by Jay Allan
He felt the kick vanish from his rifle. His clip was empty. He tossed it aside, lunging forward toward the nearest enemy. The soldier had time to fire, to drop Blackhawk before he could close the distance. But he just stared at the oncoming warrior, his eyes wide with shock and fear. He only hesitated for an instant, but against an adversary like Arkarin Blackhawk, that was too long.
Blackhawk shifted his body, avoided the single shot his enemy managed to get off before he slammed into the soldier. Blackhawk felt the impact, and even as the two were falling backwards, his hand lashed out, slammed into his opponent’s chest. He could feel the resistance give way, hear the sickening sounds of breaking bones as he drove the soldier’s sternum into his heart. He saw the man drop his rifle, and before they hit the ground, he knew his enemy was dead.
He reached out, but the rifle had fallen too far away. He twisted to the side, eyes snapping down to the soldier’s body, hand reaching out, grabbing the pistol hanging from the man’s belt. He hopped up onto one knee, whipping his head around, looking for enemies. His hand moved like a blur, the pistol firing once, twice…a third time. Three more enemies down. But there were fresh troops moving in, from around the side of the massive structure.
He leapt up to his feet, his eye catching the glint of metal alongside the slain soldier. A sword. Blackhawk reached down, pulling the blade from its sheath. It felt good in his hand, natural, like an appendage he’d been born with. He’d left his own sidearms back at Lucerne’s headquarters, but these would do for now. He stared toward the wall in front of him, at the line of troopers coming around, moving toward the fight.
He threw himself forward, coming at them from the shadows, too quickly for the lead troopers to react. His blade slashed out, a spray of blood flying through the air. Then again, his eyes focusing for an instant on those of his enemy, seeing the shock as the soldier reached up in a panic, felt the flow of blood from his slashed throat.
He swung around the wall, pistol firing, taking down the first two soldiers in line. Then pain. His leg. He’d been hit, somewhere in the thigh. He gritted his teeth, ignored the wound, firing again…and again. He’d taken down all but three of the enemy soldiers when his comrades swung around the wall and fired, taking down the last of the enemy.
“You’re hit,” Jarvis yelled, as he raced toward Blackhawk. The others were right behind him, Rinn Largon and Elli Marne holding Tig Arhn between them. Arhn was bleeding badly from a wound to his abdomen. Blackhawk’s training told him it was serious, but not mortal. At least not if he got some kind of help.
Which isn’t going to happen.
“I’m alright,” Blackhawk snapped back. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
He moved forward, a wave of pain shooting up his leg. He knew the wound wasn’t dangerous, at least not on its own. The bullet had missed the artery, and it was embedded in the muscle. Not too deep. Given a little time, he could get it out himself. But time was one thing he didn’t have. Not now.
He could feel the weakness in his leg, and he knew he couldn’t run. Not full out. Not without falling.
He staggered forward, flashing a quick look behind as he did. There were more soldiers, just inside the door to the building. They would be out in a few seconds…and his people needed to be away from the lights, out into the cover of darkness.
“Go,” he shouted, his voice harsh, angry. “Run as fast as you can! You have to get away from the lights…and keep moving. It’s your only chance.”
He hobbled forward, gritting his teeth, pushing himself as hard as he could. The pain was bad, but he could handle that. Falling was another matter. That would only slow him down more.
He took another step, struggling to keep his leg from giving out. Then he felt something. A hand on his shoulder, an arm slipping under. It was Jarvis.
“What the hell are you…”
“I’m not leaving you, Blackhawk. Now throw your arm over my shoulder…take some of the weight off that leg.”
Blackhawk was speechless. His first thoughts of the raiders had been to use them as cover for his own escape…and now one of them was trying to save him. Finally, he managed to croak out, “Go, you fool. I’m fine on my own.”
“To hell you are,” Jarvis answered, a strength and firmness in his voice Blackhawk hadn’t heard before. “Now let’s move or we’ll both get killed.”
Blackhawk leaned on his comrade, taking most of the weight off the injured leg. The two of them hobbled away from the lights, out into the darkness of the desert. They were moving slower than Blackhawk could have done uninjured, even than Jarvis could have managed on his own. But they were faster than a wounded Blackhawk, and they slipped past the last of the lights and into the deepening darkness.
Blackhawk turned his head, looking back. There were several dozen enemy soldiers forming up just outside the door…and moving to follow them. Night would be a help, he knew that much. If it had been daylight, they wouldn’t have had a chance. But the desert was a wide open place, and in a matter of minutes the enemy would have airships deployed and multiple platoons searching. His original plan had been to race off into the desert, quickly putting distance behind him until he slipped away. But now he was part of a group of five, two of whom were wounded, crawling slowly away. He kept walking…it wasn’t in his nature to give up. But he knew they didn’t have a chance.
They continued on for another few minutes. The desert was quiet, hardly a sound save their own footsteps and grunting. And something else too. From behind. The enemy, closing on them.
“They’re behind us, Jarvis. It’s time for you to leave Arhn and me and run for your lives.”
“That’s not going to happen, Blackhawk. If they catch us, we fight.” Blackhawk could hear the fear in Jarvis’ voice, but also the firmness. He believed the raider. He wasn’t going to leave Arhn behind…and he wouldn’t abandon Blackhawk either.
“Then we better find a good spot to fight, Jarvis. I figure we’ve got two minutes…and if they catch us in the open, hobbling along, it’s over. Even with the darkness.”
“There is no good spot. It’s all open desert.”
Blackhawk looked around, seeing a lot farther into the gloom with his superior eyes than the raider…but coming to the same conclusion. There were no rocks near them, no major elevation changes. Nothing. Just the dark of night standing between them and a perfect killing zone.
He reached down to his side, where he’d shoved the pistol into his pocket. If he was going down, by Chrono he was going down fighting. He almost told Jarvis to stop, but he kept silent. They might as well push a bit farther, for all the good it would do.
He could see light behind them, the portable lamps of their pursuers. They’re following our tracks. Blackhawk knew a few things about covering his trail, but they were all slow and time-consuming. He’d counted on the dark to give them some cover, but how he knew they were as good as dead. The enemy had picked up their trail…and they were closing.
Another few steps, perhaps twenty. Then the sounds behind, louder now…and the light, moving closer. Now voices, clearer. Shouting, officers yelling commands. Then gunfire, too far away in the dark, wasted shots.
“Here they come, Jarvis.” Blackhawk squeezed his hand around his comrade’s shoulder, a sign of gratitude, of respect. Die well, Jarvis Danith, he thought but didn’t say. Then he pulled away from the raider, turning back toward their pursuers. He could see them, still far back but close enough for his eyes to make them out in the light of their own torches.
Crack. His pistol fired. One shot, and in the distance he saw a shadowy figure fall, a beam of light moving wildly across the sky as the stricken man dropped his lamp. Crack. Another shot…and in the murky light he saw another man fall.
The fire from the enemy soldiers picked up, at least a dozen men firing. Then more, perhaps twenty in total. The shots were still random. Blackhawk and the raiders had killed their own lights, and the mask of darkness hid them. But enough random fire w
as dangerous.
Blackhawk dropped to the ground, on his stomach, pushing forward to dig himself into the sand, gain what little cover he could. He arm was out in front of him, pistol aimed at the enemy. Crack. Again, he saw a falling figure, lit by the cluster of portable lights. They were closer now, and pretty soon…
The light erupted from behind him, bright, a phosphorus grenade. Then another, off to the side. He saw Elli in the light, rushing to the side, back into what remained of the darkness. But Blackhawk knew the damage had been done. In another few seconds the enemy would be close enough. They would take losses…but they would overwhelm the escapees. Blackhawk again felt the temptation to run off into the darkness. He was wounded, slow…but he still figured he could slip away while his comrades fought their death struggle.
His eyes were locked forward, watching the enemy approach. Crack…crack. His pistol continued to take its deadly toll, but enemy shots were whizzing by, impacting into the sand all around him. Eventually one of the enemy would score a lucky shot. And that would be the end.
He’d kept count on his shots, and he knew he only had three left. His mind raced for options, for some tactic to save his tiny command. But there was nothing…nothing save running for it while his comrades fought to the death. And that he would not do.
He gritted his teeth, prepared himself for the end. He didn’t know if the enemy would try to take them prisoner or simply wipe them all out, but he’d made his own choice already. They wouldn’t take him alive. Arkarin Blackhawk would fight to the end…and if he was fated to die there, deep in the desert, on the miserable rock of Celtiboria then so be it.
He saw a pair of figures, running, out in front of the others. They’d shut off their lamps, and they were trying to sneak forward in the dark. But Blackhawk’s eyes needed only the tiniest bit of illumination, and he saw them both, their silhouettes clear to him. He moved slowly, bringing his pistol to bear. Then he fired, twice in rapid succession, watching as both of the enemy troopers dropped.
One shot left…
He looked out, squinting, focusing, looking for a final target. Then he saw something behind him, a quick movement. And another. There were bodies moving. They were all around him.
He jerked his head back toward the enemy, even as he heard the sounds of fire erupting from behind. There were figures all around now, leaping out from camouflaged positions in the sand. He turned again, seeing shadowy clouds…clouds of dust flying through the air as hidden combatants threw off the sand covered cloths they’d used for cover and opened fire on the enemy.
Blackhawk could see the troopers in the distance, halting, falling in groups, the survivors turning, running back toward the safety of the fortress. But the mysterious fighters were on their heels, following, firing mercilessly on the broken security forces.
Blackhawk jumped to his feet and moved toward a pair of the new fighters, his pistol at the ready. He saw one of them move, reaching for a weapon. Then: “Cass, no! He’s a friend!”
Blackhawk froze. The voice was familiar. Jarvis? He stared at the figure facing him, let his own arm drop to his side, still holding his pistol. Was it possible? Were these friends?
“Blackhawk…” It was Jarvis, he was sure now.
“Jarvis…what is going on?”
“These are friends, Blackhawk. The rest of the Grays…here to help us escape.”
Blackhawk took a step forward, his eyes locked on the gray-robed figure next to Jarvis. He was tense, still uncertain. Then his eyes caught something. A wisp of dark brown hair, poking its way out of the figure’s hood. He stopped, just looking forward.
The raider stood still for a moment, clearly staring at Blackhawk. Then two hands came up and pulled back the hood of the cloak, revealing her face. It was a woman standing in front of Blackhawk. Her hair was long and wild, and she took a step forward, extending her hand. “Hello, Mr. Blackhawk,” she said. “Jarvis tells me you helped my people escape…so I suppose we owe you an assist in return.” She looked off into the darkness of the desert and then back again. “My name is Cassandra Cross, Mr. Blackhawk. Come along with us.” She paused again. “That is if you’d like to get out of here without half of Ghana’s army and air force hunting you down.”
Chapter Twelve
Ghana’s Main Base
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
The flyer slowly came to a complete halt. The airstrip outside Ghana’s headquarters was far from minimum specs for a hypersonic transport, but the plane had come in anyway, and its pilot had earned his pay, bringing his bird down with room to spare. It was a job well done, even if the cost of the rapid braking had been an uncomfortable ride for those in the passenger compartment.
Varn Eleher sat in one of the seats, strapped in, a bit pale from the landing. Carteria’s hypersonic planes were incredibly useful, if far too expensive for routine use. But the Marshal had holdings on four continents, and he’d insisted his research teams develop a faster way to move messengers and staff officers around. The planes themselves were plush, built to transport top brass and other VIPs, but that didn’t mean a trip at seven times the speed of sound was a pleasant one. Eleher unstrapped his harness. He would be glad when he felt the ground beneath his feet.
“Well done, Jacques,” he said, leaning over the com unit as he stood up slowly, giving his stomach time to settle before he challenged it with any sharp moves.
“Thank you, sir.” Jacques Paridan was one of the most experienced pilots in the Carterian service, and Eleher had make liberal use of the Marshal’s authorization to select his own people. He’d awakened the pilot in the middle of the night and given him barely enough time to complete his preflight procedure before liftoff. But he knew landing at Ghana’s makeshift airstrip in the dusty reaches of the Badlands would take a good pilot…and Paridan was just about the best there was.
He turned and walked toward the hatch, just as it began to open, and the retractable stair extended slowly. He took a deep breath, hoping for fresh air, but sucking in the hot, dry wind of late morning in the desert. He stood at the top of the stairs, his hand sheltering his eyes from the blazing sun. It was bright, as bright as he’d ever seen it anywhere.
This must be a fun place to fight, he thought. Then: You’re probably going to find out.
He stepped out onto the stairs, feeling the sweat begin to drip down his back almost at once. It was winter in the subtropical Southern Continent, and while he was used to the heat, it was the dryness that got to him almost immediately. It felt like an oven, and he wasn’t dressed for it.
He put his feet down on the grayish-black of the runway, some kind of composite material that he could tell had been hastily laid to create an airstrip in the middle of this hell. He’d been well aware that the Warlords of the Northern Continent were very divided—and vastly less wealthy than his own master—but now he felt as if he’d traveled back in time, to some primitive past era.
He looked up, squinting in the relentless brightness of the morning. There was an officer approaching, with a ragtag group of soldiers following behind him. Eleher sighed. He knew Ghana had been a Warlord of note on the Northern Continent for thirty years, but he couldn’t reconcile that fact with what he saw rushing toward him.
“Colonel Eleher, welcome to the Northern Continent. I apologize that the general isn’t here…well, we just found out you were enroute, and I’m afraid General Ghana is tied up with…another matter.” Dav Roogen wore his dress uniform, but the signs of haste were evident in a number of places, the crookedness of the line of medals on his chest, the wrinkles in his jacket. He had an honor guard behind him, a sergeant and ten privates who looked like they’d donned their own formal uniforms even more quickly.
“That is quite alright, Captain. I appreciate your welcome.” Eleher’s eyes darted to the slightly slovenly group of soldiers standing more or less at attention in their rumpled dress browns. Any unit in Carteria’s army that looked like this one would have fo
und itself in a world of hurt.
Rumor is Ghana’s men are close to defeat…and this looks like a demoralized bunch of losers…
“Though, I do hope the General will not be long. I have much to discuss with him.”
“Yes, sir…I mean, no, sir. He won’t be long. May I show you to your quarters? Perhaps you wish to freshen up after your long journey.”
My journey wasn’t that long, not at Mach 7. And I look a lot fresher than you and your men…
“Yes, Captain. That will be fine.”
Eleher nodded, and he followed the officer.
I don’t know if they fight better here on the Northern Continent than they look, but if they don’t I may yet live to see Carteria crowned king of Celtiboria…
* * *
Ghana stood in front of the cowering group of soldiers, glaring at the one closest to him, an officer wearing the insignia of a captain. He hadn’t said a word…he didn’t need to. The anger radiated off his body, the expression on his face, the rigidity of his movements. None of the soldiers could doubt their general was angry. They could only hope his rage wasn’t enough to stand them in front of a firing squad…because at first glance it looked like it was.
“Eight guards,” Ghana said, his tone menacing, though he did not raise his voice. “Four in the cell and four just outside. And a cell full of unarmed prisoners. And that doesn’t even take into account two dozen more soldiers in the halls…and more than fifty outside in the pursuit. And one enemy body recovered. One!” He panned his gaze over the entire group before returning his stare to the officer in front. “Is my information accurate? Or am I wrong?”
“No, sir…you are not wrong.” Jangus Sand stood in front of the general, his arm throbbing from the wound he’d taken when his pursuing force was ambushed. He was trying to decide how to proceed, whether he should try to explain…or simply wait and see if Ghana’s anger burned itself out.
