Song of Edmon
Page 34
It’s true that Vaarkson bribed Shank to join him here. It’s also true that I knew Vaarkson would do that and made an offer Shank couldn’t refuse. Shank’s not stupid. All the Picker leader has to do is sit back and see how this plays out. If I win, I’ve offered him the leadership of the Haulers and whatever payment Vaarkson was to give anyway. If I lose, Vaarkson may be mad, but he won’t make a move against Shank. Shank will say that he was abiding by the social contract of the Pantheon’s code duelo, which echoes even here: one never interferes in a direct challenge. He may incur Vaarkson’s anger, but it’s doubtful the Hauler will seek immediate retribution. Either way, Shank wins. At least that’s what he thinks.
“I know how this is going to end, Bruul,” I say. “You’re a bully from the arcologies, always bigger and stronger. You fought in the Under Circuit, maybe won some matches. That makes you think you’re a dangerous man? You’ve never faced what real Combat has to offer. Ask Goth of the Citadel if his size mattered. You’re nothing more than a street fish. I was born for this.”
“You cunt!” he says, spitting.
“Have it your way.” I smile.
“You’re an outcast. Only one of my gang or a fellow foreman can make a challenge,” Vaarkson growls.
He’s playing on technicalities, which means he’s scared. If he were certain, he’d just kill me and be done with it. They all see it.
“I was a Picker once,” I say nonchalantly.
“I make Leontes my second.” Jinam Shank detaches from his rope and lands on the floor. “Do you accept his challenge, Vaarkson?”
“Kill him, Bruul!” hecklers from the Haulers shout. “Kill him and rape that sarfish!”
“Pipe!” Vaarkson calls for a weapon.
Challenge accepted. Might makes right on all of Tao, whether with armies or prisoners. The ability to control and kill is the only thing that allows one man to lead and others to follow.
That’s how civilization was born, Phaestion once told me. It’s almost a relief to accept this. Win or die is the nature of the universe. Then why do I feel hollow inside?
Someone, I don’t know who, puts a metal pipe into my hand. I twirl it, testing the weight. Vaarkson grins. “I’m looking forward to fucking your dead corpse before I bury you.”
I try to think of something witty to retort. I figure silence is probably better for effect anyway. The big man lunges forward, swinging the pipe like a club. He has no finesse but incredible power. I leap to avoid his swing, and the pipe connects with the ice of the ground. Chunks of dirt and snow explode with the blow. The sound reverberates off the cavern walls. The crowd gasps at the sheer force.
True conflicts are often decided within seconds. He who hits first usually wins. I don’t even want to attempt to block one of Vaarkson’s unwieldy swings lest my weapon shatter, or worse, I do.
“What’s the matter, Baldy Patch?” he sneers. “Afraid to face me head-on?” He swings for my head. I duck. He unleashes again, and I sidestep. A third swing aims for my knees, and I leap and roll. I come up, my “blade” at the ready.
The circle of onlookers tightens. The backswing of Vaarkson’s pipe catches one of his Haulers in the skull, smashing it like a melon. Blood spatters the crowd, and they whoop with delight. The big man lumbers forward, and his weight transfers heavily to his lead leg as he swings.
Gather intelligence. Hit hardest at the point of weakness. Never engage unless victory is assured. Faria’s words come back to me.
“No clever words now, Baldy Patch?”
He steps forward again transferring all of his weight to his front foot. My chance. I step aside and flick my weapon at his knee, blowing it out. He crashes to the ground like a sack of bricks.
With one stroke, I’ve won. I stand over him, savoring the final moments of his desperate life. The crowd hoots. They’re about to witness the death of the world they know. Vaarkson crawls through the muck trying to reach the pipe that has fallen from his grasp. I calmly smash my boot onto the top of his hand, breaking it. He stares up with tears of terror streaming from his black eyes.
“Mercy, Leontes,” he says, gasping.
“The great Bruul Vaarkson, foreman of the Haulers, asks me for mercy?” I spread my arms wide, addressing the crowd. “Shall I give it to him?”
Vaarkson lashes out with his fist, but I feel the shift in his body before his synapses even fire. I hear his thought to strike long before he reaches me. I deflect the attempt easily, and my finger snaps downward toward the big man’s jugular. I touch him at just the right point for the effect that I want and step back.
“There’s your mercy,” I whisper.
It’s operatic, really. I remember the first time The Maestro played Die Walkure’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” Its thundering melody plays for me now in this moment of triumph.
Vaarkson trembles. He clutches his neck as the veins in his forehead bulge and his face turns purple. He tries to scream, but no sound escapes his lips. Instead, a geyser of blood spews from his open mouth. Then his ears and eyes. He bathes the crowd in a shower of red. The crowd’s chants climax with the grotesquery. I raise my fist in victory as Vaarkson collapses in a pool of his own blood.
“I am the foreman of the Haulers!” I call out. “Any who challenge me step forward!”
My words are met with silence.
“Leontes rules the Haulers, and I the Pickers!” Jinam Shank grabs my other hand and raises it to the sky, but the crowd remains quiet.
“No.” I smile. “The Pickers are also mine.”
Shank’s eyes narrow as I continue. “I think it’s time for new leadership in the Picker Gang, too. Strong leadership. Don’t you agree, Shank?”
I turn to the scarred man, who shakes with anger. I’ve just called him out for the leadership of his gang after everyone witnessed me murder a man twice his size in a most gruesome fashion.
Before it was just an accident. Now it’s just as my father wished. I’ve become a killer. For Nadia. For my mother. For revenge!
“Don’t be stupid, Shank. Submit or suffer Vaarkson’s fate,” I whisper.
The scars on Shank’s face pucker as he scowls. He can’t beat me, but he’s wrestling with pride. To submit is worse than death. His hand shakes as it hovers near his belt, where he carries a shiv. Can he grab it and stab the plastic into my guts before I can react? That’s what he’s asking himself.
I watch his eyes, his body language, but he has already made the decision. He drops to a knee. “The leadership of the Picker Gang is yours, Leontes.”
The crowd cheers. I look down at Shank. Part of me would reach a hand down, stand the groveling man to his feet, clap an arm around his shoulder, and create an ally out of him. Yet Shank has just tainted himself by Tao’s laws. I must have no part of the stain. I can’t have a man resentful, waiting for his moment to knife me in the back, either. Soon, he’ll meet with some unfortunate accident that will remove him as any future threat. I’d rather not kill anyone, but I’m also not sorry enough to stop it.
“One more thing,” I call out. “Bring me the one called Toshiro Kodai.” There’s a rustle within the ranks and the scrawny islander, who I once thought was to be my only friend in the frozen wastes, steps forward.
“Foreman,” he says. He smiles, but his eyes show fear.
“Toshi, when I came to the Wendigo, we were friends. I saved your life.” He nods, hoping I will absolve him of his crimes. “Then you betrayed my friendship. You must be punished.”
“Edmon, please!” He kneels to grab ahold of my leg and beg, but I kick him in the face before he can reach me. He falls into the snow and muck. I spit on him.
“You’re not worth my effort. I’ve promised I wouldn’t kill you. I keep my word. What man will rid me of this meddlesome worm?”
Carrick steps forward.
“Carrick, I make you my second. Kill him.”
Is this necessary? I ask myself. Vaarkson was necessary. Didn’t I promise myself I would be better?
CHAPTER 24
CABALETTA SEGUNDA
Months pass. Plans come to fruition. Carrick from the Pickers and a man named Korban from the Haulers sit before me. They lead the gangs publicly while I command in secret. I’ve beaten all challengers. It’s no longer vague fear that motivates followers, but utter faith in my ruthlessness.
“The Smelters and Welders are with us,” Korban says, nodding.
“And the Trainmen?” I ask.
Carrick grunts. “They’ll halt the cars, but they refuse to fight. They’re still afraid to go against The Warden.”
“This will be for nothing if we don’t unite. The Warden relies on divisions between us. It’s all of us, together, or nothing.”
“And if we win? Then what?” Korban asks.
“Then we rule.”
“Aren’t we just inviting the Pantheon to simply bury this place with soldiers?” Carrick asks.
“The nobility of Tao doesn’t care who owns these mines so long as production continues. We’ll make this place more profitable than The Warden ever could. If that fails, we know these tunnels better than any Meridian soldier. We’ll retreat into darkness, letting cold and guerrilla warfare wear them down. They sent us here to die. Now they’ll deal or die themselves.”
This is the message that I bring the men over and over: They’ve forgotten us, thrown away the key. We either remain on our knees as slaves or stand and fight as men.
“If the trains are stopped, then I don’t need their men,” I admit. “But tell the Trainmen foreman that if he refuses to fight, he’s forfeiting their right to spoils, and his right to lead. I’ll challenge him if need be.”
“You’d call him out?” Carrick asks.
“Is there any other way?” Thus far, I’ve managed to avoid having to kill every single foreman. Usually, the mere mention of challenge is enough to spur them to join. Yet I’m willing to do the killing if necessary. That’s why they follow me.
Carrick nods. “It’ll be done by workday’s end.”
I look to the old man, who sits like a statue by the fire. He no longer moves and rarely speaks. His energies are concentrated on keeping himself alive. Fear of death drives him. Perhaps he thinks whatever it is we’d find on the lost world of Miral will save him? I’ve told the men Faria’s an oracle who is imbued with magical powers to predict the future, that his silence presages the final battle.
“It’s time.” The words croak from his leathery lips.
I nod in agreement. “We attack at dawn.”
The plan is simple. Upon my signal, the Trainmen abandon their posts, bottlenecking everyone in the upper cavern before the workday begins. The Warden will vacate his private quarters to investigate. The Haulers have been slowly smuggling tools from the lockers for weeks. They’ll distribute the picks and axes, ropes and cleats to the men. They’re not weapons, but in the hands of the willing they’ll be effective enough. Once The Warden is exposed, the gangs will overwhelm the guards, capture The Warden, and “persuade” him to pass ownership of the Wendigo to me. My father will have no choice but to meet me in person. I will challenge him to his face, and vengeance will be mine.
I finish my morning meditations, take a deep breath, and look at Faria, who’s even more gaunt than ever. “Today’s the day, Master,” I say. “Soon I’ll rule, and you’ll escape.”
“This is our last chance,” he adds quietly, staring blindly into the pale licks of flame.
I exit the hut and walk through the shantytown of the Wendigo to meet destiny. The ramshackle buildings that line the feces-ridden alleys will be a thing of the past. We’ll clean this place under my leadership and build proper domiciles. We’ll encourage true shops to open and offer incentive to work, rather than the end of the whip. We’ll claim our independence from the College of Electors. Faria will take a ship off-world and find his treasure. All will be well. It’s a beautiful delusion.
“Edmon!” Korban runs to meet me.
“Why aren’t you with the other Haulers?” I ask.
“The Warden and his men were already in the streets before the morning bell!”
They know.
“Have the weapons been distributed?” I ask.
“There was no time,” he pants. “The Trainmen have been apprehended. Carrick’s running interference with the Pickers, trying to delay The Warden as long as he can, but they’re all looking for you. What do we do?”
The plan has been smashed, and there aren’t many places to hide. Who betrayed me?
“The plan will proceed, but not today. If I’m taken to the Citadel or killed, the gangs must stay together. That’s the only way. Do you understand?” I say vehemently.
“Without you, there’s no truce. No one’s strong enough to maintain your position.”
“Faria will do it.” I try to keep calm, but there’s an edge in my voice.
“The old man?” Korban asks.
“He’s stronger than you know,” I fire back. “There’s no time to debate.” I turn back to the igloo.
“Where are you going?” Korban hisses.
“To get the healer,” I respond.
“That’s the first place they’ll look. You’ll never make it.”
I wave him off and stride forward. I gather energy in my belly. They’ll have stationed guards. I’ve kept my true abilities secret from The Warden. That will give me a temporary advantage. They won’t be prepared for what I can do, and I’ve been itching to let loose.
I open my senses. Heartbeats. Three of them. The Warden has underestimated me. I’m going to look forward to this. I smell something, too. Gas? They’re lacing the area with an irritant. I suck in my breath. I may not be able to completely protect my eyes and mucosal membranes, but I’ve fought without seeing before.
I round the corner and am hit with the toxic miasma. I move with the swiftness of a shark and am on the guards before they see me. The first throws a punch wildly. I hear it and duck. I slam a short fist into his gut. He collapses like a puppet whose strings have been cut. My fingers lash out and tap the back of his neck as he falls. He’ll be paralyzed for the next hour.
I feel the next guard’s hand grab my arm. I break it. A subtle movement of my hips and I toss the man to the ground. A quick tap to his neck and his body goes limp, too.
The third pulls his humbaton from a holster and fires. Damn. The sound will alert others, which means I’ve lost time. My foot connects with the side of his knee, destroying the joint. He falls into my hands, which close around his neck in a simple choke. He passes out. All remain alive but down for the count.
I hurry into the hut. “Master, they knew. We must go quickly.” I hurry to Faria’s side. I can hear the crackling of his joints as I help him off the ground.
“Boy,” the old man croaks. “It’s too late.”
“We can still make it,” I insist.
“Fool!” the dark-skinned man barks as we exit the hut.
I drag him with me through the haze, but when my eyes see again, they’re confronted by the truth. The Warden stands at the head of over a hundred men wearing the colors of midnight and silver—Leontes guards. The gang foremen of the Haulers, Pickers, Smelters, and Welders are on their knees in front of him. Alberich steps from behind The Warden’s bloated body.
“Alberich?” I can’t hide my astonishment.
The seneschal appraises me as he addresses me. “Edgaard is dead.”
I’ve horribly miscalculated. I should have known the Combat was coming.
“Who?” I ask. My thoughts are for the little boy with the square face and warm blue eyes.
“Sigurd of House Flanders in the aristeia,” Alberich replies gravely. The aristeia, the final duel between the last two contestants. “It’s time to come hom
e.”
I’m a child again, too frightened to move. However, I find my tongue. “Drown in the depths,” I respond.
Alberich nods. “Take him.” House Leontes’s men step forward to bind me.
“No!” My shout erupts like volcano fire, and everything explodes in chaos around me. The entirety of the Wendigo turns on its head in riotous calamity. I’m the eye of the storm, first here then there, throwing fists in every direction. I’ll not be taken ever again. I’d rather die.
My boot slams a Leontes guard’s helmet, smashing his face to pudding. I feel the sting of a humbaton pulse rip my shoulder, and I drop. I snag a pickax I find on the frozen earth and hurl it in the direction of the shooter. End over end, it whirls until the point thunks into the neck of Greelo. His blood sprays like a fountain as he collapses in the snow.
I punch, I kick, I claw, and I bite. A horde piles on top of me. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I don’t need to see to fight. One guard goes down, then another, but there are too many. I’m buried under a hill of people. Something sharp strikes the back of my skull. All goes black for a moment. That second is all they need to subdue me. My hands and feet are bound.
“Stand back from him now!” Alberich screams.
Something is jabbed into my arm. An urchin needle? My body goes numb. I can see and hear, but I cannot move. Memories of my marriage to Miranda Wusong flash through my head. I look inward to try and counteract the poison, but it works through my system like wildfire. The battle is already over.
The rebellion of the Wendigo is crushed. Guards drag me away, limp and bruised. Through the slits of swollen eyes, I see the remaining foremen on their knees, bullets blasting through the backs of their heads in a spray of red mist. Faria, though, breaks free from my father’s men. He stands before Alberich.
“You have what you wanted. Patriarch Leontes promised a reward?”
Faria?
“Edric Leontes thanks you for your service. That’s reward enough,” Alberich responds.
My father’s men grab my mentor. He fights at first, but he’s not the man he once was. A humbaton strike to the old man’s midsection doubles him over. I lose sight of him under the beatings of my father’s men as I’m pulled away.