by R S Penney
He turned around.
Scar stepped into the opening that led out to the foyer, his wounds leaking silver blood over that handsome muscular torso. The man's face was still a blank mask, as if he were oblivious to the damage his body had sustained. He tried to aim.
Jack didn't give him the opportunity. Lifting the assault rifle in fumbling hands, he pulled the trigger and watched as the muzzle flashed and spat a bunch of bullets. It didn't matter that his aim was terrible. Enough would hit.
Scar staggered as bullets pierced his flesh, raising one hand to shield himself. No force-field appeared to protect him. Perhaps the man had exhausted his power supply. It was good to know that Jack had pushed him to his limits as well.
The ziarogat stumbled.
With a growl, Jack fled into the room with the SlipGate, pressing his shoulder to the wall next to the door. Every muscle in his body ached, and his skin was on fire. The dizziness made him want to pass out.
Jack squeezed his eyes shut, hissing with frustration. “Come on,” he said, shaking his head. “You can do better than this! Are you just gonna leave Anna to take on Slade all by herself?”
Footsteps in the hallway.
It took some willpower, but Jack ventured a glance around the corner, popping out just long enough to catch a glimpse of the other man shuffling toward him on a wounded leg. Scar's wounds were knitting themselves, the holes in his chest slowly closing. Still, it seemed as though the ziarogat had been weakened.
Jack ducked back into cover.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. Breathing deeply, he tried to calm himself. Focus…The guy is wounded. You just have to surprise him when he tries to come in here, and then…
And then what? He had some hope that he might be able to take down Scar, but that still left Pennfield. And while Jack was exhausted, pushed to the point of nearly passing out, Wesley was fresh as a daisy. The shuffling sounds grew louder.
Scar poked his head through the door.
Jack slammed the rifle into his face, knocking him back into the hallway. The man lost his balance, toppling over sideways until his shoulder hit the corridor wall. He tried to stand, but that wounded leg made him falter.
Now! Finish it!
Jack opened fire.
Gunshots echoed from below, but Wesley remained calm, waiting on the landing for the grisly affair to play out. From what little he had seen – and that wasn't much; only a fool poked his head into the open when bullets were flying in all directions – it was clear that Hunter was overtaxed. The boy had retreated into the corridor, leaving Wesley's dutiful servant to chase after him.
Wesley suppressed a grin – he had been far too free with his emotions lately – and found his calm centre. The icy mountaintop at the core of his being. A lesser man would have been tempted to go down there. A lesser man would have reasoned that two against one ensured a better chance of victory, but that was the product of a mind with no talent for strategy. Why risk his own life when his proxy could do the job just as well? A stray bullet was as deadly to him as it was to anyone else, and the ability to Bend space-time would not save him from a moment of distraction. Wesley was not afraid to get his hands dirty – the Old Ones had no use for cowards – but he had not survived five centuries of conflict by giving in to his passions.
The ziarogat was expendable; better to let it suffer the brunt of Hunter's fury. One way or another, things would play out in Wesley's favour. Either the ziarogat would end Hunter – in which case, it might be salvaged to be used again another day – or Hunter would emerge victorious. Even if that happened, the boy would be so weakened by the experience, he would make easy prey.
Best to wait.
A wise man was always patient.
Scar stumbled when a hole appeared in his skull, and silver blood spattered against the wall behind him. The ziarogat shuffled about for half a moment, then slowly sank to the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the plaster.
Closing his eyes, Jack let his head hang. He mopped a hand over his face. “That's it,” he whispered. “Sorry, friend, but you weren't leaving me with a lot of options.”
He wondered whether this should count as another tick-mark on his scorecard. Had he killed Scar? Or had the man inside that monster died a long time ago? No way for him to be certain, and he decided that he was not going to torture himself over it. Jack Hunter had enough on his plate already.
He turned back to the Gate.
Dealing with Pennfield would have to wait; he was in no condition to fight. The smartest move would be to get out of here as soon as possible, and that meant taking the Bubble Express back to Station Twelve. Or anywhere else.
A few quick taps at his multi-tool nixed that plan in short order. The Gate wouldn't respond to his commands. Brilliant! Wesley had decided to make him the guest of honour at very special party, and there was no leaving until the festivities were over.
The front door.
He started up the hallway.
Baring his teeth with a hiss, Jack winced so hard he trembled. His head was still aching from the exertion. “Pennfield's gonna rip you to pieces,” he whispered to himself. “But hey! At least you'll get a few good taunts in.”
A whirring sound behind him made him turn around just in time to see the grooves on the SlipGate's metal surface light up with a furious glow. Oh no! A bubble expanded from out of nothing, and he could just make out a figure inside.
It popped, revealing Anna in a pair of black dress pants and a red, short-sleeved blouse, her head hanging. “Jack,” she said, looking up at him. “Oh thank the Companion you're safe.”
She rushed forward.
Her eyes widened when she noticed the assault rifle he carried, and then she turned her head to inspect the damage to the walls. “Quite the party,” she muttered. “And…What in Bleakness is that?”
She was looking at the smear of silver blood that Scar had left when he dropped to the floor. “It's a long story,” Jack answered, noticing the way his voice grated for the first time. “Pennfield's here, and he's trying to kill me.”
Anna looked up at him with big blue eyes, blinking as though his words took a second to sink in. “You've overtaxed yourself.” It wasn't a question. “Stay here. I'll deal with our dear friend Wesley.”
“I can help.”
Crossing her arms with a heavy sigh, Anna gave him the kind of scowl he was used to seeing on his mother. “Really?” she asked. “You're going to help, are you?”
She winced, tossing her head from side to side. “In your current condition, you're more likely to get me killed.” Just like that, she was striding past him, making her way toward the foyer. “Stay.”
“All right.”
She turned back to him, then came over and hugged him for all he was worth. “It's okay,” she whispered, guiding him to the wall where he could rest. “I won't let him hurt you. I will never let anyone hurt you.”
He believed her. There was no doubt in his mind that she meant every single word of it, and the warmth it brought to his heart was so bright it eclipsed the aches and pains throughout his body. For a few seconds anyway. “Do you want this?” Jack asked, lifting the rifle for her inspection.
Anna frowned, then lowered her eyes to the floor. “No,” she said softly. “I won't leave you defenseless. You never know who might come through the SlipGate or from somewhere else in this house.”
He was going to argue, but he knew better than to try. When Anna made up her mind that she was going to be noble, your only option was to get out of her way. It was one of the things he loved about her. “Good luck,” he said.
“Stay safe.”
The foyer in this rather large house would have been gorgeous even to someone with her Leyrian sensibilities if not for the bullet holes in the floor tiles and the front door that was a shattered wreck of its former glory. The cream-coloured walls were scarred in several places.
To her right, curving stairs rose up to a landing that was lit primarily
by daylight that came in from the front door. Pennfield was up there somewhere. Anna's blood was boiling – no one hurt the people she loved – but you would never know it to look at her. She was a painter, a chef, an artist in all things, and battle was no different. It had taken several years of bringing in violent criminals for her to come to a simple understanding: she was good at this.
Craning her neck, Anna pursed her lips as she stared up at the landing. I've fought in weirder places, she thought, her eyebrows rising. Besides, it will be all sorts of fun to wreck Wesley's nice things.
She started up the stairs.
At the top, she found a carpeted area where a leather couch was propped up against the railing that overlooked the foyer and a hallway branched off in two directions. Of all things, there were masks hung up on the wall. African tribal masks unless she missed her guess. And swords.
One was long and elegant with an ornate crossguard and a blade that was edged on both sides. A rapier? Was that what it was called? The other was of Japanese design, with a single edge and a blade that curved ever so slightly. She had forgotten the name for this weapon, but on closer inspection, she noticed a smaller version of it hung on the wall.
Wesley emerged from the hallway, smoothing the jacket of his fine, gray suit and frowning at her. “My, my,” he said, striding into the open space. “I wasn't expecting you, but I suppose we had to meet sooner or later.”
Anna thrust her chin out, squinting at the man. “Not happy to see me, Wes?” she asked in a singsong voice. “That's funny because I've been meaning to say hello. I never did thank you for shooting me.”
Wesley bared his teeth in an ugly rictus smile, his face turning a deep, violent red. “I'll do more than shoot you this time, girl.” He turned slightly, grabbing the rapier's hilt and gently lifting it off its mounting. “This time I intend to gut you.”
“Really? We're gonna sword fight?”
Pennfield lifted the weapon up in front of his face, perfectly in line with his nose. “It's a sport I've kept up with,” he said, marching toward her. “I was once acclaimed as a master swordsman; did you know that?”
Anna dove, slapping her palms down on the carpet and rising into a handstand. She quickly flipped upright near the back wall, grabbing the Japanese sword before Wesley could get too close.
The cockiness she'd felt down below quickly evaporated. Pennfield had strength and reflexes to match her own, and he was actually trained in this form of combat. Anna had never bothered to learn fencing; why would she? What use would a Justice Keeper have for bladed melee weapons. Why didn't I take the assault rifle?
She spun.
Wesley was standing at the mouth of the hallway with his sword raised in a guarded stance, watching her as if he expected her to spit fire. “Well then,” he murmured. “This might actually be fun.”
Quickly, she ran through everything she knew about sword fighting. Don't block a strike with the edge of your blade. It creates nicks. Always use the flat side. And…that was it. Bleakness take her.
The grin on her opponent's face told her that this had been one of his contingencies. Pennfield was a man who liked to have an advantage. He seldom went for the kill unless he knew he would find an easy victory. In a straight up fist fight, they would at least be evenly matched, and there was a good chance that Anna would take him down. After all, she did this on a regular basis. Pennfield avoided a fight whenever possible.
He flowed toward her with impeccable grace: a lion on the hunt. The only thing Anna could think to do was lift her weapon in both hands and hope that the ferocious pounding of her heart wouldn't be a distraction.
Wesley swung at her neck.
Anna brought her weapon up. Blade met blade with a harsh, clear ring, and she turned his sword aside. She spun and back-kicked, driving a foot into Wesley's stomach. The impact sent him stumbling backward.
Anna rounded on him.
She jumped and brought her blade down like a headsman's ax, a swift vertical arc that made the air whistle. Wesley lifted his sword horizontally, catching her attack at the very last second, dazing her while she landed.
He kicked her in the chest, knocking her off balance. Winded by the sudden jolt, Anna wheezed and doubled over in pain. She needed a few seconds to recover, but that gleaming blade was already coming at her. So, she did the only thing she could.
With Seth's help, she threw up a bubble that accelerated the flow of time around her and left the world outside a frozen still-life where every heartbeat lasted minutes from her perspective. The blurry of image of Wesley stood with one leg lifted, his blade inching its way toward the surface of her bubble.
Anna hopped back.
She let the bubble vanish and watched the tip of Wesley's blade pass within inches of her shirt, almost close enough to cut fabric. The man was over-extended, his middle left unguarded.
Anna stabbed at his belly.
The tip of her blade drew blood, but Wesley flowed backwards with a serpentine grace, enhanced reflexes allowing him to keep pace with her thrust. In the end, it was only a flesh wound.
Stoking the rage within her, Anna advanced on him. Their swords met in a flurry of cuts, each strike and parry producing a soft ringing sound that echoed through the house. Wesley performed some kind of twirling motion, ripping the sword right out of her hands and sending it tumbling over his head to land behind him.
Falling over backward, Anna slapped her hands down on carpet and brought one leg up to kick him in the chest. A wheeze exploded from his lungs as Wesley stumbled backward, giving her the few seconds she needed.
She snapped herself upright.
Anna dove past him, somersaulting across the floor. She came up on her knees, then quickly recovered her fallen weapon and lifted it over her head, the blade parallel to her spine.
Just in time to stop a cut that would have sliced through the back of her neck. With a throaty growl, Anna flung her blade upward in a vertical arc and tore the rapier out of Wesley's hands.
She got up and spun around in time to see Wesley dancing backward across the landing, positioning himself under his sword as it fell and catching it with smooth grace. A sly smile spread on his face.
Anna charged at him.
The next thing she saw was a gleaming length of metal coming for her eyes. She ducked and felt the blade pass over her head. Then she swung at his legs.
That should have incapacitated him, but Wesley jumped with inhuman height, and her swing went underneath him. He landed right in front of her, then brought the pommel of his sword down on her head.
Silver flecks filled her vision, and she moved backward as quickly as her legs could carry her, putting some distance between herself and her opponent. Spatial awareness let her sense Wesley's approach.
Anna was moving backward through the corridor, toward the bedrooms, and she was quite dizzy. Vertigo brought with it an urge to empty her stomach right there on the expensive gray carpet. You have to stay alert, a small voice whispered. Give him even the tiniest opening, and he'll slaughter you.
Her opponent chuckled softly as he followed her into the hallway. “Not bad, girl,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Better than I would have expected, though your success comes by the fact that you refuse to play by the rules.”
The rules?
Her vision cleared, blurring colours resolving into the image of Wesley coming at her with the rapier held at his side, its blade pointed down at the carpet. What rules was she supposed to be following? Pennfield considered himself a swordsman. He had been doing this for some time…which meant that his thinking was structured by the years of practice. No traditional swordsman would have access to a Nassai's abilities. You would never see Time Bubbles and acrobatics in a true fencing match.
At last, she understood. Pennfield wanted her to stand her ground and swing her arm about like a civilized opponent, countering every cut with a skillful parry and then a riposte. Well, fuck that! It was Pennfield's biggest weakness, she re
alized. He was a man who had grown used to seeing the world in a very specific light. He knew his place and the place of everyone beneath him. Four years ago, she and Jack had upended his world, and that more than anything else produced the visceral hatred he held for both of them.
“You will never destroy me, girl,” Wesley said, twirling the sword with nimble fingers. A full turn one way and then another in the opposite direction. “Even now, I can see it in your eyes. You want to be the good little Keeper. You want to bring me to justice so that I can stand before my accusers and accept the punishment deemed appropriate by your sad little society.”
Wesley paused, bracing his free hand against the wall, hanging his head with a soft sigh. “You'll never kill me, Anna,” he said. “You're too gentle and pure. Too enamoured with the foolish customs of your benighted little world.”
His laughter stoked her rage, producing a furious flame in her chest that threatened to rip right through her. “You Leyrians think yourselves the pinnacle of civilization,” he went on. “You are nothing! Dust before the storm of the Old Ones!”
The grin returned to Wesley's face: a vicious, predatory smile that promised agonies beyond imagining once he got his hands on her. “You know what will happen if you try to imprison me?” he asked. “The Old Ones will free me as they did last time. Then I will find you and kill you. I'll kill Hunter as well. And your family, and his family. Unlike the pawns I've sent against you, I have eternities to act. I have the patience to ensure that my gambits strip away that which is most precious to you.
“I am not Leo, raging against the confines of his cell, struggling in impotent fury to exact his vengeance. I am calm, cool and collected. My name is Wesley Pennfield, and no one takes from me! Slade was wrong about you, girl. Everything you know and love will die because you lack the stomach to do what is necessary!”
Anna screamed, charging at him.
Seconds later, she realized that was mistake. The whole speech had been designed to leave her blind with rage, to exploit an emotional weakness that would allow Pennfield to slip past her defenses.
