Shadow Fall (The Shadow Saga)

by J. L. Lyon

  Alexander’s eyes shifted down to the open drawer where his black Gladius lay. Silver letters engraved on the hilt declared, Libertas. McCall surged forward and so did he, hand diving into the drawer for the Gladius and deftly moving it into a defensive position in time to block McCall’s killing blow. He stared at the old admiral over the crossed white spikes, “Well played, Amicus. Not even I suspected you a traitor.”

  “The only traitor here is you, Libertas,” McCall spat. “You are a disgrace to your country and the name worn by your blade. You know nothing of liberty, nor did you ever.”

  “You came for my life, old man,” Alexander’s eyes flashed. “You should have known never to let me reach my Gladius.” He pushed away from him and struck at McCall with speed, feeling the rush of battle flow through him, blood pumping with adrenaline and his chest filled with the sweet, glorious elation of battle. So long since he had felt it, trapped up here in this pillar running a government, and how he had missed it. His elation spurred him to laughter as he dueled with the admiral, their blades a whir of white light barely visible to the naked eye.

  McCall held his own against the attack, and both men fought with a skill the new Specters could only have dreamed about. Theirs was a battle of giants, masters of the blade whose every nuanced move was countered by an opposing strike. But the admiral had the edge: he had been training his new recruits for months, while Alexander could measure the time since his practical use of the Gladius in years. A sideways swipe hit its mark, and the tip of Amicus sliced into the skin of Alexander’s left shoulder.

  The MWR cried out in pain but fought through it boldly, gaining more and more momentum as his muscles remembered the old art of swordplay. In his youth only one man had rivaled him, and that man was dead. He would not allow a second-rate swordsman like McCall to defeat him. The old man was better than he remembered, however—much better. If the battle lasted much longer Alexander’s wounded shoulder would be the end of him, for it already complained louder with every movement.

  And then the impossible happened. Their blades collided hard and a blinding white light filled the room. Alexander felt his blade give way, and a terrible noise rent the air like a hundred panes of glass all shattered in the same instant. He looked down at Libertas, lighter in his hand, and saw the remnants of a broken blade. The diamond armor flickered for a second and died. McCall’s Gladius had sliced right through it. He stood up straight and faced the admiral, tossing his worthless weapon aside, “I see you kept some upgrades to yourself.”

  “The secrets we keep close are often the ones that save our lives,” McCall said. “Advice that fortunately, you will not live to learn.”

  Alexander knew himself for a proud man, but he was not a fool when it came to the odds of battle. Thus when Admiral McCall drew back to land the final strike, he knew himself defeated. He closed his eyes, near laughter at the irony. For fifteen years he had been loathe to leave the walls of the palace for fear of his enemies’ retribution. Now he would die in his own room.

  But instead of a sword through his heart, the sound of a gunshot pierced his ears. His eyes snapped open in time to see Amicus fall from McCall’s fingers, and then the admiral himself crumpled to his knees. Grand Admiral Donalson stood behind him in the doorway, gun barrel still smoking.

  Alexander fought down his feelings of gratitude and turned his gaze upon McCall, who tried vainly to plug the exit wound in his chest. Blood spread over his hand and into his navy uniform, leaving no doubt that the wound was fatal. Alexander screwed his features into a look of disdain, and raised his boot to the admiral’s shoulder. He pushed the old man onto his back and bent to retrieve the fallen Gladius, setting its point against his throat even as he struggled for life.

  “Who are you working for, old man?” Alexander demanded. “Silent Thunder was finished after Jonathan Charity, and they couldn’t have come back without help—more help than any number of my traitorous nobles could provide. Who is it? The Argentineans? Wellington? Not even you would stoop so low as to work with the Persians. Tell me, you old fool!”

  McCall let out a stream of rasping laughter, “You are the fool, Patrick. You, and all those who follow your madness. Your dog may have stopped me, but you are the target of a thousand foes, and he will not stop them all.”

  “Then they can all get in line,” Alexander smiled. “And join you in the grave.” He plunged Amicus into McCall’s chest, dealing the final blow with the man’s own blade. McCall let out one final breath, and died.

  Alexander withdrew the blade with a sickening lurch, then rose to his feet and cast it aside in disgust. The silence that reigned once the Gladius clattered to the floor was deafening, for not even Grand Admiral Donalson dared to speak.

  The MWR reached down for his destroyed Gladius and cursed. The blade of Libertas lay in thousands of pieces on the floor, along with several droplets of blood—both his and the admiral’s, mixed from their brief struggle. Red had trailed from his shoulder down his arm and to his hand in the last throes of the fight. “Pitiful old man. Couldn’t even give me a fair fight. I will have this reforged, Grand Admiral—see to it. And call someone up here to get this mess out of my sight!”

  “I will, sir,” Donalson replied, holstering his weapon. “A terrible revelation, that someone as high as McCall was actually in service to the rebellion.”

  Alexander shook his head, “I see that I am still surrounded by fools.”

  “Sir?”

  “Has it not occurred to you yet, Grand Admiral?” Alexander demanded. “A fine tactician you are. McCall has been in my service for twenty years—twenty! Yet somehow they got to him, turned him, and used him to assassinate me. The rebellion does not have that kind of power…they didn’t have it even with Jonathan Charity at the helm. Someone else is pulling the strings.”

  “The free lands have been content to remain in détente,” Donalson said. “Isn’t it more likely this came from the Ruling Council?”

  “No,” Alexander shook his head. “Their coup is new, planned for two, maybe three years now. Placing a sleeper agent this close to me took much more foresight than that.”

  “Sir,” Donalson pointed. “It seems you were wounded.”

  “A graze, nothing more,” Alexander replied. “I will have it seen to once Grace Sawyer has been brought back to me. She is on the loose in the palace, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I wondered at the absence of your guards,” Donalson said. “She must have been working in collusion with McCall.”

  “So it would seem,” he traced the four red lines on his cheek where she had struck him. “But she will not receive as clean a death as he did.”

  “This blackout must have been a part of their plan. With the power out the Crown Section is on lockdown. The soldiers who went out after her will not be able to come back the way they came. They will have to bring her up from the main entrance.”

  Alexander nodded. A meticulous plan, years in the making, all for a struggle that lasted only minutes. A plan that failed. He supposed there was some comfort in that. But was that all they had in store?

  He turned to the grand admiral, suddenly suspicious, “Why are you here? I didn’t send for you.”

  Donalson frowned and shifted his feet uncomfortably, “Sir, I’ve come across some rather disturbing information that I think you should hear. At this point it is an unconfirmed rumor, but we heard it from several sources during the purge—so many, in fact, that I wonder if there isn’t some truth to it.”

  “You raze half the city and all you have is a rumor?”

  “A dangerous rumor, if there is the slightest possibility it is true.”

  “Out with it then, Grand Admiral,” Alexander ordered. “We don’t have all day to discuss this.”

  Donalson closed his eyes and braced himself for an eruption of rage, “We have reason to believe that the son of Jonathan Charity lives.”

  37

  GRACE PAUSED ON THE staircase when the lights went ou
t, darkness spreading like a cancer throughout the entire city. The world descended into an ominous quiet, giving her an idea how the true end of civilization might feel. But she was too preoccupied to give in to terror.

  Soldiers came from below to cut off her escape, and she raised her eyes to the guards above as they continued to descend. Soon there would be nowhere else to run.

  “It’s over, rebel!” one of them called. “Surrender now and you can be returned to the MWR without making us hurt that pretty face!”

  “I’ll never surrender to you!” she yelled. “You’ll just have to kill me!” She leapt over the railing and—to the soldier’s horror—fell into oblivion. But just as they looked over the side to see her fall, her hand reached out and grabbed the rail of the next spiral as it came back around below. She shouted in pain as the shock reverberated through her arm, but managed to pull herself back onto the staircase.

  Moving on pure adrenaline, she ran the rest of the way down the spiral stairs and tumbled onto the level surface of the palace’s X structure. She rolled to her feet, not wanting to lose an inch of the lead she had on her pursuers, and bolted for the palace’s southern arm. Despair found her again as masses of soldiers poured out of the golden spike at the end of the X, headed straight for her.

  She gritted her teeth, knowing only one option was left. She pivoted on her heel and turned for the corner where the southern arm met the western, and continued on at full speed. She had no idea how long a drop it was, or if she could even survive. All she knew was that she would rather die than face what awaited her in Napoleon Alexander’s quarters. If McCall had succeeded, surely the soldiers would have bigger issues than her recapture. Perhaps this is how it was always meant to end, she despaired. At least I will go on my own terms. Through rasping breaths she spoke what she believed would be her last prayer, “God, forgive me.”

  The end of the palace was upon her, and she leapt with all her might.

  -X-

  No soldiers stood sentry over the ground entrance to the palace, and that put 301 on his guard. The sudden blackout was unlike anything he had ever seen in his time with the Great Army…something was horribly wrong. With a hand on his blade, 301 came within a few paces of the door and stopped. Still no soldiers. Was it possible the threat had come from within the palace?

  A shadow fell on him, and he looked up just in time to be knocked off his feet and pinned to the ground. In a panic he rolled with his assailant across the grass in a chaotic tangle of arms and legs, stopping only when he had gained the upper hand and pinned the attacker beneath him. But it was not the eyes of an enemy he found.

  “Grace,” he said, breathless. She lay on the green grass panting with exhaustion and trembling with adrenaline shock. Tears dried by the cold air stained her cheeks, and as she recognized him he saw a look of utter despair in her eyes, as though his very presence destroyed her.

  “No,” she shook her head, fresh tears falling down her cheeks. “No, you’re not supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to come back!” She cried out something unintelligible and pushed against him with surprising strength. He rolled away from her and came up onto his knees.

  “I gave myself up for you!” She exclaimed, struggling to even rise to her knees. “I sacrificed everything so you would have a chance to be free! Why have you come back here? Why?”

  Face flushed and eyes damp, Grace tried to rise to her feet and instead pitched forward. 301 moved quickly, catching her in his arms and supporting her weight as her entire body heaved against him. 301 just held her tightly, not knowing what else to do, and she buried her head in his shoulder, shaking with fear. This was not the Grace Sawyer he remembered. She had always seemed so strong and determined, but at the moment she was on the verge of total collapse. The thought of what must have happened to bring her to this point filled his heart with rage.

  He looked over his shoulder toward the line of defense centers to the south. They would never make it, not in broad daylight with the full force of the royal guard at their backs. At any moment the soldiers would come out those doors to take her back, and he realized with great regret that there was no other way. He had to allow it—to be seen to support it, even—if he was to get a better chance at saving her life.

  “You know why I’m here, Grace,” he whispered to her softly. “I swear to you upon all that is good in this world that I will not let you die in this place. But for now you must go back into their hands.”

  He felt her start shaking again, and she tightened her grip on him as though holding on for dear life. “I…can’t,” she spoke in a quivering whisper. “I can still feel his hands on me…like insects crawling beneath my skin. I can’t face what awaits me back there…I’d rather die, Eli. I’d rather die.”

  She sobbed into his uniform, and it was all he could do to keep his self-control. The rage ignited in his chest, spreading into the furthest reaches of his body with such fury that he felt he might literally burn. He knew in an instant that this anger could not have come from 301-14-A. This was Eli, and the valiant fire of righteous rage.

  I will cut them all down, he vowed. I will carve a path to that evil snake and put an end to his evils for all time.

  Then he would die, leaving her unprotected against a multitude of enemies. And that he could not do. But how to make her see that going back was the only way? That no matter what she had to face it was not worth surrendering her life? Anything he thought to say sounded hollow and meaningless. Be strong? Face your fears?

  She drew back, looking up at him through a shower of tears. And then she said something that cut him deep and stole the air from his lungs.

  “You could do it.”

  He met her gaze coldly, “Do what?”

  She drew the knife from his belt and closed his fist around it, “End it.”

  His eyes shifted between her and the knife, “What are you saying, Grace?”

  “It would be a mercy,” she pleaded. “If I live it will only be long enough to be tortured, humiliated, raped…and then…he means to burn me at the stake, Eli. Burn me alive!”

  Like my mother. A cruel fate for even the darkest of souls. He dropped the knife and took her by the shoulders, “Listen to me, Grace. I won’t let that happen, I promise you. You’re going to get through this. Just stop and think about what you’re asking me!”

  The palace doors burst open and soldiers filed out in force. Only moments remained before Grace would be taken back into custody.

  “I know exactly what I’m asking you,” Grace said. “Please, do it. Please!”

  “I’m sorry, Grace, but I can’t. I won’t.”

  The soldiers took hold of her, and at their touch she finally lost it. She grabbed hold of 301 and held onto him tightly, her entire body shaking as she pleaded, “Please don’t let them take me. Don’t let him do this to me! Please, if you ever loved me, don’t send me back!” They pried her away from him, and she started screaming for him, digging her fingers into 301’s arms and holding on for dear life. She was an unrecognizable mess, not the Grace Sawyer he had always known, but a scared girl being carted back into her worst nightmare. He knew that much about her, that this was the fate she had feared since childhood—the fate that had finally found her.

  He shed tears of his own as he watched her fight against the royal guard, and as he chose to do nothing he felt as though a part of him had died. There was nothing he wanted more than to hold her, to save her from her fears and tell her everything was going to be alright. But to save her, he had to let her go.

  She held on to him until the very last moment, leaving scratches on his arms as the soldiers pulled her away. Finally, her hold was broken.

  And then 301 heard it: another scream, echoing as though from far away. Eli came running, fists raised in the air, intent on attacking Grace’s pursuers. He stepped into the boy’s path, hoping to stop him, and the two of them collided.

  In that moment the world did not simply shake. It overturned.

&nb
sp; 301 opened his eyes to a dark night, clothes sopping wet with icy rain that poured all around him. That distant scream was no longer an echo, but loud in his ears, coming from his own mouth. Visions of soldiers whirled around him as one set of hands placed him roughly into those of another, and then carried him away out of the rain.

  I am in the past, he realized. This is a memory.

  Muted voices mingled with the thunder outside, and he continued to rail at the top of his lungs in fear and desperation. Then a gunshot rang out right next to his head, and a hand covered his mouth and silenced him. Through the ringing, a man’s warm breath touched his ear, “Do not be afraid, Elijah. You are in the hands of a friend. You must come with me, now. I can get you back to your uncle.”

  “But my mom!” his words were muffled by the man’s hand, but he evidently understood.

  “Your mother is lost to us,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do for her now but give her the hope that her son will survive.” The soldier grabbed his hand and whispered a gentle command. “Come!”

  -X-

  “You remember that night, sir,” Donalson sat in the chair across from the MWR. “When Jonathan Charity destroyed the Specter Spire and you captured Lauren Charity.”

  “Yes,” Alexander said distantly, staring into oblivion as two of Donalson’s attending officers carted McCall’s body out of his office. “How could I ever forget? It was to have been my ultimate victory over Jonathan—my crowning achievement. His legacy was mine for the taking, to tear from the earth as I saw fit. But in the end I was robbed of that triumph.”

  He remembered that moment, looking up at the sky when they dragged Lauren Charity away, and seeing that cursed star. It had defied him with its presence, shining through the storm clouds as though the eye of Jonathan Charity’s beloved God looked down upon him with a promise of retribution.

  Then he had seen the soldier who did not leave with the others, waiting for Lieutenant Dawson who still had not come out with the boy’s body. With intense concern he had stepped up to the door, knowing before he even entered what he would find.