recognize the adoration. All he could concentrate on was breathing and keeping a watchful eye on the grimace-faced Scarver clan that had just watched Dean kill their chief.

 
    ***
    Delun ended the conversation with Rodion swiftly. All he needed to hear was that the capital had been taken and what forces hadn’t been massacred had turned on their tails and retreated to the opposite end of their country. With the Northwest secure, he ordered the ships used to transport Rodion’s men back to the Pacific Islands, despite the general’s protest.
    With the news of Ruiz’s fall in Brazil, Delun knew that he would need every ship in his armada to finish off the Australians before the Americans tried to regroup. While Rodion had taken the capital, the Mars governors still had the might of their navy, which posed the only real threat to Delun’s plans.
    But amidst all of the news, the piece of information that brought a smile to Delun’s face was the fact that another Mars brother had fallen. The merchant who’d waged war with the Australians had met his end on the battlefield of his homelands. With two of the brothers dead, the North American constituents had to start believing that their family of war were not the immortals they had been led to believe.
    Loosening the grip on the Mars family’s hold on that country was a pivotal step in swaying their opinion. Without the confidence of the people, the Marses would lose their power, and powerless men were much easier to defeat in battle.
    “Emperor.” A lieutenant entered, his head bowed low. “The African sultan is here to speak with you.”
    “Show him in.” Delun removed himself from the work of his desk and greeted the smiling tradesman with a bow himself. “Sultan Tobaygu, I thank you for your