Killers, Traitors, & Runaways: Outcasts of the Worlds, Book II

by Lucas Paynter

  One by one, the others followed her lead. Despite that, she never felt confident in casting the vote. Drawing enemy fire greatly increased her chances for survival, and it was self-preservation—not tactical prowess—that compelled her support. Flynn never raised his hand, only nodding reluctantly. Whether it was meant in agreement or as an admission of defeat, she couldn’t say.

  “Chari, support Poe as long as you can,” he told her, then addressed Poe himself. “Soldiers of the Reahv’li helped murder Yetinau Gruent. They may be out there now, though I doubt they’re prepared. Don’t give them the chance.”

  Precious little time was spent furthering the details of the plan, for they had little to spare. There were many fissures within the terrain that were likely being scrutinized by the Reahv’li, but they provided much needed cover and would be a necessary risk.

  At key intervals, Jean would provide a localized tremor to inform to inform Poe of their progress, as well as rattle the Reahv’li. A meeting place was established as well—a dilapidated hut Jean and Zaja had used before.

  When there was nothing left to say, when Chari and Poe gave their farewells and set down their respective paths, Zaja tried to lighten the mood.

  “Rain’s gone, at least.”

  “Pity that,” Shea replied. The rainfall had kept their waterskins filled and washed any evidence of their passing away. Were it here now, it could provide much needed cover.

  As they waited to hear the sound of that first, fateful gunshot, Shea approached Flynn, huddled away from the others and staring at the ground.

  “Be alright, both,” she assured him.

  “If we’re not just delaying the inevitable.”

  She stood up, and looked outward. It wasn’t hard to see what he meant—the Reahv’li were scattered now, but if they converged on Borudust Castle…

  “No way out, this goes bad,” she concluded.

  “Even if it doesn’t… Before we left TseTsu, I thought there was a chance we might come out nearby, that we might be able to strike and slip out in the confusion.” Flynn clenched his fists in frustration. “Not going to happen. Poe may will himself away, but he won’t suddenly find the talent to open a path and take us with.”

  Shea’s stomach fluttered. Death at the hands of angry zealots was not how she’d imagined going. She forced her eyes shut, fought to calm her escalating breath before fear could creep in. She hadn’t truly escaped war, but if she died, at least this might be one worth dying for.

  “They know?” she asked, gesturing toward Jean and Zaja.

  “I think we’ve all figured it out in our own ways,” Flynn said as he got to his feet.

  “Mostly avoided thinking about it,” she replied.

  The signal did not come right away. Shea waited, crouched like a runner prepared to rise into a sprint. The sound of Chari’s rifle reverberated like distant thunder, and it might have gone unnoticed if not for the faint, anguished wail that followed.

  “Should we—?” Zaja started to ask.

  “Give us a minute,” Shea replied patiently. “Too soon, plan’s buggered.”

  Shea’s breath was ragged before she took a single step. A telescope would have been welcome, but she had to track the movements of the enemy by squinting and hoping for the best. But they were moving, slowly and uncertainly at first, and increasingly so with each crack of thunder that followed.

  It might not be the right time. She could never truly be sure, except to trust her gut, for that was all that had kept her alive thus far. Shea didn’t give a command; just a single, sharp gesture before hurrying onward, quickly and quietly.

  *

  Another shot rent the air. The sound of bullet puncturing flesh, tearing through muscle, and lodging in bone reached Poe all at once. The soldier who trailed him tumbled—dying, but not dead—and another halted to tend him.

  He knew he couldn’t count on this support for much longer, and Chari’s finesse at such range impressed him. Keeping the Reahv’li on his trail without allowing them to overwhelm him had been a delicate balance, and Poe knew he would soon have only himself to count on.

  As he pressed through the reeds, he found a shallow river running toward Yeribelt, and followed it.

  “They think themselves silent,” he murmured to himself. Poe didn’t change his pace, allowing his pursuers to find their respective positions.

  Then, at once, they revealed themselves, leaping for the muddy waters, thinking they’d caught their quarry unaware. Poe’s blades emerged through mortal instinct, though these foes no longer needed to be feared. Awareness had not escaped him—if anything, Guardian Poe was more in tune than ever before.

  Even while the Angel Edge and Dark Sword emerged from their respective sheaths and Poe shifted his stance, he watched the blade of a polearm arc toward him, and raised his right-hand sword to deflect, watching as the air itself moved aside when two strikes converged, before plunging his left blade through his assailant’s heart.

  Time had changed. Motions he’d once executed from pure reflex could now be analyzed and adjusted based on the circumstances. Poe’s foes were at grave disadvantage, and he dislodged his blade without effort and pivoted on his back foot, slashing horizontally and opening another’s throat before her comrades could even register the first death.

  “He won’t die so easily!” one cried to his comrades as he tried to stab Poe. “Do whatever you have to—”

  Poe pivoted left, batting the crier’s weapon aside with the Edge before dragging the Dark Sword across his belly. But he was distracted—puzzled, actually. Had he heard his foe correctly? The man had choked on his own blood before he could even begin his battle cry, yet the words reverberated in Poe’s skull. With them came a growing sense of displacement, one that revealed to Poe the moments that would have come before his unnatural interference denied the original outcome.

  It was a disgrace to call what followed ‘a battle.’ One by one, his foes were cut down—Dark Sword plunged through the shoulder blades, Angel Edge severing limbs with clean strokes. In the distance, footsteps hurried down the river, reinforcements closing in like a raging, ceaseless flood.

  And Poe stood in the water, concerned for none but himself. His violet cloak had darkened with the blood of his enemies, but his body was not tired. His muscles did not ache and his breathing, as if it were even needed, remained steady.

  Awakening from his trance, Poe heard the labored breath of a survivor, bowled over when his comrades fell and mercilessly spared of Poe’s blades. The man rose from the water, filth hanging from his body and fearful determination in his eyes. He gripped the better half of a broken spear and tried to run Poe through, and for a moment, Poe considered allowing it.

  Then with a sharp jerk, he sheared the weapon of its blade, leaving an impotent stick in its wielder’s hand. The man fell back, half-drenched and shaking in fear. His uniform was nearly as bloodstained as Poe’s and even his jet-black hair had been marred with the viscera of his allies.

  I am not unkillable, Poe reminded himself. If I fight as though I were, I shall be defenseless before the Living God.

  Yet despite how that lone survivor trembled, there was a courage in his eyes that was trying to will his body to rise and fight again. Poe considered taking his life, but saw no purpose in doing so. He was only one, and one person could not stop him.

  *

  Over the course of several exhausting hours, Flynn, Jean, Zaja, and Shea advanced steadily toward the outer rim of Yeribelt. It was like no war Shea had ever fought—grossly outnumbered at every turn, yet seemingly unnoticed by the very enemy they were supposed to be engaging.

  With every step they progressed, Shea feared she was leaving some piece of her humanity behind. While the bulk of the enemy forces overlooked them in the mad pursuit to capture Guardian Poe, they had not been without their skirmishes. The first encounter came as a surprise, and while Flynn and Jean had fought like a matched set, Shea had scrambled to draw her pistol, and had to stop herse
lf upon realizing the noise might draw others to their location.

  Fear hounded them, with every conflict that followed becoming more intense, more desperate. They were vulnerable now, enemies all around and no sign of Chari to mend their wounds or Poe to overwhelm the opposition. Flynn fought more desperately to keep his comrades safe, Jean struck more brutally at any who dared fight her, and Zaja lashed at her foes as though they were wild animals who’d dared come too close.

  Shea paused at the end of a battle to press the flat side of the Searing Truth to her forehead. As a soldier in the Trynan-Bheln conflict, she had taken eight lives. However many she’d slain now numbered well into the double digits.

  She wanted to feel sick for it.

  Miles passed underfoot, and time seemed to erode into a blur, with only the movement and fading of the blue sun to remind her of their progress. But Yeribelt, once an insignificant band on the horizon, steadily grew larger as they neared. So with it did Borudust Castle, and the cascading light that fell upon it like a gathering storm.

  “Almost there,” Zaja said, her voice dry and cracking.

  “Thank fuckin’ god,” Jean gasped. “My dogs are killin’ me.”

  Shea was half-hunched from exhaustion. She needed to sit and rest. She needed a damned cigarette. She picked up her pace and tried to advance, when a hand grabbed her by the coattails, and wrenched her to the ground.

  “Down, now!” Flynn hissed.

  Shea didn’t waste energy arguing. A small band of Reahv’li emerged just around the hill and rushed onward. The four remained hidden for several minutes, waiting until it seemed certain the patrol was gone.

  “Think we’re clear?” Zaja asked in a whisper.

  “You can come out now.” It was not a voice that Shea recognized, but her comrades appeared to know it instantly.

  Perched on the hill, one leg resting on a boulder, was a man with three vestigial horns in a triangle pattern on his forehead. He made an unwelcome impression, and when Flynn said, “Arronel,” Shea knew by reputation the man looking down on them.

  “Such fuss over the Guardian,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval. “A timely ambush would have seen him cowed. Owing to your manner of infiltration, that opportunity is all but dashed. Well played.” He sneered, his contempt masquerading as praise. “He may be challenging to predict, but I know you, Flynn. You’re thorough. No job half-done. Certainly wouldn’t make a god out of a man and leave him to his own affairs.”

  “He’s going to kill Taryl Renivar,” Flynn warned.

  “Oh, he’ll certainly try. But I believe in my god, and he can certainly handle one lesser than he.”

  “So we got you all to ourselves, then?” Jean retorted. “Up for a rematch, fucker?”

  “Oh, I took special account for you, shrew,” Arronel retorted. “Touch the ground.”

  Shea hadn’t been paying much mind to the terrain, but while Jean cautiously knelt, Shea ground her boots into it. The soil beneath them was soft, and when Jean initiated a tremor, it had a weak effect and limited carry.

  “I recalled our first encounter when I went hunting for you,” he continued. “The terrain was not to your advantage. Only the numbers—” He paused to hold out his arms, prompting a number of Reahv’li to reveal themselves. Between the slopes of the terrain and their assailants, they were effectively surrounded. “—which I’ve since seen fit to amend,” Arronel finished.

  “Well, fu—”

  “Attack,” he ordered, and the Reahv’li swarmed them, all lunging forward with spears outstretched. Shea tensed momentarily before finding her sword hilt with both hands and clumsily pulling it free. Not a moment too soon, she swatted a spear aside; it still slipped past her core defenses and sliced her on the bicep. They’re actually trying to kill us! she thought.

  The Reahv’li they’d fought before never put their hearts in the battle; it was always as if following through with that killing stroke might cause them to lose something precious.

  As if in answer, Arronel, who was walking down the slope twirling his spear, proudly proclaimed, “These soldiers are among my finest! Every wretch here has taken a life, and so my august lord’s paradise is forever denied them! They fight more fiercely than any other, to ensure none shall ever have to kill again!”

  Shea scrambled to avoid one strike, then another, stumbling on her tail before scrambling back up. One of the Reahv’li was about to impale Flynn from behind, and Shea, without thinking, ran her sword through his side, killing him instantly.

  “You are new,” Arronel declared, approaching Shea through the chaos. She backed up nervously, not knowing what she faced, and her hand faltered as she drew a pistol. Before she could level it on Arronel, another attacker came into her line of sight and she instinctively fired, dropping the pistol as the soldier touched the earth.

  “Don’t get you,” she stammered. “Any of you. Say you’re not to kill, but do it anyway.”

  He didn’t deign to respond, and swung his spear at her face. She intercepted it with her blade, and was grateful then to be wielding the Searing Truth. Arronel’s spear seemed dangerously sharp, and would likely have split her old cutlass in twain.

  “Lieutenant of some sort, right?” she asked him. “Poor sods here won’t see the new world, but you? Exception, I ’magine.”

  He advanced on Shea. “Horsemen of the End Days won’t enter the new world, and I am Lord Renivar’s third.” Arronel raised his spear with one arm, ready to hurl it at her. At such range, he would not miss, and she could neither close in to attack nor deflect his weapon with hers; she hadn’t the skill.

  When Shea was unable to formulate a coherent plan of defense, panic and instinct took over. She snatched up her second pistol and, just as Arronel was about to release his throw, fired a shot in his abdomen.

  “Unh?!” Arronel grunted and doubled just enough from the pain that his spear wobbled as it flew. It seemed to clear Shea’s space, but when she heard a scream, she had to touch her throat to ensure it wasn’t her own.

  “ZAJA!”

  Shea turned stark white as she spun around to see Zaja dropping to her knees, green blood draining from her back. Flynn had been first to notice, but Shea was certain she was closest. Without thinking, she advanced toward Zaja, hacking the opposition away like a machete to foliage.

  When she reached Zaja, she cut the spear at its base and left the blade inside her. “Hold still, don’t fight it,” Shea begged as she shed her coat and split it with her sword, stabbed another attacker, and then began tightly binding it around Zaja’s midsection. As Zaja shook in her arms, she took great pains to fasten the spear blade in place so it wouldn’t shift or allow more blood to seep through. She couldn’t remove it here; Zaja would bleed to death.

  “Break for it!” she barked to her comrades.

  Their Reahv’li combatants had suffered agonizing losses, worsened after Zaja’s injury.

  “I can … walk,” Zaja murmured weakly as she tugged at Shea’s shirt.

  “Hush,” she ordered, and charged ahead, cradling Zaja in her arms. She hadn’t looked back, but was soon certain she was being followed. If it wasn’t Flynn and Jean, her pursuers would have hell to pay.

  *

  As the life left her, Zaja DeSarah faded in and out. The arid valley was patched with dying grass, then a blur of weathered tents, and finally a cold stone wall and a messy bed of hay.

  Everything was hazy as she was laid roughly on her side, propped up by pairs of rotating hands to keep her from driving the spear-blade further into her back. Delirium was drowning the pain, which surfaced only when the embedded blade shifted. There was a faint sensation of her bloodied clothes sticking to her skin, beyond where the wound had gone numb.

  A cluster of questions, hushed and panicked, carried to Zaja’s ears. Were we followed? Are we safe? Is Chari coming? Everything felt like a dream. She tried to roll back, to look, but was firmly held in place.

  “Stay awake,” someone begged.

/>   Everything felt distant. Zaja wanted to sleep for just a little while.

  “Do something,” another demanded.

  The dream was becoming more faded.

  “I … cannot,” a helpless voice replied.

  Chari? Zaja wondered.

  “Even had I the power, I’ve not the knowledge to implement it.”

  No. Poe.

  “Where is Chari?” seemed to be the question on everyone’s lips.

  All was gray, then black, and with it the uncertain fear her eyes were still open. If this was the end, what was the last thing Zaja would see? Would she wake up in the Beyond, the place after life, as though rousing from a nap? Or would there be some transition, her soul being ripped from her body? She vaguely wanted to know, but the last distant thought she had before blacking out was that it could not be worth the price.

  And then nothing.

  “…say we should just leave her here…”

  Zaja saw the stars, vast and infinite and tinged by the blue light of cosmic energy, swirling overhead. There were distant voices, too muted to make out everything, but they were talking about her.

  “…still regrouping, won’t be long before they look here…”

  “…she’d want to see this through…”

  She wasn’t moving. At first, Zaja thought she was drifting, but nothing around her had changed.

  “…ooh, right there. Little lower…”

  The stars and cosmic energy were all there, but something surrounded them, like a picture frame. Zaja stared into the heavens intently, trying to figure it out. Is that … the ceiling? She fluttered her eyes, and realized her body was still indoors, and she was still in it.

  Shea was sitting over her, sighing in relief. “Thought you’d gone.”

  “You doubt my talents?” Chari was sitting nearby, eying Shea with mild offense. Her robes were loosened, and Flynn was massaging the bare skin of her back. It took Zaja a moment to realize it was in the same place she’d been stabbed.

  Zaja sat up, like waking from an afternoon slumber. There was no pain, only a strange sensation she’d been here before. “Where are we?” she asked.