Gesturing with his finger for Sylvie to go back up, Rustam dropped to his knees, peering out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t do otherwise. Not after he’d promised himself not to let fear rule him. Perhaps there had been an accident and someone needed help, or a short circuit had occurred and the partition had collapsed on a technician.
It was all a self-delusion to boost his courage.
Blood splashed near the door, hiding the floor. It sprayed from two infantrymen, hacked to shreds. The slash wounds had opened their arteries, but both had died from decapitating strikes to their necks. The light illuminated a head rolling around the bend. A powerful slash had split the woman’s helmet all the way to the nose, and her glassy eyes stared at the terrified boy.
A torrent of liquid and wet intestines crashed on the dead woman, burying her with a squelching sound in the wet coils that formed. Above her, Butylin hung, pinned to the wall by his own rifle. An unknown force had torn his weapon from him, driving it halfway into the sergeant’s chest. Like his comrades, Butylin’s limbs were disfigured by the open, gaping mouths of inflicted wounds. The walls of the corridor were covered in black marks that smelled of smoke.
Notice the angle of the cut. Rustam told himself, stunned by the monstrous sight. The armor plates aren’t shattered. They’re split, meaning they were penetrated by a single blow. The smell, the marks, the stench, and the protruding entrails—all indicate that the ambush had occurred recently. Where did the noise come from then? With a trembling hand, he raised a finger to his mouth, biting the skin to shake off the numbness.
The flickering lamps answered his question. Down the corridor lay a crackling mace. A limp foot rested above it, almost touching its sharp spikes. Ney, his helmet torn from his head, was hoisted upward by a black hand clutching his gorget. The attacker stood with his back to the door.
Oily, black ribbons radiated from the figure in a tight dark suit, drifting through the air, penetrating the base of the lamps, and seeming to strangle the light. They overlapped the assassin’s boots, burrowed under the soles, flowed into the open ventilation shaft, and entered the knight’s nostrils and mouth.
“You’ll do,” the assassin said. “You’ll be fine as a distraction while I sabotage the engine compartment.” The tall man’s finger tapped the hilt of the scimitar at his belt. “Boy? Come closer.”
The grip broke, and Ney landed, raising a splash of red. He bent, picking up the mace, and took the first, hesitant step toward Rustam. His expression hardened, his free hand clenched into a fist, and he took a second, normal step, closing the distance. The assassin slid further into the corridor, not splashing liquid underfoot.
“Passenger! To me, this instant,” Ney ordered.
This was enough to send the boy into a panicked flight. Ney spoke incorrectly. His words made sense; he enunciated every letter clearly, but his serious intonation conveyed the wrongness. He acted not like the person Rustam knew but rather like something disguised as a human being, mimicking his behavior to lure victims into a trap.
Suddenly, the flight of stairs seemed unbearably long. The boy’s heart pounded in his chest, almost as loud as the thud of armored footsteps behind him. He leaped onto the first landing, cursed when he saw Sylvie standing above him, and grabbed her, dragging the girl along with him, trying to ignore his knees shaking with pain and fear.
“I heard a voice…”
“Ney’s changed! Don’t go near him under any circumstances; there are corpses there!” Rustam interrupted Sylvie’s question, pressing the panic button Ruda had given him.
She nodded, hugging him instead of asking questions, and pulled him up. The stairs shook beneath him. Together, they leaped forward, landing on the platform above, and then Ney burst through the steps in a shower of dust and the groan of bending beams. The mace struck, collapsing the platform’s part beneath Rustam’s feet as he pushed Sylvie forward. A metal-gloved hand reached out after them, tearing down the railing.
Fire slid across Rustam’s cheek, but he forced himself to keep going, feeling something slap his shoulder and moisture trickling down his collar.
“Halt!”
Ney crashed into the wall behind the teenagers, sending cracks spreading across it. He paused; Rustam didn’t know why, but he knew for sure that he and Sylvie couldn’t escape this. Gathering his courage, he shoved the girl in the back, turning to try to stop his maddened friend. Ney stepped onto the next flight of stairs, raising his mace above his head, neither mocking nor demanding anything. The knight intended to kill him with a single swing.
Stone chips rained on the stunned Rustam, and the mace met its twin, missing him. Sylvie dragged him down the stairs, elbowing him hard in the back of the head and cursing him with a string of the foulest obscenities.
Ruda leaped from above, swinging over the railing onto the stairs below and blocking the fatal blow. The engines of both Crusaders’ armor roared, echoing the soldiers’ efforts to sweep the enemy out of the way.
“What’s the matter?” Ruda growled, barely keeping the spikes from her face.
“That bastard is a traitor!” Ney spat spittle in her face. “I caught him sending a signal to his buddies. Why do you think we kept running into obstacles during our retreat? They knew everything!”
“He’s lying!” Sylvie screamed.
“Ney... he’s not himself,” Rustam whispered. He touched his face, realizing that a severed piece of his skin had peeled away from his cheek and was reaching his shoulder, hurting like a son of a bitch. Blood stained his fingers red, and the exposed flesh burned brightly, bringing tears to his eyes.
Ruda glanced at the ruined staircase and the bloody footprints.
“Where did the blood come from?” she asked.
“Not sure,” Ney lied. “It doesn’t matter now. Join me and let’s punish him.”
A rapid shove pushed him back. Ney roared, attacking Ruda with sweeping blows that tore down railings and dented the wall. His opponent blocked the relentless assault, slightly tilting her head, and delivered an unexpected kick, landing a hoof on the possessed man’s outstretched foot. The crunch of breaking bones and the hiss of torn parts echoed. Breathing heavily, Ney took a step back, limping on his right leg.
“Who are you?” Ruda demanded. “Ney would never fall for such a cheap trick.”
“I have no idea... what you mean.” The knight leaned forward. “You betray all our vows by condoning...”
“Don’t you dare use his voice.”
Ney straightened up, thrusting his cannon forward. Rustam wanted to shout a warning, but his cry hadn’t even left his throat when Ruda was already at his opponent’s feet, elbowing aside the hand holding the firearm. The shot tore a hole in the wall. With a screeching sound, the blow continued across Ney’s arm, driving his nose deep into his unprotected skull. He tried to stand, and she followed up with a headbutt. Rustam couldn’t even follow her movements; the crusader seemed to be in three places at once.
Her mace pierced his pauldron with a squelching sound, pulling out torn muscle. A low swing lifted the opponent, bending his breastplate. Ney’s arm jerked, breaking at the wrist and dropping the mace. The next swing smashed his fingers, tearing the cannon from his hand, breaking two fingers. Three swift kicks twisted the knight’s leg backward, knocking him facedown. A blow to the head with the hilt stopped his attempts to rise.
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“Don’t!” Rustam leaped forward, determined to prevent Ney’s death.
It was a desperate, reckless move. He had learned from personal experience how powerfully bloodthirstiness ruled their defender. But he believed in her. Landing on the prostrate body, Rustam grabbed the unconscious man by the neck with both arms and cringed, worried that he might not have been noticed and now no one would know about the presence of the killer in black.
The spikes did not pierce his back.
“Don’t rush into the fight, idiot... You’re wounded!” Ruda exclaimed, lifting him by the scruff of his neck.
“He’s just crazy!” Sylvie screamed.
“No, Ney hasn’t gone crazy...”
“I was talking about you!”
“Doesn’t matter! My scratch is irrelevant.” Rustam reached for the dangling part of his cheek, intending to bravely tear it off, and burst into tears of pain. Ruda sat him up, took out some bandages, and sprayed the wound with something stinging. “There’s a stranger on board! He murdered the soldiers and controlled Ney! It’s not his fault.”
Stuttering, Rustam recounted everything he’d seen, including the stranger’s lack of sound and the strange ribbons floating around him.
“So that’s why he didn’t name names and used crushing movements instead of more effective lunges.” Ruda exhaled, tugging at her braid. “I mistook him for someone capable of shapeshifting. Rustam, you saved me from committing an unforgivable mistake. Sylvie, can you handle it? I’ll call security and deal with the bastard who took advantage of my husband.”
“First, I’ll treat his wounds, and then beat him for his stupidity!” Sylvie wiped her wet nose, picking up the first-aid kit. She pointed at the second wounded man. “What about Ney?”
Ruda pulled Ney aside, carefully turning his head to avoid the risk of choking. With a crunch, she returned his leg to its original position, injecting the contents of the black vial into his neck. The knight twitched weakly and collapsed, breathing through broken teeth.
“A power-blocking drug,” she explained. “Ney doesn’t have superpowers, but it’ll sever the connection between him and his controller. Keep your distance from him until the soldiers arrive. The life support systems will keep him alive until they arrive…”
Red light flooded the stairs, and the blare of sirens brought Ruda to her feet. She glanced at the children, at Ney; a pained expression crossed her face, and then, without hesitation, she jumped down, putting on her helmet and rushing into the blood-soaked corridor.
We’ll be fine. Rustam promised her. “Get that bitch, Ruda.”
“Another attack. Why won’t they just let us escape? As soon as it starts shaking, grab onto Ney. His weight will keep us from falling,” Sylvie ordered, bandaging his chin.
“Everything will be fine, Sylvie.”
“Of course it will be! Our friends will protect us.”
****
The Shroud of Darkness advanced westward along a forked road, rising to an altitude of three point eight kilometers, frequently scouring the ridge’s slope with its force screen. Below, a wider path was visible in the valley between two six-kilometer-high ridges, with numerous narrow branches to the north.
Szarel personally witnessed the wisdom of Mikhas’s chosen route. Their sensors constantly detected the heat signatures of raiders positioned below, ready to cause avalanches to detain the Crusaders. Such activity confirmed the darkest predictions. Paikan crossed the bastion unhindered. Although Carde and Mikhas both blamed Itil for this, citing her betrayal, the magister refused to order the agents to root out the rogue element. His personal conversation with Itil and Jake’s assurances convinced Szarel that the surprise had occurred for another reason.
The situation was further compounded by the incoming news. Having finally reestablished contact, the magister requested immediate reinforcements and learned of a massive troop movement north. The reports were full of conflicting information, but one thing remained constant. Chosen Prince had returned, engaging Lord Steward at the same time as a terrorist group was wreaking havoc in the north. Iterna’s space forces intervened, ensuring eventual victory, and subsequently, by decision of General Dominator, the nearest section of the border was deprived of mobile units capable of providing support. Command dispatched a heavy task force to meet the fugitives, but they would arrive too late.
All his decisions and disregard for Chernogor’s advice risked bringing disaster upon the Order, further weakening the Land of the Oath, and spelling doom to the rescued captives. But he entrusted the verdict on his qualifications to a military tribunal, and until then, Szarel intended to protect the weak to the end.
The flask behind his neck released an elixir into his bloodstream, instantly slowing the opening doors of the observation platform to a crawl, giving him the full experience. The air gently caressed his skin, his heartbeat came like the most pleasant music, and the sound of the components made him want to lie down and sleep, listening to this symphony of an incomparable orchestra. Szarel climbed alone to the eastern side of the cruiser, hearing the hatch close behind him. Large-caliber guns extended from the hull, aiming at the approaching pursuer. The tyrant and his minions no longer bothered with concealment, brazenly announcing their approach with thunderous noise and heat emissions. They wanted their presence to be known.
Szarel greeted them, intent on exacting vengeance.
Heat sufficient to vaporize a man in a protective suit washed over the emerging protective cocoon around the magister. Batteries around him began to roar, unleashing catastrophic fury on the prow of the Old World-forged behemoth emerging from around the bend. The mountainside melted, rolling down in a scorching wave; artillery shells ricocheted off the screens, piercing hundreds of tunnels in the rock. Black smoke, mixed with the steam of evaporating small-caliber rounds, appeared behind the hovering pyramid.
Counter-battery fire tore through this storm front, lancing the Shroud of Darkness’s protective shield with hundreds of laser beams, searing it with plasma balls, and pounding it with heavy shells. The captain had once again proven correct in his assumptions, and Szarel’s eyes failed to notice the missiles that had so vexed them last time. The champion of the New World and the twisted wonder of the Old World clashed, enveloping each other in shrouds of black and orange in a battle hitherto unseen in Volnitsa or its immediate vicinity.
Szarel extended forward a staff with a sword-shaped top.
“I will fear neither machine nor man, forever serving as the righteous sword of the downtrodden, the oppressed, and the abused. My power I will wield for the betterment of civilization, helping to plant the seeds of prosperity that only future generations will see. By my own decision, I became a servant of the Oathtakers, and I have never regretted it. Magisters of the past, fallen brothers and sisters of the Onyx Order, bear witness to my oath. Szarel el-Farah will not run nor hide,” he said. “Come.”
The shield section to his left collapsed for a nanosecond. A telekinetic shroud swept aside the streams of plasma that had penetrated, but Szarel’s heightened perception spotted a human body spinning, curled in a ball position. The magister deliberately left the boarder untouched as he rolled up the pyramid’s slope.
With a loud roar of torn metal and ruptured fasteners, the plasma emitter at the top of the cruiser was ripped from its compartment. The cables trailing behind the turret resembled twitching veins, and the electrical sparks were drops of blood. Paikan hoisted the twenty-ton debris above him, his cloak burning, disintegrating into ash, the dark plates of his armor melted, but the overlord laughed, enjoying himself.
— Paikan. You are guilty of slavery, murder, oppression, drug use, and mutilation of minors...
The mound of metal flew at the magister. Concentrating his will to create a razor-sharp vertical line, Szarel split the emitter in two and hurled the pieces away with invisible tendrils.
“It seems you didn’t listen to my words about a flapping tongue,” Paikan laughed, descending.
“...extortion, violence, drug trafficking, instigating wars...” Szarel continued.
The overlord held out his hand. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing, but spare me your hypocritical statements. Starting wars? You invaded Volnitsa. Oppression? How many lands have your rulers annexed through dishonorable means, hmm? Drugs? You use them in war. Mutilation? Don’t tell me no child has ever suffered from the Order’s fanaticism. Everything you accuse me of applies to you. You’re trying to play the saint, when inside we’re both beasts, devouring the weak and competing for our ideals. Our conflict will not be resolved by anything other than violence.” Paikan slapped his chest. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“I didn’t ask how you pleaded.” Szarel spun his staff in his hands, drawing a line with its sharp tip. “Before we’re finished, you’ll bleed.”
“That’s better. To hell with polemics. We’re on the same page now, Magister!”
A black line raced toward Szarel. At first glance, it seemed as if Paikan had transformed into a straight beam aimed straight at his chest, but the elixir allowed the magister to discern his opponent’s movements. The line transformed into a zigzag, closing the distance with incredible speed. Craters were formed by the tread of incredibly powerful legs, causing the cruiser’s hull to tremble.
Telekinesis lashed out at Paikan’s right eye socket, unleashing enough pressure on the eyeball to turn a skyscraper into a pancake. The wet orb was forced back into the socket, the pupil twitching, adjusting to the pressure, and spilled out, pierced by the conjured spear. A second invisible hammer didn’t have an opportunity to strike his left eye. Paikan turned his head to the side, and the blow caught him on the cheekbone. His hands grasping the pistol at his belt, and a stream of black particles headed toward Szarel, while the impact hurled the overlord back, rolling him down the slope of the pyramid until he finally came to a stop, kneeling.
Szarel’s barriers evaporated one by one, unable to stop the approaching antimatter. He moved himself out of the beam’s path with telekinesis, hearing a monstrous explosion behind him as a bolt of dark energy pierced the cruiser’s shield, blasting a hole the size of a mobile fortress in the mountain. The telekinetic blade sliced ??through the emitter in his opponent’s hand.
Paikan’s shattered eye trickled down his cheek with blood.
“Insufficient,” Szarel said. “Kneeling once, and these drops of blood will not assuage the grief of all those you have slain. Punishment for your crimes will be meted out today.”
