by Alex Archer
Lesauvage walked over to the man and gazed down at him coldly. “You’re dying,” he said.
“I know!” The man laughed again, but tears skidded down his face.
Taking deliberate aim, Lesauvage squeezed the trigger and put a round into the man’s mouth. It took him nearly a minute to wheeze and choke to death on his blood. The death wasn’t as merciful as Lesauvage had intended.
Still, it was finished.
“What did you do?” another man asked.
“He was dying,” Lesauvage explained.
Several of the men were in the process of tearing open the stone coffins. Corpses littered the mausoleum.
Lesauvage fired a round into the ceiling. The detonation drew everyone’s attention.
“They were monks!” Lesauvage roared. “They won’t be buried with anything worth the time it takes to bust open those coffins!” He waved his pistol. “Find the woman! We don’t need a witness to talk about what we’ve done here!”
Howling with gleeful anticipation, the Wild Hunt once more took up the chase, pounding through the doorway where Annja Creed had fled.
31
Annja’s breath tore hotly through her lungs as she ran up the next flight of stairs. Halting at the top of the stairs, she took up a position by the opening, listened intently for a moment, then realized she couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of the Wild Hunt closing in on them.
She whirled around the opening and dropped the pistol out before her. She held her sword arm braced under her gun wrist.
The next cave was a library. Books lined handmade shelves mixed with plastic modular shelves. Furniture consisted of large pillows and tent chairs. Candelabras heavy with partially burned candles and bowls of wax occupied tables in the cave.
Life as a monk of the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain hadn’t been easy.
Curiosity pulled at Annja’s attention. She couldn’t help wondering what kind of books were on those shelves. Copies of books from around the world wouldn’t have interested her as much as personal journals and collections of observations during the past few hundred years.
“Annja.”
Roux’s voice drew her from her reverie. She glanced behind her and found that Avery and Roux hadn’t joined her. Turning back to the stairway carved in the sloping tunnel floor, she looked down and saw them huddled on the last landing. Men’s laughter and threats cascaded around them like breakers from an approaching storm front.
“I can’t…do it,” Avery wheezed, shaking his head. He doubled over and retched. “I can’t…breathe…can’t run…no more.”
Roux didn’t look very good, either, but he was still moving.
“If you stay here, boy,” the old man said. “They’ll kill you.”
“I…can’t!” Avery doubled over and retched again.
The voices grew louder.
Running down the steps, Annja shoved the pistol into her waistband at her back, then grabbed Avery and threw him across her shoulders in a fireman’s carry. She’d thought she’d barely be able to move with the extra weight. Instead, Avery felt light as a child.
“You can’t carry him,” Roux objected.
“I can’t leave him,” Annja responded. Holding her free arm over his arm and leg, she started up the steps. She expected her body to protest. Instead, it seemed to welcome the challenge.
She turned the corner at the library, then rushed through the doorway on the other side. Another flight of steps awaited her. She went up, hoping that the entrance to the monastery was in that direction.
She was just starting to breathe harder. She was surprised by the strength, stamina and speed that she had—even while carrying Avery Moreau. Where had it come from? The sword?
Or had the sword only awakened something within her?
Annja put the questions out of her mind and concentrated on escape. If she survived, maybe she could figure out what it all meant.
Like the Roman garrison cave, the entrance to the main chamber used by the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain was narrow. Once they reached it, she had to put Avery on his feet and shove him ahead of her.
A faux wall covered the opening. Latches held it in place.
Annja opened the door.
Beyond, the storm continued with renewed fury. Gray rain ghosted across the mountain in sheets as neatly as marching soldiers. Annja felt the chill of the rain even before she stepped out into it.
“Which way?” Avery asked, holding his arms across his body.
Roux played the flashlight around. The ground was stone. No path existed.
Of course there’s no path, Annja thought. They’d have to be careful about their comings and goings. They couldn’t afford to be seen.
“Down,” Annja said.
Roux took the lead, making his way as fast as he dared. The yellow beam of the flashlight revealed the weakening batteries.
Avery followed, hunched over and moving more slowly.
We’re not going to make it, Annja thought grimly. The certainty almost made her sick. She’d come all this way, solved most of the puzzles that were presented, and she was going to die inches short of the finish line.
Lightning flared, filling the sky with white-hot incandescence.
Below, not more than a hundred yards away, a road ran down the mountain. Even as Annja recognized it, she spotted five motorcycles speeding into view. Another blaze lit the night. Annja knew the men were after them.
At that moment, they saw Roux and Avery.
The motorcyclists pulled up short and unlimbered assault rifles, pulling them quickly to their shoulders.
“Roux!” Annja yelled.
The old man looked up and saw her standing on the mountainside. Then he saw the motorcycles. He reacted instantly, grabbing Avery and pulling him to ground behind a copse of trees and boulders.
The motorcycle riders howled like beasts. Rain and shadows turned their faces into those of snarling animals. They brought the rifles around in her direction.
Annja ran, hoping she could keep her footing, and plunged toward the brush to her right. Bullets ripped after her, tearing through the leaves and branches.
Knowing if she stopped she was only going to be pinned down, then attacked from above and below as Lesauvage and the rest of his men emerged from the monastery, Annja kept moving. She threw herself through the brush, heart hammering inside her chest. She knew she was moving fast; everything was in slow motion around her again.
She tripped over a loose rock and fell, sliding through the brush at least ten yards on the wet surface before she could roll to her feet. She steadied, whipping through branches and plants, skidding across loose rock.
One of the motorcycle riders pitched sideways, knocked down by rounds from Roux’s rifle.
Ten yards out, almost running into a hail of gunfire from the other riders, Annja ran up onto a boulder, took two steps across it and launched herself into the air, hoping that the dark night and the rain would help hide her. She flipped, drawing the sword, then spreading her arms out to her sides to help maintain her balance while keeping her feet together.
Lightning blazed overhead and tore away the darkness.
Annja knew the men saw her as she fell toward them. Their faces filled with awe and fear.
“An angel!” one of them cried. “An angel with a sword!”
It was the drugs, Annja knew. They’d caused the man’s hallucination and preyed on his fear.
She landed among them. She swept the sword out, cutting a diagonal slash through one man’s weapon as he fired. The rifle blew up in his face and threw him backward.
Moving forward, Annja kicked the next motorcycle’s handlebars, sending it crashing into the one beside it, taking down both riders.
The fourth man fired, missing Annja by inches as she whirled. She lashed out with the sword again, turning it so the flat of the blade caught the man along the temple and knocked him out.
I won’t kill them, she told herself. Not unless I have to. Somehow that thought mad
e a difference.
The fifth man dodged back, then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. He hit the ground and rolled onto his back. A bullet from Roux’s stolen rifle had torn out his throat. His chest jerked spasmodically twice, then he went slack.
Move, Annja told herself. Don’t think about him. Deal with it later. Get everybody out safe now.
Annja grabbed the nearest motorcycle and pushed it upright. When she pulled in the clutch and touched the electronic ignition, the engine grumbled to life.
Roux ran toward her, dragging Avery after him.
“You could have gotten yourself killed with a damned fool stunt like that,” the old man shouted.
“It worked,” Annja replied. “There wasn’t a lot of time. There still isn’t.” She pushed the motorcycle toward him. “Can you ride?”
“Yes. You live five hundred years, you learn a few things.” Roux reloaded the assault rifle and slung it over his shoulder. Then he threw a leg over the motorcycle and climbed aboard. He glanced at Avery. “Can you ride, boy?”
“No.” Avery looked like a drowned rat.
Roux sighed. “This mountain is going to be difficult at best. Carrying double is foolish.” Then he shook his head. “I’m getting foolish in my dotage. Climb on, boy.”
“Thank you.” Avery climbed on back of the motorcycle.
“Get a good grip,” Roux told him.
For just a moment, Annja couldn’t help but think about Garin’s story, about how his father had sent him off on horseback with Roux all those years ago. There was something paternal about Roux that she hadn’t seen before.
“Here.” Annja clapped a helmet on Avery’s head that she’d taken from one of Lesauvage’s riders.
Roux looked at her. “Can you ride one of these mechanical nightmares?”
Annja smiled at him, seeing the concern in those electric-blue eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “I can. Probably better than you can.”
Roux harrumphed his displeasure. “Well don’t get overconfident and get yourself killed. There are still things we should talk about.”
Lightning threw crooked white veins across the troubled sky. Movement along the ridge higher up caught Annja’s attention.
Lesauvage and the survivors of his group fanned out along the mountainside.
“Go,” Annja said.
Roux revved the motorcycle’s engine and took off. Clutching him tightly, Avery hung on. Bullets raked the stones and the muddy earth where the motorcycle had been.
Taking advantage of the distraction Roux’s escape afforded her, Annja retreated to another of the motorcycles. She righted it, started the engine and threw a leg over while it started forward. She stood on the pegs, cushioning the rough terrain and muscling the motorcycle to keep it upright in the mud and on the slick stone surfaces exposed between the earth and vegetation. She focused on Roux, spotting his headlight and following it along the trail.
Because he was riding double, Roux struggled with the motorcycle. Avery had no aptitude for riding. He swayed wrong or stayed straight up as Roux handled the motorcycle, creating even more difficulty.
Glancing over her shoulder, Annja saw that Lesauvage and two other men had recovered the three remaining motorcycles. They sped along in pursuit, closing the distance quickly.
We’re not going to make it, Annja realized. Between the storm and Avery, we can’t escape. She cursed herself for not disabling the other motorcycles, then realized that she’d only been thinking forward, not backward.
When Roux disappeared in front of her for just a moment, a desperate plan formed. Annja crested the hill Roux had just passed over, then switched off her motorcycle and ran it into the brush off the trail into the shadows. The droning engines of the pursuit motorcycles filled her ears.
She waited nervously. She breathed deep, blinking the rain from her eyes, concentrating on what she had to do. Reaching behind her, she removed the pistol from her waistband and waited.
The three motorcycles whipped by, never spotting her in the darkness.
Coolly, Annja lifted the pistol and fired at the last motorcycle’s back tire, placing her shots just below the flaring ruby taillight. On the fifth or sixth shot, the rear tire blew.
Slewing out of control, the motorcycle went down in a skidding heap, shedding the rider and pieces of the fenders and body.
The pistol blew back empty. Out of ammunition, Annja tossed the weapon away. Then she pressed the electronic ignition and the engine roared to life as her headlight came on. She twisted the accelerator and let out the clutch so fast she almost lost the motorcycle.
She was speeding along the trail, standing on the pegs again as she slitted her eyes against the rain. Her face stung and her vision occasionally blurred, but she held the motorcycle to the course. She gained ground quickly, but knew she was going to arrive too late when she saw Roux lose the motorcycle. Roux and Avery tumbled across the ground, trying to get up even as Lesauvage and the remaining rider bore down on them.
Roux stood but appeared dazed. Avery didn’t get up.
Lesauvage and the other rider roared past them and came around in tight turns, putting their motorcycles between Roux and the one he’d lost.
Roux fumbled for the assault rifle draped over his shoulder. Somehow he’d managed to hang on to it.
Lesauvage pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and took aim. At that distance, there was no way he could miss.
“Lesauvage!” Annja screamed.
The other rider raised his assault rifle, bringing it up on a sling.
Annja hit the same rise that had dumped Roux and Avery. But she twisted the accelerator, gaining speed, then yanked back on the handlebars.
The motorcycle went airborne. Throwing her body sideways, Annja turned it with her, performing a tabletop aerial maneuver she’d seen on X Games.
Not wanting to be trapped under the weight of the motorcycle, Annja released it and kicked free of the pegs. The motorcycle rider dodged to one side as her bike crashed into his and they bounced away in a rolling mass that exploded into flames.
Annja landed hard on the ground. Out of breath, her lungs feeling paralyzed by the impact, she managed to push herself to her feet.
The motorcycle rider rose up on his knees, cursing foully. He pulled the assault rifle to his shoulder.
Without thinking, Annja summoned the sword and threw it.
Glittering in the sudden flare of lightning, the sword seemed to catch fire as it looped end over end. It struck the gunman full in the chest, driving him backward, his heart pierced by the blade.
For a moment, everything was frozen.
Lesauvage stared at the dead man in disbelief. Then he started laughing. “That was stupid!” he roared. “You threw away your weapon!”
From more than thirty feet away, Annja reached for the sword. It faded from sight where it still quivered in the dead man’s chest.
The sword was in her hand.
The confidence drained from Lesauvage’s features. He lifted his pistol and took a two-handed grip on it.
Annja rose, knowing it would do no good to run. He would only shoot her in the back. She held the sword in front of her, the blade bisecting her vision, her left foot in front of her right.
She thought about Joan of Arc dying on the pyre. Annja didn’t want to die, but if she were going to and she couldn’t die old and famous and in her bed with a man she loved, this was how she wanted it to happen, looking death in the eye.
“You brought a sword to a gun fight,” Lesauvage sneered. He fired.
Annja saw the muzzle-flash rush from the pistol barrel. She even believed she saw the bullet streaking toward her, knowing there was no way it was going to miss her. She waited to feel it bite into her flesh.
But her hands moved instinctively, tracking the projectile. Incredibly, she saw sparks as the bullet hit the sword, felt the vibration race through her hands, then heard the bullet whiz within inches of her ear.
Annja was already movi
ng toward Lesauvage instead of away from him. She threw herself into a flying kick, sailing above Lesauvage’s next round, then lashing out with her left foot when she came within range.
The kick drove Lesauvage from his feet, knocking him backward. He lost the pistol before he slammed against the boulder behind him.
When Annja stood, she held the sword to Lesauvage’s throat.
He stared at her over the blade as lightning blazed and burnished the steel. The sound of the rain drowned out everything but the hoarse rasp of their breathing.
“Kill him,” Roux directed, limping up. Blood threaded down the side of his face, diluted by the rain.
“I can’t,” Annja said. She couldn’t even imagine taking a man’s life in cold blood.
“He would have killed you.”
“He didn’t.”
“He tried to kill you.”
Annja trembled slightly. “That wouldn’t make killing him right.”
Roux grinned and shook his head. “I hate moral complications. Wars and battle should be so much simpler.” He bent down and picked up Lesauvage’s pistol, taking time to wipe the mud from it. “You have to realize that you’ve made an enemy here.”
“Like you did with Garin?”
“No, that’s different,” Roux said. “Garin made an enemy of me. If he had the chance to kill me, I truly think he would.” He nodded toward Lesauvage. “This one, if he gets the chance, will kill you someday.”
Annja lowered her sword and stepped back. She glared at Roux. “I’m not a murderer.”
“There are,” Roux said, “worse things to be.” He shot Lesauvage between the eyes.
Lesauvage pitched forward onto his face. The back of his head was blown off.
“Thankfully,” Roux continued as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “I’m none of those things.”
Annja wheeled on him, looking at him and realizing that she didn’t know him, and certainly didn’t know what he was capable of. She held her sword ready.
Roux tossed the pistol away and spread his arms, leaving his chest open to her attack. He smiled benignly. “Lesauvage still has other drug-crazed fools in the mountains tonight. Do you want to argue about this right now?”
