Deliverers (The Chaos Shift Cycle Book 4)

by TR Cameron

  Chapter Sixteen

  His team arrived at the emperor's personal quarters without further incident. They’d known that he would flee to that location in response to an attack thanks to a member of the palace guard they’d captured days earlier. He had been quite forthcoming prior to his death. On the opulent bed lay Enjaaran's concubines—four of them with their eyes half lidded. He raised an eyebrow, and his seneschal strode over to investigate.

  "Poison, hierarch, and not ours."

  Kraada sighed and approached the women. "Your loyalty, though misplaced, speaks well of you. Is the substance painless?"

  One woman nodded. She and the others appeared to be struggling against the need to sleep. He touched her cheek. For only a second, he debated killing them. A small frown covered his lips as he reflected that another time there would’ve been no debate.

  "Guard, stay here to oversee their final moments. Everyone else, move forward."

  They moved from the bedroom to the main office, and his team fanned out to inspect the walls by touch and sensor. It didn’t take long to find what they knew was there, thanks to the cathedral's archivist and his unending quest for knowledge. The captain of the guard flicked the catch and was quick enough to block the poisoned dart that flew at him from the trapped switch. A small section of the wall clicked and swung slightly open.

  The seneschal led the way with Kraada behind him and the guard captain trailing. He walked into a rough-hewn corridor, carved from the stone of the planet. As they advanced, they faced other doors and other traps, but surmounted each thanks to the detailed construction records stored in the cathedral. Finally, an opening ahead revealed a brighter light. They entered a large octagonal room, outfitted as a safety bunker with shelves and supplies, an armory, and a communication terminal.

  The emperor stood within a protective circle of guards in the middle of the room. The raised weapons of the cathedral's other team, led by Variin, denied their escape. The assassin herself blocked the lone exit from the room, a tunnel that accessed both the defense center and the cathedral. Had the military been able to mobilize against their incursion, they would've found church guards waiting for them.

  "Enjaaran, you should’ve known better," Kraada said with a slow shake of his head. "Variin, clear this trash."

  The assassin attacked, and she was a pleasure to behold. Both hands emerged from under her cloak as she launched throwing daggers at two guards. The blades flew true, striking the space between throat armor and helmet, piercing just under the ear and into the brain to drop them instantly. Her hands circled in a continuation of the throw to draw two long daggers from her belt. She flowed toward the guards and used them as a defense against one another, moving through lines of sight so quickly they couldn’t fire without hitting their own.

  Even the best body armor, like that worn by the church's forces, had vulnerabilities, and she knew them all. Sweeping forward, she knocked one guard’s arm up, exposing his lightly armored armpit to the thrust of her knife. A side kick dislocated another guard's knee. Suddenly only four guards remained viable. She ducked and rolled on her side to avoid their fire, now that the lines were clearer. She stopped and leapt to her feet again between two, her knives seeking the juncture between thigh and groin. One blade was true, and she withdrew it to a spray of arterial sapphire. The other scraped along a protective plate, and the guard smashed the stock of his rifle down at her. She accepted the blow with an upraised arm that circled out to deflect the power of the smash. She continued the motion to mount an attack, placing her hand on the ground and using the momentum of the block to bring both feet around and kick as she cartwheeled. Her heels connected solidly with his jaw and head, dropping him to the floor.

  Then there were two. She threw her knife at one to distract him while she leapt at the other man. Variin wrapped her legs around his torso and carried him to the ground where her dagger point plunged into his throat. Without rising, she twisted and hurled one last throwing knife, which embedded itself in the final guard's eye. He stood for an instant as if stunned, then fell bonelessly. She rolled off the corpse at her feet and sauntered back to her protective position by the door, ignoring the emperor, who’d done nothing but cower during the battle.

  "It’s time, Enjaaran Velt," Kraada said, stepping forward. His body and mind were aflame, and the religious fervor overwhelmed him. "You may choose your weapon, and we’ll fight here, within these lines, for the leadership of Xroeshyn people." He gestured back as a guard entered the room with impeccable timing. "And the loser will be beheaded by your family's own relic, the executioner's tool that predates the axe. Isn't that what you told me?"

  Kraada was exalted as he awaited the response from the pale and cringing royal before him.

  The church forces drew back as one to create a space in the center for the battle to come. With something that looked like resignation his eyes, Enjaaran quit cowering and stood tall. "After your unclean blood is spilled upon it, I’ll have this chamber sealed up for all eternity," the emperor said.

  Kraada laughed at him, sparing a moment to pull the majority of the quills still sticking in his armor free and cast them aside. "And when your blood stains the floor, Enjaaran Velt, the last of your line, this place will become a landmark. Children will visit to see where your futile reign ended, and the true ascension of the Xroeshyn people began."

  The jibe hit home, resulting in a narrowing at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t reply, but instead accepted the Enjaaran family's heirloom weapon from Kraada's guard.

  "Variin, please set your swords aside for the emperor's use, should he find the legacy of his family too heavy a burden to carry." Kraada imagined a smirk on his protector's face as she freed her blades, one long and straight, the other medium and curved, and rested them against the wall nearest Enjaaran.

  As the emperor warmed up, spinning the hand-and-a-half blade through a series of figure eights, Kraada turned and accepted his own weapon. The hammer was enormous, a massive newsteel head at the end of a meter and a half shaft of leather-wrapped newsteel. It was terribly balanced, and far from his favorite. What it did have, however, was the length to match the emperor's weapon, thus eliminating the benefit of his longer reach. Kraada, too, swirled his weapon in figure eights to limber up his arms. He carefully hid the pain caused by each pull on the wound that Drovaa Jat had given him so long ago, and the emperor's majordomo had re-aggravated. It had never healed properly, and only constant effort kept it from being a significant vulnerability. As it was, his reach with that arm was slightly shorter, which resulted in an asymmetrical pattern that threatened to slide out of control.

  With a growl, he stopped, grabbed the mace around the center of the shaft and gave it two spins with his wrists, then reversed in the other direction. He rested it on his shoulder and turned to face his enemy.

  The emperor was watching, his own sword at rest in a matching pose.

  "To all assembled, hear my words. Should Enjaaran Velt defeat me, you’re to swear loyalty to him, and follow his orders without question. No retribution is permitted. Even here, deep in the bedrock of Xroesha, the gods are watching. They’ll deliver the victory to he who deserves it."

  "A pretty speech, hierarch. You’ve always been ever so talented with words. It’s in your actions and your continuous failures, that the gods no doubt find fault."

  With a dismissive nod, Kraada was ready. "Enough of your idiocy, it’s time for your reign to end." He waded in, leading with an overhand smash.

  The emperor slipped to the side, unexpectedly nimble, and delivered a speedy side kick into Kraada's ribs. The blow glanced from his armor, but served to compromise his balance, making him step away at an angle. He swept his mace around in front of him just in time to stop the emperor's sword as it came across, seeking to separate his top from his bottom half. Kraada let the weight of the hammer's head pull it down, the shaft sliding along the blade until the slab of newsteel arrived to capture the blade and take it to the floor.
He pivoted and smashed his elbow in at the emperor's head.

  The speed with which his enemy ducked surprised him. The emperor turned the dodge into a roll, coming up two meters away with his sword in an angled guard position.

  "You're slow, hierarch. Too much meditating, not enough training?"

  Kraada circled, again spinning his mace in lazy arcs before him. "If you played a deeper game, Enjaaran, you’d know the opening moves are simply tests to gauge the enemy's response. However, since you strategize like a child, you no doubt believed that attack was in earnest."

  With a growl, the emperor charged. He flowed smoothly forward on bent legs, stabbing at Kraada's heart at full extension. A sidestep and block with the shaft of the hammer was countered by the emperor's reversed elbow smash, which Kraada barely intercepted with his own upraised forearm. The defensive maneuver caused him to lose control of his foe's blade. Enjaaran dragged it down Kraada's leg, scoring the armor and opening a gash in his boot and the leg beneath it.

  Kraada danced back, drops of blood following him. Enjaaran pressed, swinging his blade from low to high in a diagonal cut. Kraada met it with a smash of his mace against the blade, forcing the man to twist lest he lose his grip. Kraada followed up with a front kick, stepping forward and driving the ball of his foot into the emperor's ribs. His enemy staggered back with a cough, and Kraada thought he saw pain in the man's eyes.

  "Do you wish to give into the inevitable and die with honor, here and now, Enjaaran Velt? This is the only time I’ll make this offer."

  The emperor responded with another attack, this time running bodily at Kraada, his sword held at an angle that would pierce his shoulder if he did nothing to avoid it. Kraada gave ground. Slipping back in perfect balance, he dropped into a low stance and slid a hand to each end of his mace shaft. He caught the blade on the haft and pushed it high, stepping in to deliver another body kick.

  The blow never landed, as the emperor fell to his back and delivered his own kick to Kraada's knee. He saw it coming and twisted an instant before it landed to avoid a break, but the pain was enough to take him to the ground.

  He rolled away instinctively, and slammed the mace down to lever himself to his feet, raising an arm to a blocking position. His opponent had done the same, and now they faced one another from opposite ends of the room, 180° from their starting positions.

  Kraada hobbled, using the hammer as a crutch, and made his way to the left. Enjaaran held one arm tight against his ribs, holding his weapon lower than usual, but still in a crosswise guard, and maintained the distance between them.

  What had to happen was clear, and both men shifted to lighter weapons, taking a moment to warm up and collect themselves. As Kraada looked down, and saw the stain on the mace from the majordomo's broken skull, a grin overtook him. In it, he saw the gods' promise of his victory, the pattern of the blood seeming to resemble the icon of his patron goddess that was tattooed on his chest. He raised the mace—touching the images together on either side of his armor—and said a prayer of thanks.

  When he opened his eyes, his opponent was already on the move. The emperor had taken his moment of distraction to dart forward, leading with both swords, circling them out then in and stabbing down. Despite the wide-open torso of his foe, attacking would leave him pinioned by the descending blades. Instead, he stepped to his right and brought his mace around in a circular block to engage the longsword in the emperor's left hand and redirect it away from him. As he brought the mace across his body, he turned the momentum into a spin. He pivoted on his front foot and aimed another elbow at Enjaaran's head.

  Kraada had to give the idiot credit, he’d at least prepared for this battle, and knew this was a favored move of the hierarch. The emperor stepped back to avoid the blow and darted in to bring his blades to bear.

  At that moment, Kraada launched his real attack. He brought his feet together and pistoned a side kick into the emperor's undamaged ribs, knocking him back a step. He set that foot down and used it as a fulcrum to spin his mace at full extension, snapping his arm around and slamming the hammer into the undefended ribs on Enjaaran's far side. The man cried out and collapsed inward, falling to the ground but rolling away from the stomp Kraada aimed at his head.

  Kraada retreated and solemnly stood, watching his opponent gather himself. The emperor was coughing now, and blood spewed from between his lips with each convulsion. His eyes were shiny with pain, and his mouth twisted in a grimace of agony and anger and, Kraada hoped, self-recrimination.

  "I’m coming," he intoned, and walked forward slowly. The emperor's gaze snapped to his opponent, and he brought his swords up to guard with his upper arms pressed over his ribs, trying to hold in the burning torment.

  Kraada flicked his mace out, almost nonchalantly, and it floated into the emperor's short sword to knock it from his grasp. The man jumped back, just a little, but locked his eyes on Kraada's own.

  With a nod, Kraada struck down with a diagonal backhand that the emperor struggled to block. The mace made contact with Enjaaran's blade, but his foe's strength was insufficient to stop the blow, so it slid down to shatter his hand.

  Kraada stepped forward and delivered a vicious front kick to his adversary's abdomen that sent him flying back against the wall. The hierarch crossed the room and handed his mace to Variin. The assassin accepted it in her black-gloved hands, as gently as if it was a relic of one of the gods.

  Perhaps it was, or might be, Kraada thought as he traversed the space to pick up the other relic in the room, the executioner's sword of the Enjaaran line.

  He walked to the emperor and stood over him. The beaten man stared at him with hatred, but kept his jaw locked against the turmoil within. Without a word, Kraada positioned the blade at his throat, and centimeter by centimeter pushed it down at a diagonal until it had claimed yet another royal life.

  He let the sword fall and turned to face his people. In her raspy voice his assassin was the first to intone, "Hail Kraada Tak, Hierarch and Emperor of all Xroesha."

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Washington, DC ripped out of the mysterious physics of the wormhole and into the Xroeshyn assault on Starbase 8. Reports rang out from all the stations, but the only one he cared about was whether or not she was here.

  "No sign of the Pandora, Commander," reported Lieutenant Michael Matthews from the tactical station.

  "Dammit," Cross growled. He trained his eyes on the battle display to see an unexpectedly low number of enemy ships.

  "How many are there?"

  "Only twenty-four, including the fortress," replied Flores from sensors.

  "That seems like far too few."

  "Agreed," said Jacobs from off to his left.

  "Several of them are of a type we haven’t seen before. Maybe that's the difference?" asked Flores.

  Cross shrugged. "No way to know, I guess. It still feels wrong."

  "All ships, this is Admiral Valentina Ferro of the Anchorage. Arrange in our secondary pre-planned battle formation. Forty-eight ships in the first rank. Twenty in the second. The flagships and carriers will make up the third rank. Launch fighters immediately."

  Cross waved at Lieutenant Lee, and the helm officer started them toward their destination.

  "Fitzpatrick, direct line to Admiral Ferro please."

  Several seconds later, she replied, "Go, Commander."

  "Admiral, does it strike you as suspicious that there are only twenty-four ships in the sector, and none that we’ve identified as command ships?"

  "Commander Cross, it may surprise you to learn that many other people in United Atlantic League also possess strategic awareness. Do you have a point?"

  "Only that this feels like a trap, Admiral," Cross replied through gritted teeth.

  Ferro paused for a moment, and Cross imagined she was gathering vitriol for her next statement. He was surprised when she said, "You may be on to something, but we're not going to abandon our initial plan. However, you may take a ship and freelance
during the battle. Just stay out of our firing lines and try not to get destroyed."

  Cross's lips twitched, and he replied, "Affirmative, Admiral."

  The ships of the human fleet, now operating as a unified force that blended UAL and AAN decks without distinction, arranged itself as ordered by the admiral. The Beijing was tasked to the rear as part of the carrier support, so Cross requested the London to operate as his partner. Her captain signaled in the affirmative, and the pair set a curving course around the outside of the battle lines.

  "Sensors, keep an eye out for Kate and for the wench." A suppressed chuckle ran across the bridge at Cross's reference to the commander of the Ruby Rain. They all knew the two ships would one day face off again. It seemed inevitable.

  The fight began with simultaneous launches from each side, the battle display filling with designators for torpedoes that packed the gap between the forces. The aliens drove forward and reorganized in clusters of four that split off on separate vectors but continued to advance.

  There was a wash of energy in one corner of the screen, and three ships burst into being: the Chicago, under the command of Admiral James Okoye, and two escorts. Ferro welcomed the new arrivals with a terse, "About time, Okoye. Take position with the other support ships in the rear of our lines."

  "Affirmative," responded Okoye, suppressed amusement in his voice at the other admiral's attitude.

  "Incoming," warned Matthews, and Cross saw that one cluster was headed in their direction. "Evasive pattern Omega," he ordered. "Let's drag him across our side's firing line."

  The Washington heeled to port, and Lee ramped up to top speed to get a jump on the aliens. The enemy vectored to follow, but broke off again before they came under the guns of Cross's allies.