Wyvern’s Angel

by Deborah Cooke

  She raised a hand to the panel but he caught her wrist in his grip. “How many tries?” he asked in a low voice.

  She held up three fingers.

  “Do you know previous codes?”

  She whispered two of them to him. “But they’re no good anymore.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re useless. Let me.”

  She stepped aside immediately, which surprised Bond. He laid his hands on the panel and closed his eyes, gathering impressions from the panel. He’d already noticed its manufacturer and taken a rough guess at its vintage. That limited the algorithmic possibilities. He pressed his ear to the panel then tried one key. He listened to the resonance of it within the lock, then repeated that with another. All the while, he was computing possibilities and similarities from the combination Diverta had used and the historical codes she’d shared.

  Lock combinations and passcodes were often developed by the same mind for the same system. He never understood the part of his mind that solved these riddles. It wasn’t magic, but a calculation, one that happened at such lightning speed that he was unaware of the entire process.

  He cleared the test entries he’d made and input one number. It resonated within the lock. He tried a second, smiling when it did the same. The third rang false. He cleared it, tried another and another, then impulsively tried a third, which resonated.

  He needed the fourth key.

  “They’re coming,” Diverta whispered, although Bond couldn’t hear them. He stared at the lock, reviewing the other combinations, seeking the pattern, refusing to be rushed even though he knew time was of the essence.

  He guessed.

  He was wrong.

  Diverta caught her breath, but Bond envisioned the code then, unique and yet consistent.

  He tapped it in and gave her a cocky smile as the locked opened.

  “So, you are that Bond,” she whispered, then beckoned to him.

  Bond froze. She knew his identity? That seemed a bad portent.

  But Diverta was urging him into the shadows, and even he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. She scanned the alley behind them, his laze at the ready. Bond hesitated only for a heartbeat before moving into the darkness.

  He had no better solutions, after all, and he wasn’t at his best.

  Diverta closed the door and they were plunged into blackness together. The air was cold and damp and he shivered. She put a hand upon his shoulder, and he recognized it was a warning. They remained there, silent and still.

  Footsteps ran past the door on the other side, then more footsteps could be heard. Bond didn’t even dare to breathe. He heard the murmur of conversation but couldn’t discern the words. There must have been three of them, because he heard their footsteps leave in different directions.

  Diverta gave him a little push and he stepped in the direction she urged, discovering that there were stairs descending there. He felt the walls, which were smooth and cold. There was a tunnel or narrow hallway before him, one that descending into the dark.

  To where?

  To who?

  His heart clenched but he had no choice but to trust Diverta.

  And use both hands.

  Bond couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t smell anything but water and damp stone. He certainly couldn’t shoot anything with accuracy.

  “Wet down there?” he asked, barely giving voice to the words.

  “Not if we’re lucky,” she replied.

  But his pursuers hadn’t followed them here.

  Yet.

  Bond shoved his laze in his holster and began the descent, aware of Diverta right behind him.

  Convincing Sansor to help was going to be a challenge.

  Percipia tried to plan what she was going to say to convince her friend, but failed completely. She’d just have to hope she could persuade him or awaken his compassion, maybe because their situation was so dire.

  He was her oldest and best friend.

  She just hoped that was good enough to make him an ally.

  It didn’t help that things had been so awkward between them since he’d kissed her and she hadn’t responded with enthusiasm. In fact, she’d resented him trying to change the course of their established friendship.

  It might have been better to have kept that reaction to herself.

  Percipia focused on the task at hand first. It was easy to navigate the corridors used by the merchants to move their goods from the docks to their cellars and shops. The walls were either polished stone or smooth metal, depending on what had been unearthed when the tunnel had been bored. Where there had been stone, it was polished to a gleam. Where there had been earth, metal barrier walls had been installed to hold it back. The network stretched beneath most of Incendium city, a hidden labyrinth that few citizens used and most had probably forgotten about. Thanks to her time with Sansor, Percipia knew it well. Bond didn’t hesitate once she urged him onward and she was glad of his confidence.

  Although she could respect his wariness.

  She’d entered at a side spur of the system, not wanting to make the obvious choice of entering at the port. This meant they had to go back to the main passageway, the broad underground thoroughfare that led from the port to the shops in the highest street. It was easy to tell that they were alone in the small side spur, but they could only reach the apothecary by using the main passage, with its stairs.

  She hoped their pursuers didn’t figure that out.

  They’d have to be pretty stupid not to just wait in the main passageway, though, which was perfectly straight with nowhere to hide.

  At least Bond’s breathing was slowing and his footfalls made less sound. She felt foolish for not considering that he’d been in space for some period of time, and thus would be less accustomed to the pull of gravity.

  They reached the great junction and she pulled him back, easing forward to listen for other footsteps.

  “What is this network for?” Bond whispered.

  “Trade,” Percipia replied, thinking his curiosity was badly timed. Was he trying to get killed? She couldn’t hear a thing, but she had a bad feeling. The main passage was too wide and too straight: the many smaller passages leading from it meant that there were countless openings where someone could lurk. Water flowed in a wide metal-lined channel down the middle of this passageway—to ease transportation up and down the hill—and a pulley system in the roof could be used to haul goods uphill. Usually, Percipia admired the clever solution. On this night, she was annoyed that the trickle of the falling water was loud enough to disguise the sounds of others.

  She decided she was too suspicious, probably due to the influence of the Seed.

  Even if she wasn’t, there was nothing to be gained by waiting, except that doing so would give the assailants more time to figure out where they’d gone.

  Percipia directed Bond to the right and up the broader thoroughfare. The stairs flanked that central canal.

  They had to make it to the third opening on the right, high above their current position.

  Percipia felt a tingle as soon as they stepped into the open and saw with dismay that she was shimmering, on the cusp of change. The light would betray them both!

  Abandoning caution, Percipia broke into a run. She had Bond’s hand fast in hers and pretty much tugged him up the stairs. Once he learned the height of the steps, he gained speed and ran almost beside her.

  “Perfect precision,” he murmured. “Even in stone.”

  “This is Incendium,” Percipia replied quietly, realizing too late how their voices echoed.

  The laze shot fired past them on the left, illuminating the tunnel in a blaze of red light. It only missed them because Percipia seized Bond and hauled him into the opening on the right. They flattened themselves against the wall as the second shot fired and their gazes met in the illumination cast by the blaze.

  At least he wasn’t afraid.

  Maybe he should be.

  “High power,” he said just mouthing the
words.

  Percipia nodded. “They weren’t sure of the distance.”

  “They are now.” She could feel him looking intently at her before he whispered. “Go. Save yourself.”

  She shook her head. “We have a deal.”

  “They won’t hunt you if they have me.”

  His conviction was interesting and again, she was reminded of her idea that he knew who followed him—and probably why. “They won’t get either of us if we stay together.”

  “But...” he began to argue, but Percipia heard footsteps. She seized him and placed her lips against his ear.

  “Next opening on the right,” she whispered, then stepped to the end of the passage. The laze was two-thirds charged and she appreciated that Bond had good equipment.

  She listened, heard the footstep, then stepped into the main passageway and fired.

  She saw the beam hit the one on the right, but couldn’t immediately be sure if it was the man or the woman. The other leaped the central channel, revealing her feminine silhouette, and dragged the fallen man into a side passage, covering the move with a relentless volley of fire.

  Where was the triped?

  Percipia backed into the side alley again. She immediately felt Bond’s hand on her shoulder and gritted her teeth that he hadn’t done as she’d instructed.

  “Go,” he said, and she did, trusting him even in her annoyance. There was a shot that came precariously close and she swore under her breath.

  Then Bond fired back, probably from the same position she’d taken.

  Percipia reached the passage and pivoted in place. She waited, then took a quick look down the main passageway. She could almost discern the woman’s figure far below them. A shot rang out, Bond lunged past Percipia and into the side passage, then she fired in return to cover them.

  The blaze had come too close for comfort, too close for coincidence or good aim.

  “Heat-seeking artillery,” she muttered, knowing why the attacker’s aim was so accurate in the dark. It was illegal on Incendium, because it was so destructive.

  Bond didn’t reply. She inhaled and smelled blood, then reached for him and felt its slick warmth on his arm.

  “Upper arm,” he said tersely. “Not so bad.”

  Percipia swore in Forludian and heard him chuckle.

  “I have one more good shot,” she said, eyeing the charge on the laze. “Don’t go anywhere.” He nodded agreement. She eased back to the opening and listened, trusting her dragon to discern the slightest sound. She waited in complete stillness and finally, she heard it.

  One person pursuing them.

  The woman.

  Percipia waited for the attacker to come closer, gauging the distance from the last seen location and the number of the footfalls. She waited longer than she wanted to, knowing that the stone would amplify every sound. She waited a little longer, then heard Bond catch his breath. She looked down and saw that she was shimmering slightly around her perimeter.

  Of course. The Carrier of the Seed was imperiled.

  And there was no longer any debate about the sanctuary. In the light she cast, she saw the blood flowing over Bond’s fingers. He needed to be healed and Sansor would have to be convinced to do it.

  They had to run, now.

  Percipia stepped into the main passageway, took her stance and fired directly at the heart of the attacker. It was the woman and she wasn’t twenty steps away. The laze blossomed into a brilliant corona of light on impact and the woman fell backward with a cry. Percipia heard the woman’s body hit the stairs and then roll down toward the port, clearly unable to stop herself.

  “Dead?” Bond whispered, and she realized he was right behind her.

  “Close enough,” Percipia replied and he wondered. The laze was smoking and devoid of charge, so she gave it back to him then grabbed his hand. “This way.”

  Three

  There was something to be said for having the help of an insider who was a great marksman, unless, of course, Diverta was saving him for a particular nasty fate of her own devising.

  Bond was almost past caring about the details. Not only was he exhausted, but his shoulder hurt so much that he couldn’t believe mortals endured such pain and survived. The wound burned and it bled. He wanted out of the mortal realm and he wanted out now—but he had to survive almost three more days.

  It seemed like an eternity.

  An impossibility.

  Diverta bound his shoulder with the blue silk in an effort to stop the bleeding—or perhaps to keep him from leaving a trail of blood that anyone could follow—and instructed him to keep pressure on it.

  That hurt even more, but he did what he was told.

  Surrendering the flesh was definitely sounding ideal.

  She led him up the stairs of the central passageway with purpose and he didn’t dare fall back. She wouldn’t be able to carry him and he didn’t want to be a burden. It was bad enough that she’d been in danger because of him. He wished he knew more about her, so he could be certain whether he should trust her or not, but the reality was that he had just about no choice.

  Her argument had proven to be right.

  By accident or design?

  She continued down a side passage, and he was impressed again by how silently she could move. Did she really glimmer or was that a sign that he was losing consciousness? It could have been a side effect from a drug he’d been given, if he’d been given one. Bond couldn’t figure it out. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other instead.

  What would the Host do if he didn’t appear at the rendezvous? Forget him, certainly, as a casualty of battle, as he wouldn’t be the first to fail to return. The problem was that they also wouldn’t have the information to complete his mission.

  The Gloria Furore would have won. That gave new determination to his steps. He had no doubt that they’d find and reclaim the payload secured in the hold of the Archangel and use it for their nefarious purposes.

  They would annihilate at least one system, maybe more.

  It would be his fault.

  That was a legacy Bond refused to leave.

  Outrage gave him the strength to hurry after Diverta, even though he was panting again when she suddenly stopped. He couldn’t see why she’d halted, then discerned the outline of a door in the darkness. Light shone faintly around its edges, doubtless from the other side. He leaned against the wall, relieved that they’re arrived wherever they were going.

  Diverta pointed down the passageway they had just used.

  Bond nodded in understanding and kept watch.

  He also managed to observe her sliding back the protective panel on a keypad and watched her tap in the code without appearing to do so. He committed it to memory, as well as the distinctive rhythm that she quietly tapped on the door.

  The light changed from the other side of the door, fading from golden into a pale silver and then nothing at all.

  Someone had turned out a light source.

  Someone was going to open the door.

  Bond braced himself, even though there wasn’t much he could do to defend himself with two spent lazes.

  A slit opened in the door first. Bond glanced toward the slight sound and saw an eye framed in the opening. There was a mesh over it, some kind of grill to protect it.

  Diverta waved two fingers but said nothing.

  The panel was closed and Bond had time to wonder if her request had been declined. Then the door opened silently and only an increment. Diverta grabbed his sleeve and pushed him into the space, following quickly behind him. He stood in place, willing his vision to adjust to the darkness, braced for assault. He smelled herbs and a meat stew, fresh bread, something sweet, and the tang of mortal flesh in close proximity.

  A curtain was drawn, then the silver light flared.

  Bond spared a glance around himself and recognized that they were in a storeroom. Sacks were stacked on shelves on one wall, and sealed jars lined up on the shelves on the opposite wall. T
he door to the passageway was behind him, now hidden by a thick curtain that swept the floor, and before him were stairs that led upward.

  There was a large man before them, his brow furrowed. He was a handsome man with golden hair and blue eyes, in such excellent condition and of such size that Bond wasn’t certain he’d win against his opponent in a fair fight.

  He pulled his laze, not particularly interested in a fair fight, hoping it had charged a little.

  The other man glowered at him and Bond realized it was the same man he’d passed in the street, the one who had been taking in a sign.

  Were they at the apothecary?

  “No!” Diverta said with quiet urgency. She appealed to the stranger, who must own this place, even as she urged Bond to put the laze away.

  “Sansor, he needs your help. I need your help.”

  Sansor. Bond searched his memory for references and found none. He inhaled again. Were the plants he smelled medicinal? He thought so.

  Was that why she’d brought him here?

  Bond steeled himself, knowing he had little strength left, and stole a peek into this man’s soul.

  It was mostly bright, but there were a few shadows. Were they truly there, or was this the mark of his gifts fading. Bond didn’t know and didn’t like it.

  The giant inhaled and his eyes narrowed. “He’s not one of us,” he said softly.

  “No.” Diverta’s lips thinned, then she stepped close to Sansor, placing her hand upon his shoulder with an intimacy that revealed there was much history between these two.

  Were they friends or lovers? Bond felt a surge of jealousy, which was completely unjustified.

  Diverta whispered in the other man’s ear, and Bond strained to hear her words.

  It sounded like she said he was the Carrier of the Seed, although Bond had no idea what that meant.

  It meant something to Sansor, because his manner changed immediately.

  Maybe it had been a lie to gain the other man’s help.

  Either way, his suspicion was replaced by confidence and resolve. He placed a hand on Bond’s back, urging him to the stairs at the far end of the small chamber. As soon as all three of them were out of the storeroom, he sealed that door behind them and touched a panel on the wall. Golden light suffused the stairs. They climbed up to a room that could have been a kitchen, if not for the array of roots and leaves along one wall. It was austere and white, brightly lit, but warm. Several large mortar and pestles sat on a heavy table, and small pieces of paper were pinned to a line that stretched the length of the room. Something brewed over a fire, the steam making Bond feel revitalized.