Millennial Prince (Jaxon Prayer Trilogy Book 2)

by Rachel West

  “Evie,” Red says my name, a low, thrumming sound deep in his throat. “There,” he points towards the manor. In one of the upper floors a light flashes, white then red then white again. “It’s Antony, he’s in.”

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  I climb down the ladder from the loft into the main room of the giant warehouse. There are dozens like it throughout the city, from back when the Westwick Slums used to be the factory district and there were jobs and food and money to be made. Now all that’s left are empty buildings and leftover memories. The factories of any importance have been folded into the embrace of the other districts or outsourced to the work-prisons. A warehouse, nearly identical to this one but closer to the Hollows, has become a safe house. Should things fail here tonight, that is where any survivors are to meet.

  Kalia runs up the moment my feet touch the cold cement ground. “Is it time?” she asks. The slight tremor in her wild curls betrays her nervousness. The rebels -- no, the soldiers, all quiet and turn to watch me.

  I look out over them. Eyes that are hard, and fearful, and excited all stare back at me. Nearly a thousand fighters and another hundred support - our largest attack yet and we don’t even have Jaxon to lead us. Half of them only have guns for weapons. After each raid we’ve collected fallen synthblades and stripped the Praetors of their protective uniforms. But it’s not enough, not enough for everyone and because of that some of those that I look at now will not be here in the morning.

  “Yes,” I say. A quiet murmur moves through the warehouse like wind over spring grass. It’s time.

  I lead them as Jaxon always has; at the head of the pack, my weapon naked to the moon’s light. Our men -- my men fill the streets close to bursting. The light of the skyscreens covers us in sickening purple-grey, leaving skin sallow and edgy looking. From behind I hear others offering each other words of comfort. Promises that we will make it through tonight and the Westwick Slums will be ours.

  As we make our final approach someone calls out a warning; one of the Praetors on the walls of the Manor. A high, thin whistle breaks through the night air.

  “Come on, Antony,” I say. I turn to Kalia, who stands nervously next to me, “Kalia, go.”

  Kalia and two others peel away from our group, their arms laden with bags of explosives. Not enough to do damage to the Manor itself -- we don’t want that, not when we want to make the Manor our own -- but the explosives are enough to cause a distraction. To make the Praetors think we have more than we do.

  The sound of the Praetors spills over the walls. Calls to arms as several hundred men rouse themselves to destroy us.

  An explosion breaks the air. A grim smile tugs at my lips as I hear the Praetors on the other side shout in surprise. Another explosion, this one on the back side of the compound. “Way to go, Kalia,” I whisper. If we can draw their numbers apart we may stand a chance.

  Red bumps lightly against me. Reassuring me. We can do this. We can win here tonight. I startle to the side as bullets ricochet off the ground by my feet. Bits of cement and shrapnel spring into the air like birds startled from their nest.

  One of the men near me lets loose his own volley of bullets. I thrust out a hand, gesturing him to stop with a twist of my wrist. “Don’t waste your bullets, not until we’re inside.” The man’s face crumples and the whites around his eyes are impossibly wide. “Don’t be afraid,” I tell him, “Do you hear that?” Explosion after explosion as Kalia sets off small bombs along the compounds walls. Something in the sound is reassuring, a promise of victory to come. “This night will be ours.”

  The main gate, secured like a castle of old, trembles and groans; it’s protests barely discernible over the sound of explosions. Red nods at me and points his blade at the gate. The ground rumbles beneath my feet, like the city itself is on our side, and I know right then that the words I spoke would be true. The night will be ours.

  As the gate tumbles open I raise my synthblade into the air. Light reflects off the weapon and paints the crowd around me in a spray of vibrant color. “Now!”

  As one we surge forward. My heart pounds with the steady sound of feet against pavement. Fear and bloodlust and desperation color my vision in shades of red and grey. The Praetors along the wall spray our numbers with gunfire. Around me, one after another, men fall, and through it all I keep rushing forward. Sounds combine and twist and burst in my ear like a nightmarish carnival until soon it all morphs into one and I can hear nothing but the sound of my breathing and the pounding of blood through my veins.

  Red is the first through the gate and I follow close on his heels. I bring my synthblade down in front of me to block the swing of a Praetor. I duck under his extended arm and glance up in time to see Red’s strike from behind. The Praetor’s eyes widen then all life fades from them.

  One down.

  CHAPTER 20

  The surprise element of our attack is quickly lost as the Praetors fall back on years of training and begin forming into tightly packed squads. A ragged line of our own men rush forward to meet them The Praetors in the front line of the squad drop low, crouched on the ground with bipods supporting the sleek black guns in their hands. Above them the next row remains standing, their own guns pointed straight at us, creating a solid wall of weaponry.

  A muted shout is the only warning we have before the Praetors let loose. Men and women are tossed through the air as bullets punch into them. I swing my arms up to cover my face, protecting my head as Red taught me, by using the bulletproof spidersilk that my stolen Praetor uniform is made from. As the roar of the bullets quiets to a dull echo in my ears I drop my arms.

  The men continue charging forward, a wall of shifting light as synthblades are bared to the night. Groans from the ground indicate where those who have fallen struggle to their feet, lost amongst those who have continued to advance. The spidersilk may been enough to stop a bullet from drawing blood, but the force of the hit is enough to bring a man to his knees. A man on the ground raises his hand for help but his quiet plea goes unnoticed by those rushing past him and soon I can no longer see him. Sickened, I realize that our own fallen men are being crushed beneath the press of those advancing forward.

  I tighten my fist around my synthblade and duck to the side. Keeping the outer wall to my left I advance cautiously into the fray. A woman tries to crawl away from the battlefield but she is hampered by a broken leg, the knee joint twisted obscenely. I dart forward and grab her around the arms then tug her to the back row of bushes that line the wall.

  “Here,” I grab her fallen synthblade and shove it into her hands. “The medics will come soon. Stay here until they do.”

  The woman stares up into my face with childlike confusion in her eyes but she reaches for the weapon and takes it from my hands.

  “Stay safe,” I whisper.

  The woman nods, clarity coming to her eyes, then she drops her fist, weakly bumping it against her chest. I give her a wan smile, wondering if she’ll survive long enough for the medics to bind the blood that flows from the break.

  I whip around as I steps behind me draw my attention. My eyes fall first on two bright blue armbands and I drop my raised blade. Two of Red’s men shadow me, distinguishable only by the varied scars on their faces.

  “What are you doing?”

  One of them makes an unintelligible grunt and gestures to the battle. The other nods seriously and bumps his fist to his chest. From the motion I deduce that Red has ordered them to shadow me. I feel a moment of relief, knowing that I have two far more experienced fighters at my side. I turn my back to them and look out over the torn, tattered lawn that has become our battlefield. The first row of Praetors has been broken. Individual skirmishes have broken out as synthblades clash against each other, throwing up an array of sparks.

  Behind them another row of Praetors is forming between the yard and the mansion. Dozens more pour from the outhouses like moving shadow, spilling out onto the battlefield and forming precise lines. These men have
had more time to prepare. Helmets are pulled tight over their uniforms, the shiny black material skeletal in appearance.

  I force myself to look away from them and focus on what’s in front of me. A boy, blonde hair stained brown with blood is losing strength as he struggles to hold off a Praetor. I step forward into the show of sparks created by blade on blade.

  The boy’s eyes widen in a moment of dread as he sees a second synthblade riding down towards him, but I curve my blow, catching the Praetor just above his collar bone. My blade encounters a moment of resistance as the spidersilk stretches then fizzles against the charge of my weapon. I yank upwards and blood spills from the Praetors mouth as he drops to his knees. His weight tugs me off-balance as the body falls but I twist my blade free before I am toppled.

  Behind me, Red’s men quickly dispatch the two Praetors who tried to help their fellow. The blonde boy wipes blood from the side of his face and smiles up at me in thanks. But the look of relief turns suddenly into one shock. A synthblade appears in his throat. Blood spatters against my face. Behind the boy, a Praetor casually kicks the boy loose from his blade. The blonde drops to the ground and I know he is dead as the fountain of blood at his neck pulses twice then trickles to a stop.

  I bring my blade up a second too late as the Praetor aims and attack at me. His weapon sears against my sleeve and I hear the faint sizzle of the synthblade burning through spidersilk. Pain shoots up my arm as my grip spasms around my blade. I throw myself back, narrowly avoiding another blow as the Praetor uses my moment of distraction to break through my defenses. Sparks fly up behind me, as Red’s men are engaged in their own battle.

  I raise my arm again, managing to block two quick attacks aimed at my head. Another step back brings me out of the light flooding the yard and into shadow. The Praetor loses all shape and becomes nothing more than a looming phantom advancing on me. My heart pounds, pulsing noticeably in the open wound on my arm.

  I adjust my position, balancing out my body as I take a defensive posture. A glimmer of light is the only warning I have as a secondary blade jabs at my face. I yank my head back but the motion unbalances me. As I step back my legs fly out beneath me. The ground, wet with blood and mud, rises up to meet me.

  Stars flash before my eyes as my head bounces against the ground. A booted foot connects with my ribs. The old nearly-healed bullet wound in my side flares to life in a bright burst of pain that brings that taste of acid to my tongue. I roll to the side, slipping across the mud to narrowly avoid another kick. I lash out quickly, slashing at the Praetors leg just over the top of the boot. My synthblade cuts through spidersilk and flesh, catching only as the momentum is slowed by bone.

  The Praetor falls, his shoulder bouncing once on the softened ground. I lash out again, this time smashing the pommel of my synthblade against his helmet. The hard plastic cracks then shatters as I beat my weapon against him over and over. Soon it is no longer helmet that I am hitting but bone. His face crumples beneath my blows as bone cracks inward. Bone and flesh float in a stew of blood and brain matter.

  My breathing is harsh in my chest as I crawl away from the body and crouch against the bushes. Nausea rips at my guts and I heave once, twice, but there is nothing in me but death. My heaving fades into panting as I struggle to catch my breath. Loose strands of hair dangle into my face and I push the stray hairs behind my ears with gloves coated thickly in blood. My stomach spasms again as I struggle to remove the gloves from my hands.

  I throw my gloves to the ground and scramble backwards deeper into the bush until the leafy darkness embraces me. I take deep breaths but the smell of blood and burning flesh and fear taints the air. My heart beats frantically. Below my heart a steady pulse of pain radiates from where the Praetor kicked me.

  As I look over the battlefield I realize the steady flow of people through the gates has trickled to a ragged stream. I recognize Ki’s mop of dark curls as he darts through the gates and grabs a fallen rebel, his small body struggling to pull the injured soldier beyond the walls to safety.

  The number of crisp, black and crimson Praetor uniforms far outnumbers the blue-banded insurgents. I scan the battlefield for Red or anyone else I know but I can’t spot them amongst the bloodied, muddied rebels. A roar overhead draws my attention skyward. A zeppelin hovers above the manor ropes uncurling from it like some great insect giving birth. Dozens of Praetors slide down the ropes and onto the roof of the manor. Reinforcements. I glance to the Westwick Presido, looming to the west where four more zeppelins circle, preparing to deploy.

  We are losing. We are lost.

  I pull myself to my feet, my hand slipping through the leaves of the bush until I find a branch thick enough to steady me. Dodging the small skirmishes that have broken out I search for Red or Ezzor. We need to regroup, or retreat. Or send for our own reinforcements. Anything to turn the tide of the battle before we’re all killed.

  I spare a moment of thought for Jaxon, praying that our attack was distraction enough for him to complete his mission. Otherwise all of this death, all of this suffering, was all for nothing. Tears threaten at the thought of never seeing him again but I force them away. To lose focus now means death.

  As I breach the center of the lawn I am surrounded on all sides by the dead and dying. The ground is wet with blood and it takes all my concentration to keep my balance. The steps to the manor loom up in front of me. There is a ripple in the line of Praetors as the crimson and black soldiers make way for a large PulseCannon to be rolled out.

  “No!” I shout. A single charge of the PulseCannon is enough to knock all of those fighting to their knees, Praetor and rebel alike. Those standing behind the blast would be able to sweep forward and finish the defenseless fighters off.

  I rush forward. All is lost if the Praetors are able to set it off. Two men break formation and move on a path to intercept me. I raise my synthblade to meet the first. Sidestep and duck under his swing. I bring my own blade against his side, cutting a deep line along his ribs. He stumbles back but the other steps forward to take his place. Our blades meet in a clash over my head as he attempts to use his greater strength to break my defense.

  A rumble shakes the manor. The ground bucks and rolls beneath my feet as a sound like thunder crashes through the air.

  As the roar of thunder fades shocked silence fills its place. Individual skirmishes falter as those surrounding me turn towards the direction of the sound.

  Reflected in the helmet of the Praetor who faces me I see the purple and green lights of the Westwick Presidio backlight by a red-orange explosion. One by one, the lights flicker out. Unable to restrain myself, I turn my back to the Praetor to stare at the crumbling Presidio.

  Even at distance of over a mile, the groan of buckling steel can be heard like some great beast crying out to the night. In a straight line, the building collapses within itself. The few remaining lights go dark. A cloud of dust explodes outwards, knocking two circling zeppelins from flight and sending them tumbling towards the ground.

  I imagine the astronomical loss of life. The thousands of Praetors stationed within. I turn back to the Praetor next to me whose weapon rests limply at his side. This close I can faintly make out the shocked expression through the tinted plastic of his helmet.

  I stab my synthblade straight through his heart. His eyes turn to stare at me, the same, desolate look on his face he wore staring at the presidio. His knees buckle and he falls. Dead.

  Around me, blue-banded rebels due the same. Some few Praetors put up a fight but attacks are without effort. I continue my charge up the marble steps where the PulseCannon sits forgotten. The Praetors surrounding look to one another for direction but there is none to be had as my rebels sweep through their broken ranks and into the manor.

  The sounds of battle on the lawn quickly fades to the moans of the dead and dying as the fight is taken within the manor. Shouts of surprise from those within as the rebels break through. I step to the side as a few stragglers charge into the buildin
g until it seems I am the only one left standing on the lawn. A chemical smell taints the air, mixed in with the scent of blood and death. Medics swarm the lawn to give aid to the wounded. Amongst them is a darker shadow moving from Praetor to Praetor, slipping a synthblade into the throats of those not yet dead. Ezzor. Methodically taking the life of any left living.

  He must feel my gaze because he looks up and meets my eye before slowly making his way towards me, pausing occasionally as he crosses paths with wounded Praetors. I tear my gaze from him, unable to watch as he coldly dispatches death. I can smell the blood on him as he climbs the steps and comes to a stop next to me.

  “Why?” I ask simply.

  “We have no place to keep prisoners. If we leave them alive we’ll only find ourselves facing them again in the field.”

  I choke down the hollow knot in my throat. Now is not the time for weakness. Now is not the time for mercy. I nod, not trusting my voice.

  In the distance, the dustcloud around the imploded presidio thins. Lights, glimmering like fireflies dart to and fro. Praetors, I realize, on h-bikes searching for any left living.

  “How?” I ask. “How did that happen?”

  Ezzor crosses his arms and searches my gaze. Looking for weaknesses that I refuse to let him see. “You and your Millennial. You’re not the first to think of rebellion. There are others out there. Others who have been planning in secret for their entire lives. Men and women who don’t trust their cause to a Millennial,” he looks me over critically, “nor a child.”

  “You did this. Your orchestrated it,” I accuse.

  “Your attack would have failed. Your Millennial may have an eye for strategy but he’s green. Where were the plans for reinforcement? Or the Praetor’s greater technology?”

  “No,” I say. “No you used our fight as a means to your own ends. What are you playing at Ezzor?”