Truce's fists came down hard on the terminal, denting the steel frame. There was nothing more that could be done. The plan to destroy the Black Eagle would have to be abandoned. There was too much at stake to risk pushing further, not with everything else that was happening. Perhaps he could quell the conflict amongst his people fast enough to return his attention to Kindel's ship, but even then, without the capacitors he needed, there would be no way to complete his modifications to the laser turret. Everything had been going so well until the bloody Aeden Alliance interfered. But they would soon pay. All of them would suffer for defying Sartan Truce!
"Boss!" Brent came running into the room, arms flailing in a panic. "They've taken two more floors!"
"What?" Truce ground his teeth as he looked up. "Who?"
Brent nearly skidded to a stop beside the station. "The traitors, Boss!" he wheezed through heavy breaths. "They've captured our men on deck nineteen and driven the soldiers from twenty-one into the emergency stairwells!"
Truce fingered his beard for a moment before issuing orders. "Very well. Instruct our men on the other floors to barricade every emergency stairwell on this ship. Likewise, I want the lifts disabled. I don't care how you do it, just get it done. I'm going to take the stairs down to the cargo hold and see what I can do to calm the situation."
He turned away, expecting that to be all, but there was no acknowledgment from Brent, no rushing for the door, no clip-clop of boots. When Truce looked back at him with a questioning eyebrow raised, the soldier spat out another bit of news. "Sir, we continue to find corpses scattered across the ship. They're popping up everywhere. Deck five, nine, thirteen, and they've all been killed by blade."
"He is hunting for me," Truce muttered. Vultrel was moving quickly, and he was drawing closer. Deck thirteen was but one level away. "Any on this floor?"
"None reported thus far, Boss." Brent spread his hands as if to absolve himself of responsibility should any unreported deaths have occurred. "All security stairwells and lift doors are being closely monitored."
That wouldn't be enough, Truce knew. The young man was the blood of Eaisan Lurei. He would find a way to get to his target no matter what he had to go through. Unconsciously, Truce's hand found the pommel of his sword. He was anxious to kill the boy; to have him out of the way would be satisfying for more reasons than one. But with the plans for the Black Eagle having fallen through, the Kyrosen became his top priority. "I want to be informed of his location the moment he is spotted. Take a map and mark down the locations where each corpse was found. Perhaps there is some sort of pattern to his movements. At the very least we might be able to come up with a list of areas he hasn't been through yet so that we may monitor them more closely."
"Uh, Sir, I'm not so sure we can muster the manpower for everything you're requesting," Brent said with a grimace. "The majority of our people are still fighting in the cargo—"
Truce's eyes thinned as his grip abruptly tightened around the hilt of his weapon. "Get the manpower, and see that everything I have ordered is done. I don't want excuses, I want results."
Now the bows and acknowledgments came as Brent backed toward the doorway. Truce grunted in disgust and went behind the librarian's station to search for a map of the Falcon Mist to use for his own reference. He heard the doors slide open as he kneeled down behind the counter, followed by a short gasp and a choked cough. After so many years, Truce's ears had become accustomed to the sound of a man being run through with a blade, so it was no surprise that when he returned to his feet with a rolled up schematic of the ship in his hand, his eyes fell upon the very sight he'd expected to see. "I hear you've been causing a bit of a ruckus on my ship," he said, keeping his voice casual. "Not exactly becoming behavior for a guest."
Vultrel held Brent around the throat with one hand, and the sword he gripped in the other had pierced through the Kyrosen's heart and burst from his back. There was nothing but hate in the boy's eyes as he threw the man's carcass to the side with a snarl. "If you hadn't assumed I was dead, I wouldn't have had to tear through half of your men until I found you."
"A mistake I admit," Truce replied, calmly stepping around the librarian's desk. "Forgive me for not being thorough. You must understand that I have a lot of responsibilities on my shoulders."
Vultrel moved forward into the circle of couches in the center of the library and wiped Brent's blood from his blade on one of the green cushions. "That will soon change. Your opponents among the Kyrosen are making progress, Truce. They want to spill your blood as much as I do."
The corners of Truce's eyes tightened. "You don't know when to quit, boy. I nearly incinerated you on the bridge. Was one brush with death not enough for you?"
Vultrel shifted his feet and readied his weapon, ignoring the question. "This time, we finish it. No running, no hiding. The fight does not end until one of us is dead. Agreed?"
The rolled map fell at Truce's feet, and he drew his blade with a defiant grin. "Agreed."
*******
Sweat beaded on Vultrel's forehead and trickled over ridges in his brow where his undying hatred for Truce had created permanent creases. Inside, his blood churned with anger, but he knew he had to maintain his composure if he wanted to stand a chance against the Mage. Truce was a good swordsman, there was no doubting that—although he was nothing compared to Vultrel—and he would surely capitalize on any foolish mistakes. And judging from what had happened on the bridge, such mistakes could prove to be fatal. Images swirled in the young man's mind; pictures of Truce broken and bleeding at his feet, his blade driven through the Kyrosen's skull while Eaisan Lurei looked on approvingly. If Vultrel had his way, it would happen before the day was done.
He stepped backward as Truce joined him in the center of the library. The Mage grinned as he did, likely assuming that the movement had been provoked by fear. But Vultrel wasn't afraid, nor was he stupid. He would decide when the right time for attack would be, not Truce. The Kyrosen held his sword vertically in front of his chest with both hands. "You know, most men gifted with a talent for magic tend to rely on fire and lightning as their main weapons. I fall into that trap way too often, myself. They are, after all, quick and destructive. But the other elements are just as powerful, if not more so in some cases. And since I have been unable to best you in our previous encounters, I think perhaps I should learn to think beyond my usual repertoire."
Vultrel inclined his head with a wary look. "What do you mean?"
"Just watch!" Truce released his sword, and the weapon floated in midair an arm's length away from his body. A cold wind brushed Vultrel's skin, and the sword rotated, twisting and floating in a pattern that resembled two rings joined side-by-side. Faster and faster it spun, circling his body in a continuous pattern that effectively shielded the man with a wall of blade. A constant and repetitive whoosh filled Vultrel's ears as the sword cut through the air, and Truce nearly had to shout to be heard over the sound. "You see? Wind has its uses as well!"
Vultrel swallowed hard. Getting through that kind of defense was going to be more than difficult. His mind raced with possibilities. Truce had to have some kind of weakness. He had to. He was mortal, and thus, imperfect. A smart warrior could find a way around any defense. Father would know what to do. I just need to think like him. Come on, Father! What would you do in a situation like this?
"You look nervous," Truce noted with a chuckle. "You should. Allow me to show you another use for wind." He raised a casual hand, palm up and fingers open, and a solid burst of air lifted Vultrel from the floor. He could feel the wind pressing at him from all sides, immobilizing him, paralyzing him. It was the strongest at his feet; it almost felt as though he was standing on a platform of air. Truce laughed openly below, his hand now high above his head. "And if we take it one step further . . ."
Suddenly Vultrel was flying, soaring across the length of the library toward the long rows of bookshelves that filled the library's right wing. There was no stopping the imminent collisio
n, but he knew that if he didn't rotate his body at least some, he was going to slam face-first into the solid end of the wooden case and likely break his neck. Shifting position within the pocket of air in a matter of seconds was like trying to escape from center of a pile of boulders, but somehow he managed to lower his head far enough so that his back and shoulders took the brunt of the impact. A web of cracks split through the end of the bookcase where his body collided with the fixture, shaking dozens of books to the floor and dislodging one of the shelves. He came down on his right shoulder, a sharp jolt of pain numbing his arm as he crashed to the floor. His sword clattered to a stop several paces away.
"You know," Truce began, stepping around the couches. The weapon spiraling around his body passed through one of the cushions as though it wasn't even there, but the fresh cleave it left behind was evidence enough. "Water is another often underutilized element. I suppose it is because there aren't many perceived uses for water in the middle of a battle. I mean, what does soaking down an opponent do to improve my advantage?"
Rolling twangs of pain shot up and down Vultrel's arm and into his back and shoulders. He groaned unconsciously as he pushed himself to his knees. What would father do? To the right, his sword glimmered under the library lights. Sweat rolled down his back, though he wasn't sure if it came from the day's rigors or fear. No! I'm not afraid of a bloody Kyrosen, least of all Sartan Truce! he told himself silently, crawling toward his sword.
Truce was still rambling on about the uses of magic. "Yet, just as I can manipulate heat and air to create fire, I can also draw heat away from objects. And what happens to water when its temperature is lowered?"
Vultrel's hand found the handle of his weapon, and he groggily rose to his feet. "You're going to throw ice at me next?" he grumbled, readying his weapon defiantly. "Go ahead, take your best shot."
For a moment, the Kyrosen simply smiled at him. Then he raised a single finger just in front of his face. "Do you know how much water there is in the human body, Vultrel?"
Pain seized him in an instant, pain unlike anything he'd ever before experienced. Searing ripples enveloped every muscle, every bone, every organ. Nausea hit him hard as the library began to waver, and the sound of his blade clanging to the floor cut through his ears like a razor through butter. Truce's image blurred along with the rest of his surroundings, and suddenly he was on his knees, emptying his stomach all over the thin carpet. Something, a color unlike any he'd ever seen and nothing he could begin to describe, encompassed his vision, slowly creeping in from either side no matter how much he tried to blink it away. He was dying, he knew that, and with Truce's sword spinning that protective shield, it was unlikely that anything could be done to stop it.
"I don't know how many times I told you that you crossed the wrong man," Truce snarled, his hatred for Vultrel finally manifesting itself in his demeanor. "I warned you and warned you, but you were so blindly determined to get yourself killed that you stopped at nothing to hunt me down. Well, Vultrel, congratulations. Your wish is granted!"
With no other options left, Vultrel's hand came upon his sword once more, and he grabbed the weapon and threw it at Truce with all the strength he had left. Even through his distorted vision, he saw the blade collide with the Kyrosen's own, and the two weapons went clanking across the rug. Surprise caused Truce to momentarily cease his attack, and Vultrel's adrenaline surged. A blood-curdling scream came from his mouth as he lunged for the Mage, driving his good shoulder into Truce's middle before the two of them collapsed in a heap beside the couches. Somehow—he wasn't quite sure how—his fist found the Kyrosen's cheek, then his temple. The pain had immediately begun to subside, and that encouraged him even further. One punch landed, then two, then three. Somewhere in the back of his mind he began to wonder why Truce didn't appear to be fighting back despite his squirms, and he realized he was kneeling on both of the man's arms. A fourth punch. A fifth. A sixth.
Truce's hands suddenly latched onto his ankles, and intense heat flowed up his legs. For a moment, Vultrel considered enduring the pain for the sake of pounding on him, but he had no desire to let the Mage kill him out of his own stupidity. He rolled away and immediately began visually combing the room for his sword, but it was nowhere to be found.
"I'm impressed," Truce growled, wiping blood from his lip as he stood. Another crimson streak trickled from the corner of his eye. "Truly, I am. You've shown far more drive and tenacity than I'd anticipated, though I suppose I should've expected as much from Lurei blood."
Vultrel opened his mouth, and his voice came out hoarse and heavy. "Nothing short of death will stop me, Truce. I will avenge those you've murdered for the good of the universe!"
"The good of the universe?" He drew a small white cloth from his rear pocket and dabbed the blood away from his eye. "You still believe you're doing some sort of service to the universe? Don't be foolish, Vultrel. You even admit that you're trying to avenge the deaths of the people you love, primarily your father, I assume. You're not fighting for anyone but you. You simply tell yourself otherwise in a futile attempt to justify your actions."
"Don't speak as though you know what my motivations are," Vultrel hissed, flexing his throbbing shoulder. "I won't let what happened to my father happen to anyone else!"
"And yet, you didn't respond this way when Dayne Sheeth was murdered," Truce noted. "Granted, you were just a boy, but then incidents like that have a way of imprinting themselves on the minds of those who are truly traumatized by them. What about Anton? His fate certainly upset you, but you didn't begin your hunt for me then, did you? How about the others who've been hurt by the Kyrosen over the years? The people injured when we attacked your village? What about the Narleahans? Shouldn't their circumstances have driven a supposedly justice-seeking warrior like yourself into action? No, you didn't stand up until you were personally hurt."
"Perhaps I didn't realize the severity of the threat posed by the Kyrosen until then," Vultrel shot back. "Plenty of people need to personal affliction to motivate them into action."
"That doesn't mean that your actions are noble. You aligned yourself with Kindel Thorus, one of the most dishonorable and wretched men in the known universe, just so that you could remain within striking distance of me. You embraced his vision of conquering the weak to survive—a vision the Kyrosen share, if only from the opposite side of the battlefield—so that you could grow stronger; a goal which I have no doubt was driven by your obsession with killing me. Face it, boy. You are just like us. The only difference is that you and Kindel deny that you are tyrants, and I embrace it. You seem to think you're pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone else, but you've had your own head in the sand the whole time."
It was a reality that had been tugging at the back of Vultrel's mind ever since he'd agreed to work with Thorus. He knew he'd become a person far different from what his father had raised him to be, yet the circumstances of the universe had propelled that change. The truly great men were crafty and powerful; honor and decency had little to do with it. Sartan Truce didn't respond to peaceful methods of persuasion, and Kindel Thorus certainly wouldn't either. The only way to defeat such men was to become one of them, to beat them at their own game. Vultrel admitted that he'd chosen to do just that, but his motivations behind the choice had been noble. Hadn't they?
It didn't matter, really. What was done was done. "You don't understand," he muttered, shaking his head. "The methods of my father were limited to his experiences on Terranias. He knew nothing about the ways of the universe other than what we knew in Keroko. Our society revolved around honorable men who stood up for what was right and valued every life whether it be a criminal's or otherwise. But out here is different. That kind of thinking has no place among the stars. Murderers like you don't listen to reason, and you exploit the compassion of people like Eaisan Lurei. I had to change my perception if I was to survive. I had to realign my goals in order to stand a chance against you. And here I am, determined to bring your tyranny to
an end. My methods may have changed, but my motives remain pure."
"Pure?" Truce nearly spat the word. "You call yourself pure? Absurd! The only thing you've done since joining with Kindel is leave a trail of corpses in the wake of your burning hatred for me. You can try to reason it out by whatever twisted logic works for you, but the bitter truth is that you've succumbed to your anger, something I'm sure would disappoint your dear father."
Vultrel's hands trembled for reasons he couldn't quite explain. Deep in the recesses of his mind, something ate away at him like a plague, an acid that was searing through his soul. Images of Mateo mingled with the sound of his voice, echoing his pleas for Vultrel to give up the path he'd chosen. "You're trying to break my confidence," the young man growled, eyes burning. "You're trying to rile me so that I'll lose focus. It won't work. I do not harbor the hatred you claim I have. I am not as you say! I'm not like you!"
"Really?" Truce flexed his fingers as he grin spread further. "We'll just see about that."
A sharp pain pierced Vultrel's temples. Images began to swirl in his head, memories of distant days mixed with flashes of recent events. For a moment, he was a boy, helping his father tend the cornfields. In the next, he was dueling with Arus in the forests outside Keroko. They were days he missed, days that would never come again, all things taken from him by Sartan Truce. The Festival of the Souls, and Melia's sweet laughter, followed by the pain and fear in her face when he'd shoved her to the ground. Arus and Anton, side by side, glowing eyes fixed on him. Explosions across Keroko, homes burning, people dying. The duel between Arus and Truce encompassed his eyes as though he was there witnessing it happen all over again. His best friend cried out as his arm was severed at the shoulder, and crimson covered Vultrel's vision. A flash, and now he was a child, lying in bed as his father read him a story. Another blink of red and he was running, from what he couldn't remember, but he knew he was on the Mayahol, and Eaisan was right behind him. He turned to hurry his father along, but the man had vanished along with their unidentified pursuers. The visions kept coming, some real and some seeming more like dreams or nightmares, until he finally found himself in Castle Asteria, watching helplessly as Arus drove his blade through Eaisan's heart amidst the echoing laugher of Sartan Truce.
Eye of the Tornado Page 21
