Baras’Oot hadn’t overseen a battle in more than a decade, but he still knew the best way to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies was to show up with the biggest army.
Or in this case, the biggest vessel carrying the biggest army. He had taken one of the Cowboy men hostage a year before and had him construct the train far outside his city. He never expected it to work, but when it did, he knew it would come in handy.
Nearly a thousand men were packed into the line of cars pulled by the ancient engine. He had left only a handful at home to protect his city, but it was worth the risk. His spies had told him that the stranger boy had gone to Cowboytown to recruit men and transportation. Now, Baras’Oot had both his enemies in his sights. Only his brother was between them. It was a masterful stroke. Arga’Zul’s army would now have no choice but to step back into the fold and out from under his control once and for all.
And just in case there was any doubt, he had, in the parlance of the Big Hats, one more card up his sleeve.
When Arga’Zul’s men cheered the arrival of their brethren, he knew his coup was over before it had begun. The only question now was whether his brother would let him survive the day. He knew he had to act fast.
“My brother, the king, has responded to our call!” he shouted to his men. “Let our enemies fear the sum of our greatness! Here, once and for all, we will crush the Aserra and wipe their seed from the Earth!”
The roar that ensued shook the battlefield.
“You,” Arga’Zul said, pointing to Vardan Saah. “Come with me. I need to speak with my brother.”
Vardan and Jaras Saah were shoved after Arga’Zul as he set across the field, dew from the plants leaving streaks of moisture on their legs.
After a few feet, Jaras braved a glance back. Two Flayers held an exhausted Friday, her face waxen. Jaras tilted his chin as if to say he would be back, but she gave no reaction.
Inside the terminal, Chimosh and the Aserra watched on with mounting dread. They had expected to face greater numbers, but this army left them outnumbered six to one. The mood was grim.
Too late to retreat, Chimosh gave orders to make their defense from within the building. The metal structure would not easily burn and could provide high cover for their archers.
Suddenly, Robinson burst back inside.
“I have a surprise,” Robinson said.
Big Hats entered, carrying heavy boxes. One was cracked open, and bullets spilled across the floor.
“Careful,” Robinson said. “Boss said only certain bullets will work with these rifles. Have your men collect all the ones that look like this.”
Robinson held up a three-inch round. Chimosh directed his warriors to do as he said.
“We’ll need these warriors to load the magazines and carry them to the ones using them. The magazine ejects like this.”
Robinson picked up a rifle and pushed a lever with his thumb. The magazine fell straight away. “Feed the bullets and then slam it back into place.” He pulled the bolt back to load it. “Now, it’s ready. Have them avoid the ones that have too much rust. They’re likely to—”
Suddenly, one of the scouts ran into the room.
“The Big Hats are leaving,” he said.
Robinson and Chimosh ran outside to see Boss’s train in reverse. From the engineer’s window, Robinson could see Boss staring at him. She’d warned him that she wanted no part of the fight, but he was still disappointed. He had hoped she would reconsider. Still, she had kept her part of the bargain and delivered them to the weapons. She had also given them the ammunition to fight. He could bear her no ill will. When she raised a hand to say goodbye, Robinson followed suit.
Boss lowered her hand with a pang of guilt. It wasn’t a feeling she was familiar with. But the Aserra were outnumbered. Stupidly outnumbered. And the five men she had brought with her wouldn’t change that. They’d have only ended up dead too. The guilt came from her feelings for the kid. He was young, rash, and idealistic. But he made hard choices because they were the right ones. She couldn’t say the same about many others.
Boss had seen the way the kid looked when he realized his girl was outside. To come so far, only to see the thing you loved most slip through your fingers was almost too much to bear.
She turned to Clawfoot.
“Pick it up,” she said.
When Arga’Zul neared the second train, his brother stepped down and was quickly surrounded by his men. The war chieftain recognized several of the spies who had fled Atlanta. One of them even wore a smirk.
I’ll kill him first, Arga’Zul thought.
“I see you received my message, Brother,” Arga’Zul said. “Now, we have the Aserra—the scourge of our people—right where we want them.”
“How fortunate for us that you moved so quickly, Brother,” Baras’Oot said. “Your ruse did indeed work. Today is a great day for our people, and it is a tribute to our ancestors. In honor of your deeds, I have decided to let you lead the initial attack.”
“Initial attack, My King?” Arga’Zul asked. “The base is indefensible. Our enemies are armed with rocks and sticks. Let us overrun them and be done with it.”
“And deny my war chief his greatest victory? Never! You have striven your entire life for this. I will not, in these final moments, deny you your great prize. Your legacy demands this final outcome.”
Arga’Zul understood he’d been outplayed again. His brother had done it to him his entire life. Only this time, he would not come to his aid. He would let his ranks fall until Arga’Zul himself was the last standing. And only when his blood marked the earth would he send in his remaining army to save the day.
“Pardon me, Your Highness,” Vardan Saah interrupted. “It is good to see you on the field of battle, but with your permission, I’d like for my son and I to return to your village so we may obtain our flier and take our leave.”
“I see no weapons,” Baras’Oot said. “Only a barn where my enemies await. But fear not. I will allow you and your son to remain here under my protection while this slaughter plays out. Be thankful. You’re about to witness history in the making.”
He looked at Arga’Zul as he said it. There was nothing to retort. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Now, the war chieftain’s only concern was how to survive the day. He turned and nodded for his men to follow. He’d only walked a few feet when his brother called out.
“And, Brother? I want the stranger boy brought to me.”
“He fights with the Aserra,” Arga’Zul said. “I can’t guarantee he survives this battle.”
“Then bring him to me before the battle begins.”
“And how would I do that?”
“Trade him for something the Aserra want. Trade him for the girl.”
Arga’Zul felt his teeth clench and his hand tighten upon his weapon, but Baras’Oot’s guards were ready.
Baras’Oot knew what he was thinking and sneered. “You defied my orders in taking her from the parade grounds. You won’t defy my orders again.”
Arga’Zul knew Baras’Oot didn’t care about the boy. He was just trying to unbalance him before the real fighting began. The princess was too sick to run anyway. Her people would protect her. And when it was done, he would reclaim her for himself.
Jaras had listened to the savages talk. He understood little of it, but he felt the tension. And he recognized the word ‘girl.’ They were speaking about Tessa. Whatever the savage king asked for, it had irked the war chieftain. And he knew the man was soft on his sister. Jaras realized she was in danger. There was only one thing to do.
Friday had been bound to a tree. She knew her people were inside the far building and that they were greatly outnumbered. But the time to flee was gone. They had to fight. Many would die today. Friday only lamented that she wouldn’t be amongst them claiming lives for the Goddess.
A rustle in the grass sounded behind her, followed by a choking sound. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she heard a struggle and felt a spr
ay of something hot and wet hit her back.
After a brief silence, Jaras appeared with a bloody knife in hand. He used it to cut her bonds.
“We don’t have much time,” he said. “C’mon.”
Friday followed him through the grove of trees toward her people.
Chapter Forty-Nine
A Broken Boy
“Jaras?” Saah called.
A moment before, the boy had been behind him, but now he couldn’t see him anywhere. He whirled around in a panic. “Jaras!”
Arga’Zul watched the flying man call for his son. He scoffed. The boy’s head was broken, and nothing would fix it. Maybe they’ll both die in battle, Arga’Zul thought, and I’ll have two less headaches to deal with. Maybe he’d even get the man’s flying ship, and then he would rule the skies as well as the rivers.
Inside the terminal, the Aserra quick-armed the rifles. Robinson lamented not having time to train with the weapons, but even if only a handful of warriors were able to use them, they might turn the tide of the battle in their direction.
A shout drew Robinson and Chimosh to a southern window. They saw two figures emerging from the trees. It only took Robinson a second to recognize Friday.
Arga’Zul’s Flayers rose as he returned. They were hungry for the battle.
“There are no finer killers in the world than my Flayers,” he began. “And no greater prey than the vermin we are about to exterminate. Let us rid the world of their false prowess and prove once and for all that we are the greatest warriors to ever walk the earth!”
The Flayers roared. Bloodlust infused the air. The powerful drums beat so loudly they shook the earth.
Arga’Zul swelled with pride as he looked over his ranks. And then he saw movement at the end of the field.
“The girl!” he howled. “Stop her!”
Five Flayers broke away in pursuit of Friday and Jaras, their war cries filling the air as they ran.
Jaras felt his bladder release when he saw the savages behind him. All he could think to do was grab Tessa by the arm and pull her toward the terminal. She rasped and struggled with each step. Jaras was certain they were about to die when a figure ran out of the building in front of him. Jaras blinked. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The figure looked like Robinson, but he’d been told his old friend was dead. Was he hallucinating?
Robinson’s legs kicked up the moist earth as he sprinted toward the trees. When he saw the Flayers closing in on Friday, he reached for his axe and pistol. For the first time, he felt comfortable with both in his hands.
Chimosh watched from the terminal with the others. He had held them back, knowing he needed every warrior for the battle to come. If this frail figure approaching was indeed the princess, she would have to make it on her own. It was three against five. The odds were against Crusoe. And yet Chimosh had seen the boy fight firsthand. It gave him hope.
Each time Friday stumbled, a wash of black spots clouded her vision. But just when she thought she might pass out, she saw a form running toward her. Despite her wishes in the grave, the image was disconcerting because she had been told Crusoe was dead. She’d seen the cart pinning him tear away from its moorings to be swallowed by the raging river. Arga’Zul’s men had scoured the riverbanks to ensure he did not survive. But this moment felt like more than déjà vu. Despite the Flayers and the drums, a kernel of hope began to blossom in her heart. But for her, confirmation did not come via his presence or the familiar weapons in his hands. It came when she saw his eyes. For they were not focused on her but the opposition behind her. Only then did she accept that he was truly alive.
Miles away, Boss knew she had made the proper choice. And yet, none of her men would look her in the eyes. That was the worst part. She’d saved their hides once again, and somehow, they’d turned it around on her.
“It was the right decision,” she said defiantly to Mr. Dandy.
“No one said otherwise, dear,” Mr. Dandy replied.
“Then why all the glum faces?”
“They know you liked the lad. I suspect some of them liked him as well.”
“What’s to like? He was reckless, brash, and pig-headed.”
Mr. Dandy smiled, but said softly, “Reminds me of someone else I know.”
The Flayer grunted as he released the spear. On instinct, Jaras tackled Friday to the ground. This gave Robinson the window he needed. He didn’t have time to thumb the laser sighting. He was moving too fast to use it effectively anyway. He aimed for the center mass as Boss had taught him and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the lead Flayer, and he folded in two.
The smoky discharge burned Robinson’s eyes, but he retargeted and fired twice more. The first shot missed, but the second shot struck the closest Flayer in the face when he was only five paces away.
The remaining savages cut the distance in a second, forcing Robinson to dip under a curving blade and strike his axe into the second man’s knee. The strike reverberated up Robinson’s arm as the Flayer’s leg cleaved in two.
Before he could rise, a spear bit into Robinson’s shoulder, throwing him off balance. But as he stumbled, he brought up the gun and fired it for the fourth time. The report hurt his ears, but he watched his target fall, kicking up dust.
The last Flayer charged with a cry, his cudgel arcing up over his head. Robinson pulled the trigger a fifth time, but heard only a dull click. Misfire.
The Flayer stalled, but only for a moment. He swung his cudgel at Robinson’s head, which proved to be a mistake. Had he aimed for any part of the body, he wouldn’t have missed. But Robinson threw himself forward, feeling the blade cutting overhead before burying his axe into the man’s foot.
The Flayer screamed, stunned by the sight of his foot ripped in two. Before he knew it, the boy was already on his feet. He saw the axe wheeling around. Saw the muscles in the boy’s arm stretch. Watched as the axe swung up to hit him under the chin. He felt the give of bone and tasted blood before the lights went out for good.
Friday fought back a smile when Robinson turned toward her. He had become a beautiful, deadly thing to watch, so far removed from the boy she first met. And yet, part of her had loved that boy too. His innocence. His idealism. He had become a warrior she was proud of.
The thought disappeared when Friday saw Robinson’s grip tighten around the axe as he stepped toward Jaras. He was setting his feet for a killing blow when Friday threw up her hands.
“No!” she yelled.
Robinson’s blade froze in the air.
“He saved me,” she gasped.
Robinson looked confused, as if she had been speaking another language. But then he lowered his axe, and she knew the message had gotten through.
Robinson grabbed Friday by the arm and pulled her toward the terminal. He glanced back at Jaras and said, “Follow me.”
On the opposite side of the field, Arga’Zul shook his head in disbelief. The boy should be dead a hundred times over, but he kept coming back. He had believed the boy was lucky and that, eventually, fate would catch up with him. But there, on the battlefield, he wondered if someone or something was indeed watching over him. And then he quickly dismissed the notion. It was replaced with a venomous hate. The boy would be made to pay, and he prayed it would be by his hands. If Arga’Zul survived, he swore he would feast on the boy’s flesh.
But first, there was one thing to do.
Arga’Zul held up his mighty blade and howled. The drumbeat fell silent, as his army of Flayers grew tense and leaned forward. Whatever fatigue they’d felt from their long march from Atlanta was gone. War was their business. The battlefield was their home. It was the only place they belonged.
With his army in thrall, Arga’Zul glanced up to the tracks, where his brother watched from the safety of high ground. Baras’Oot expected him to fail, but Arga’Zul had been defying the odds all his life. He had been born for battle. He had never met his equal. This one he would win on his own.
Arga’Zul closed his eyes and took in one
last inhalation. Brisk air mixed with sweat and soil and, soon, blood.
He opened his eyes and gave the order to charge.
The drums pounded anew.
The Flayers screamed as they sprinted across the field.
The battle of their lifetime had commenced.
Chapter Fifty
The Battle of Ages
Chimosh waited until the Flayers were halfway across the field before he gave the order to fire. The first release of ancient weapon fire was terrifying and yet beautiful too.
Through the smoke, he saw many enemies fall, only to see another wave of warriors quickly take their place.
Inside the structure, the gunfire was deafening. Chimosh had barely registered Robinson’s return with the princess and the stranger. The princess collapsed on the floor. And yet, despite her pale, sickly appearance, he saw the ferocity of the Aserra in her. She was beautiful.
The ancient weapons had been evenly dispersed, and even now, older Aserra rushed to deliver new magazines to the users. These weapons were a boon, but they were not of the Goddess. They would do until the battle was even, and then they would be cast aside in favor of real fighting.
Arga’Zul’s forces marshaled forward against the onslaught of bullets. As his ranks fell, he understood why his brother had coveted these weapons so fiercely. But he had fought tougher forces before. He gave the order for his ranks to split. The first half sought shelter behind a levy where their archers provided cover fire.
The second group took up position on the opposite side of the field, behind a wall of shields. As the Aserra atop the terminal were struck down, his column moved up quickly. Once they reached the building, the day would be his.
Baras’Oot watched the battle unfold and felt a pang of jealousy that often accompanies those who witness greatness but do not participate in it. At the same time, he reminded himself that he was not a member of this orchestra of death, but its conductor. His brother might survive the first movement, but he would not survive the last. Baras’Oot knew this to be true because he had brought more than just an army to fight the battle. He had brought his own weapon of the ancients—one ten thousand rifles could not stop.
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