The Emerald Duellist (Five Empires Book 2)

by Steven J Shelley

  Jake figured it was only a matter of time before the newly-arrived Nostroma tandems split up in search of the duellist. The chaos he’d created was an effective cover for a little targeted violence of their own.

  Hushed voices further into the trees told Jake that his comrades had also managed to escape. He rejoined the women with both guns drawn. Their next decision was critical.

  “There’s no way out,” Fusar said, her shift dripping blood.

  “You hurt?” Jake asked.

  Fusar waved him away. “I’m fine,” she said stoically. “I was attached to that … machine … for too long.”

  Jake couldn’t imagine what the Jaj girl was feeling, so he said nothing. Far better to prove himself through decisive action.

  “We need to get you off this mountain,” he said, looking to the south.

  “How?” Mandie asked. “That’s a sheer drop and we have no hope of climbing up the western slope.”

  A nerve-shredding shriek rang out from somewhere inside the belfry.

  “Don’t like the sound of that,” Jake said. “Whatever’s coming through that hole will push the monks out here.”

  “There is a way out,” Fusar said doubtfully. “But I’m not sure I can do it.”

  Jake looked into the girl’s jet black eyes. There was something noble about her, something that inspired trust. After all, she’d have to possess a certain level of fortitude to survive what the monks had thrown at her. But trust wasn’t going to be enough. If Jake was going to save her, he needed intel.

  “What’s going on here, Fusar?” he asked. “The more I know, the more I can help.”

  Fusar turned away, clenching her jaw.

  “The monks knew this valley was different when they settled here,” she eventually said. “At first there was conflict. Then they made peace with the colony. The worms … they’re not mindless. Not the Queen anyway. Over time the monks realized what she wanted. She wanted men, flesh, to tenderize her birthing sacs, prepare them for newborn slugs. She’s sick and there’s something wrong with the sacs she makes on her own. Every monk at Fidelis Prime commits to a year in the underground, then they’re released to the surface. The lucky ones just have sac lesions, others find parts of their bodies have been absorbed by the birthing sac.”

  Stunned, Jake couldn’t tear his gaze away from the Jaj girl.

  “I don’t understand,” he said in a faint voice. “What do the monks get out of this?”

  “They get to stay alive,” Fusar said. “But Van and some others discovered their neural chemistry had changed. They were able to communicate with each other without speaking.”

  Mandie exhaled in amazement. Telepathy had always been considered the Holy Grail of neural achievement in Nostromic society. Tantalizing strides had been made in the field, but even the greatest cybomancers could only manipulate emotions, not send detailed messages.

  Despite the advanced technology produced by Nostroma labs, telepathic communication remained an elusive pipe dream. If Van and his cohorts had stumbled across it, they would ferociously defend the fragile valley symbiosis.

  “The worms,” Mandie said. “Are they carnivores?”

  Fusar nodded. “The monks leave carcasses by the pit,” she said. “I’m sure you saw them.”

  Jake frowned at the Jaj girl. “The worms didn’t attack you,” he said.

  Fusar shook her head, a tear sliding down her cheek.

  “They have an aversion to me,” she said. “Maybe because I’m different to the monks.”

  “But why were the monks harvesting milk from you?” Mandie asked. Jake looked sharply at the mercenary - he had been waiting for the right moment to ask that question.

  “Every few weeks a new monk would be lowered into the pit,” Fusar said. “Van discovered that Jaj milk was a long-term sedative for the men. They … ensured I was producing non-stop. Most monks wouldn’t face the worms unless I fed them first.”

  Jake swore under his breath. It was a morally repugnant arrangement, but Van probably rationalized Fusar’s involvement as contributing to the greater good. The truth was he and his cronies were in filthy communion with a bunch of animals. It was only a matter of time before the squalid monks of Fidelis Prime descended into madness, their minds disintegrating under the weight of their collective ambition.

  “You know for sure there’s a way through?” Jake asked Fusar, keen to start moving.

  “Right down to the lower slopes,” Fusar said. “But it means we go past the queen.”

  “If we had explosives I’d be a lot more confident,” Mandie said.

  “The monks might keep an armory,” Jake said.

  “It’s awfully quiet in there,” Mandie pointed out.

  It was true. The disturbing squeal had faded away. The shouts from the courtyard had died down. It was the kind of silence Jake had learned not to trust.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re going underground.”

  “The monks use high quality cables,” Fusar said quickly. “Can’t get through those tunnels without them.”

  “Do you know where we can find one?”

  “A room off the cellars, I think,” Fusar replied.

  Jake looked at the whirlpool circling the submerged hole in the monastery wall. That way was exceedingly risky. Besides, who knew what was coming out of that hole?

  “We need that gear,” Jake decided. One of the tandems might have some means of getting off the mountain but he wasn’t prepared to test that theory. As ridiculous as it sounded, going through the tunnels was the safest play.

  “Follow me,” he said to Fusar. “Mandie - rearguard the fuck out of this.”

  The merc smiled grimly. “I’m your woman.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They made their way back across the stream, which had now slowed to a trickle. Most of that water was sheeting into the tunnels underneath the building. If all else failed and they died here, the monastery itself would eventually be victim to a massive sinkhole. Seemed like natural justice.

  Eyes peeled for monks, Jake led the women north along the wall. The belfry loomed over them and he saw the movement early. That door at the base was opening, and Jake was kneeling with his gun poised before the first monk emerged.

  The first plasma bolt struck the man just under the jaw. Jake had configured his weapons for penetration rather than splatter - a neat red hole was all that spoke of the man’s demise. The second monk almost tripped over him, and it was enough for an experienced duellist to exploit. Two bolts scudded into the man’s chest, throwing him back.

  Jake ran low and hard for the tower, firing into the doorway before rushing it. Empty. Pairs of monks had probably been dispatched by Van to find them. Fusar was a fairly integral link in an appalling chain, so there was every chance she’d be wanted alive.

  “In,” Jake urged. The three passed through the cool, shaded belfry and into a musky corridor.

  “Down to the end,” Fusar instructed. They passed through a wooden door and were greeted with intense heat. Somehow, in all the commotion, a candello lamp had ruptured. A raging fire was feasting on the wooden furniture in these rooms above the cellar. Jake slammed his fist into the wall.

  “Fuck!”

  He felt like Tranda IX was just obstacle after obstacle. Each one added a hard, calloused layer of anger to his bones.

  “Jake,” Mandie said, her hand drifting to his elbow. His mind came back to the practicalities of the present.

  “Let’s survey,” she said. “We might see something new from a higher vantage point.”

  Jake nodded - it was far from ideal but it was the best they could do. They climbed the northwest stairwell to the top. They moved cautiously to one of the balconies that overlooked the courtyard. Several monks scurried through the corridor, but these seemed more concerned with self-preservation than violence. Things were about to change forever at Fidelis Prime.

  Below them, a royal stand-off was taking place. On one side, Van, the Abbott and
a score of monks stood stony-faced and menacing. Most carried simple wooden rods as weapons, but they undoubtedly knew how how to use them. As an old instructor once said to him, not even a master duellist could hope to defend against a well-used melee weapon at close quarters.

  Swathed in afternoon shadow on the opposite side, the Nostromic tandems looked casual enough, but there was method in their positioning. They had every watching monk covered in case of attack. Still, the odds were with the monks - for now. Van was talking quietly, his eyes glittering with cold authority.

  “Even if I knew where she was,” he was saying. “Why would I relinquish my property to the likes of you? I recognize no higher authority except the Abbot’s.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled from the shadows, the hidden monks. Jake almost felt glad the tandems had arrived - it meant that Van was forced to allocate more men to dealing with them, less to the search.

  “There’s no need for bloodshed,” Verity said. “Give us the duellist, give us the Jaj. That’s all we ask.”

  “And yet you ask for the world,” the Abbot sneered. “What makes you think you can waltz into an ancient, revered Nostromic facility and behave in such a manner?”

  Reed had said his piece, but Van was where the real power lay. The powerful monk approached Verity, towering over her. Jake’s sister looked up at the larger man with a blank expression. But Jake knew his sister better than anyone, better even than Sweet Jean. He saw traces of fear there - she knew that Van was more than capable of killing them all.

  Instinct compelled Jake to act in the moment.

  “Verity!” he yelled. She took a half-step back, but it was too late to avoid the attack. Van suddenly had a jagged knife in his hand, the kind used to disembowel animals. He plunged it into Verity’s abdomen and was forced to leave it there, as Fashon was already firing from the rear of the courtyard.

  Before Jake knew it he was sprinting. He descended the stairs five at a time, almost leaping down single flights. For the first time in his life he entered a battle without a plan of any kind - another sign that he was past it and needed to retire. Or die.

  But the violence proved to be frustratingly brief. By the time the duellist reached the shadowy alcoves on the ground floor, the stand-off had resumed. Firing had definitely taken place, as evidenced by the body of Fashon’s ginger-haired duellist. His head had been separated clean from his body and now sat at the base of the northern wall.

  Jake looked straight to the upper balconies. There, partially concealed by a balcony, a monk stood astride a plasma gatling. The kind of cannon that could eviscerate a courtyard full of people within seconds.

  Jake’s heart sank. The jig was up. Now that he’d taken several steps into the courtyard there was no escape.

  14

  Fashon regarded Jake with intense interest, showing no sign of grief for his fallen comrade. Jake had been dreading this moment for a long time, but had never pictured it in these circumstances. The older brother blessedly kept his mouth shut. Even he knew better than to engage in personal discussions at such a critical moment.

  Jake could feel several pairs of eyes on him as he knelt beside Verity. Sweet Jean had the other side and barely registered Jake’s arrival. She was methodically checking her lover’s life signs whilst pressing a hand firmly against the ugly wound.

  “Unless that blade was laced, she’ll live,” Jake said. It wasn’t just blind hope either - he’d seen plenty of wounds in his time and Verity’s, though ugly, was eminently treatable. Van had gone for a showy kill but Verity’s half step back had denied him the leverage required to tease out her guts. Verity’s bowel was still intact, otherwise they’d all smell it. Van stood over them, enjoying Jake’s brotherly concern.

  “Well look at that,” he purred. “All the Le Sondre siblings in a barrel.”

  Ignoring him, Jake watched Sweet Jean apply med gauze across the abdominal wound. Verity’s breath was shallow but she seemed calm enough and would be standing within minutes.

  “Indeed,” came Fashon’s voice. “Now that our family is reunited, we’ll be on our way.”

  Van looked at the cybomancer with disdain.

  “Now why would you try those cheap tricks on me?” the monk said. “We are immune to cybomancy in all its forms.”

  Before Jake knew it he was being dragged roughly to his feet. Van’s face was so close Jake could count the teeth that hadn’t yet rotted to the basal nerves. The man’s breath was a fetid mix of tobacco and rotten flesh.

  “Where’s my property?” he asked in a tone that threatened dire violence if the answer wasn’t to his satisfaction.

  “Safe,” Jake said, his eyes unwavering. “I told you - she’s coming with me.”

  A high-pitched whine resonated from somewhere inside the monastery. Van let Jake go and scanned the third level balconies. A quick, darting glance at a pair of monks was enough to send them scurrying into the stairwell. Now that had looked suspiciously like a telepathic command.

  “Let’s all leave together,” Fashon said grandly. “Think of the lives you might lead in the Caravan of Light. The Scholars would adore you! Consider how powerful the Nostroma might become if we all had your abilities.”

  “Save your tired rhetoric, cybomancer,” the Abbot said from his position at the front of the southern tunnel. “Our place is here and that’s where we’ll remain. Kill them, Van. Kill them all.”

  Van looked at the monk astride the gatling. No nod, just a look. Jake was on the verge of running for cover when the gunner was lifted by an unseen assailant and tossed into the courtyard. He landed with a sickening crunch, blood spattering Jake’s leather pants. Van dispatched monks to investigate what the hell was going on.

  “Jake,” Mandie said, appearing at the rear of the courtyard with Fusar. It looked as though they’d been captured. “I think that was your friend.”

  Jake blinked. Events were now spiraling beyond his understanding.

  “The Aegisi?” he asked, heading straight for his friends. Mandie nodded, as shocked as he was.

  Jake looked at Fashon for an explanation. All he got was a smug grin.

  The sound of falling masonry drew everybody’s attention. A horrific creature burst forth from the wall to the Abbot’s left, knocking the slight man over. The tube-shaped beast was several inches in diameter and wailing like a banshee. It’s skin was so pale that Jake thought he could see internal organs. It’s open maw was the stuff of nightmares. Three helical tiers of sharp little teeth and tattered, rotten gums. There were no eyes or other noticeable features. The thing might’ve had sonar or some kind of seismic detector.

  The gathered monks and civilians looked on in horror as the thrashing worm wrapped its maw around the Abbot’s legs. It began convulsing, its powerful muscles passing the man deeper into its gut. The Abbott screamed, a disturbing, haunting sound.

  “The acid in there is strong,” Fusar said faintly. Before their eyes, the worm’s maw snapped shut, cutting the Abbot off at the waist as if he were soggy tissue paper. His torso flopped to the stone with a cruel wet sound. For several moments Reed simply gazed at the many onlookers in shock. The worm continued to thrash, adjusting its body to accommodate the flesh it had consumed.

  At length the Abbot went deathly pale and lapsed into a coma he had no chance of recovering from.

  Furious, Van looked to his left and right, then straight at Fusar. His brethren advanced, truncheons in hand. There were too many to face here in the courtyard.

  “Stay tight,” Jake found himself saying. “Be wary of close plasma fire.” Plasma pistols had a nasty habit of flaring in the face of the user if the target was within a yard or so. Which is precisely where the monks intended to go. Jake herded Fusar into the center of a protective circle alongside the prone Verity. Then he joined Nobblar, Basko, Fashon, Mandie and Sweet Jane in a defensive perimeter.

  Fashon squeezed off several shots from his rapid-fire pistol, felling four of the monks. He may have had a litany of unforgiva
ble faults, but the man could shoot in a scrap. Jake squeezed off several rounds of his own, taking carnal joy in the fizzing scorch of energy meeting flesh. Enemy corpses began piling up, but still the monks advanced. They were steadfast in their attack, resolute in their fierce belief.

  Worm call reached a fever pitch, drowning out even the discordant pulse of plasma fire. Pausing to allow his pistols to recharge, Jake was almost knocked over by the stumbling Basko. The Nostroma pilot looked at Jake with uncharacteristic alarm. The butt of a combat knife protruded from his neck. It had pierced his carotid artery - Basko had less than a minute to live. Van grinned madly at Jake from across the melee.

  “Fusar is mine,” the monk growled. As two more worms entered the courtyard from the north tunnel, he laughed outright, finding joy in the unfolding chaos. Basko was now lying still on the edge of the courtyard, his body half in shadow. Worms slithered through the inky blackness. A maw latched onto Basko’s head and dragged him into the gloom. Jake told himself to focus, shoving aside the troubling image.

  The defensive circle was ragged and vulnerable. Verity had gotten to her feet and was even peeling off the odd shot, but Basko’s loss had opened a hole that could be breached at any moment. Nobblar was showing strength beyond his years in grappling toe-to-toe with Van. The monk was trying to plant a stiletto into the cybomancer’s jaw.

  Verity glanced at Jake. “Lay some smoke down, for fuck’s sake.”

  A sound idea. It was a fine, windless afternoon and a smoke bomb might allow them to flee. Jake wasted no time in releasing one of his grey pellets, filling the courtyard with a thick mat of fumes. He glimpsed Fashon clubbing a monk with his own truncheon. Sweet Jean’s tall, lithe figure moved through the maelstrom with grave purpose. A hideous whinny sounded from somewhere to Jake’s right - probably a worm crossing the courtyard.

  The clatter of masonry to the northeast suggested that the belfry was unstable. After all, the building sat on a treacherous soil profile lanced by newly-flooded worm tunnels.