Shadow Heart

by J. L. Lyon

  From what she had seen so far, it seemed she was not dealing with the Persians or any other large group, but only one man. She didn’t know whether to feel better or worse about that fact. Thoughts of being stalked by a single pair of eyes creeped her out more than if it had been several. Armies, she knew. The lone murderer was more difficult to understand and therefore harder to fight.

  Grace ran down her analysis quickly. Liz was a Spectral-adept, and the odds that this man was also skilled with a Gladius were slim to none. He never could have bested her in a frontal assault, so he must have taken her by surprise. He was probably mere feet away, waiting for Grace to make her cautious approach to free Liz from her bonds. That was what any sane person would do.

  Naturally, she would have to do something else.

  She pivoted around the tree and took off at a full run straight for Liz, Novus Vita coming alive as if the moon’s light had taken physical form. It was the first time she had run like that since injuring her leg, and it felt good. For a moment she could almost forget the danger, but as Liz came into focus the reality of the situation crashed back down on her.

  Her arms were bound behind the trunk of a tree, and gray tape covered her mouth. But her eyes were wide with both warning and surprise. Had her lips been free, the words it’s a trap would certainly have escaped them, but sometimes the only choice was to spring the trap and hope the predator made a mistake.

  Grace had closed half the distance when it happened. Something whizzed past her ear, cutting through her hair as it went. Too slow for a bullet, too fast for something thrown—probably a tranquilizer dart. Regardless, the stalker had given up his position. Now they were getting somewhere.

  She dove behind the nearest tree and drew her sidearm with her free hand. She squeezed three rounds in the direction from which the attack had come, then took off again, this time in an arc slightly away from Liz. She made it to another tree just as a second dart thunked into the opposite side. She fired in his direction again, and once again went on the move.

  By now he should have guessed at her strategy. If she continued on her current course and he remained stationary, she would eventually flank him, and with her Gladius in the equation that would mean game over for him. He would have to leave the safety of his position to escape her.

  But that was all Grace needed. Once she could see him, he would cease to become a shadow stalking her in the night. He would become flesh and blood…and the predator would become the prey.

  His third shot ricocheted off her Spectral Gladius just before she reached her third hiding place along the circle—a lucky miss—and she followed the routine by firing two more shots in his direction. But this time, she did not run right after. She merely watched for her opponent among the trees.

  It was a risky move, but it paid off. The black figure slunk out from behind a forked tree and made his way around, attempting to stay diametrically opposite her. But now that she knew his position, she would not have to catch him.

  She holstered her sidearm and pulled back on the hilt of Novus Vita. The Gladius vibrated as the magnetic forces realigned, and the metal sword widened into a cylinder. She leaned around the tree, took aim at the figure’s position, and pulled the trigger.

  The rolling hum of charging Solithium filled the quiet forest, and two seconds later a ball of white flame burst from the end of the Gladius, destroying the tree and ripping up the ground like a mortar shell. She ran back along the arc in the direction from which she had come. The shadow moved within the smoke, moving toward her now, and as she closed the distance she raised the Gladius and pulled the trigger again.

  Another burst, another ball of flame, another explosion of dirt and smoke, and still the shadow came on. Novus Vita reformed into a blade as the distance between her and her opponent closed. Then a spike of white appeared in the assassin’s hand, and Grace barely had time to register her shock before the man's Gladius crashed into her own.

  But it had apparently been nothing more than a feint, for as she squared her feet into dueling stance he blew right past her, caring nothing for shelter. Grace drew her sidearm again and took careful aim. She fired, and blood sprayed from the man's shoulder. The force of the bullet ripping through his body knocked him to the ground, and the Gladius went flying. He groaned and rolled back to his feet, crying out as he tried to push through the pain. He managed to scoop the Gladius up from where it had fallen as Grace squeezed off another round. The bullet threw up dirt as it was buried in the earth.

  The man stumbled for the cover of a tree and disappeared right before she fired again. She retreated behind one herself, fighting the urge to yell out obscenities. Now they were back to square one: cat and mouse. Only now she was the cat, and he the mouse.

  She took a deep breath and prepared to lay cover fire for her next advance—

  “Well played, Commander,” a male baritone rumbled into the silence. “But you forgot to protect your queen.”

  Grace leaned around the trunk and caught sight of him standing next to Liz with the Gladius at her throat. She closed her eyes in exasperation. Liz! How could she have forgotten to protect her? She had been so focused on her entrapment that she hadn't seen through his plan. Now they would both likely die for it.

  “Come on out,” the assassin ordered. “Nice and slow.”

  She emerged, hands out to her sides, still holding both her Spectral Gladius and her sidearm. For a split second she considered shooting him, but even if she killed him instantly, the blade would still prove fatal to Liz.

  Liz attempted to cry out, but her voice was muffled by the tape over her mouth. Grace could imagine the things she was trying to say: at first, warnings to come no further, to leave her behind. And then, as she drew closer, insults on the stupidity of her actions. A small corner of Grace's mind had to agree. The chance for both of them to escape this alive had all but disappeared, but Grace could still get away on her own. But that wasn't how Grace treated her friends. She could not leave her to die just to save herself...even if all she accomplished was that Liz wouldn't die alone.

  “Drop your weapons,” the man ordered. She hesitated for only a moment before obeying, and when her Gladius hit the dirt there was certain peace to it—a resignation, as if she had been awaiting this day for the better part of the year. She recalled distantly the emotions running through her as she had walked down to the pyre for execution in the Central Square. Fear. Anger. Doubt. She'd had so much life left to live, a life of promise and value.

  No such emotions plagued her now. She had lost most of the things she had wanted to survive for. In a way she had merely been hanging on to the frayed remains of her old life, waiting for the final thread to break.

  The man directed her to a tree opposite Liz, where he tied her up in similar fashion. She got a good look at him now, up close. He was attractive in his own way, obviously a trained military man, muscular all the way up to the firm set of his jaw. But it was his eyes that took her aback—not the eyes of a man, but of a machine. She had seen that look many times before in the eyes of Great Army soldiers. But there was something deeper there. Great Army soldiers had their humanity stripped away to be replaced by obedience. This man had been given something else entirely.

  Liz no longer struggled to speak, nor did she attempt to make eye contact with her. The resignation of death was clear on her face as well. What regrets did she foster now, at the end? What wrongs did she lament being unable to make right?

  “Few marks have been able to wound me,” the man shrugged his shoulder uncomfortably as he stepped away. “You should have aimed a little further to the left.”

  Hindsight, she thought wryly. “What is it that you want?”

  “I want to be home in my own bed, safe inside the walls of Alexandria and enjoying the fruits of the labor borne by lesser men. But I have a certain skill set that is called upon from time to time...skills that force me to leave those comforts and find those unfortunate souls that have run ill of the powerful,
and kill them.” He paused as if for effect, smiling at her, waiting for the realization of his intentions to dawn on her, for the fear to appear on her face. But he came away disappointed, and his smile faded. “Were you any normal mark, Commander Sawyer, you would already be dead. But as luck would have it, you have something I need. Something that will free me from the bonds of my master. Oh I am going to kill you, so don’t harbor any hopes to the contrary. But you get to decide how much you want to suffer before the end.”

  “I don't have anything that will be of any value to you,” she said honestly. “You can torture me to death and I can spill my deepest secrets to you, but none of them will make you free.”

  “On the contrary,” he said. “You see, in all my time working in this particular field, my master has always sent me on missions that he himself was hired to accomplish. I can count on one hand the number of times he has sent me on a mission for himself, as was the case with you. He has a personal stake in seeing you dead, because you know something he believes should be lost to the world.”

  “What is your master's name?” Grace asked. “Then perhaps I might understand what it is you are looking for.”

  “The master has no name,” the assassin said quietly. “Perhaps he did once, but it died with the Old World. Now we only know him by what he does. You remember, Liz, the things he used to do to us. The long nights of conditioning, lessons taught by pain, molding us into the perfect fighting machines for Napoleon Alexander’s army. From a childhood of nightmares, monstrosities are born. Some more monstrous than others.”

  Grace turned her attention to Liz, “You know this man?”

  She closed her eyes and nodded, mournful. A childhood of nightmares… they must have known one another at the Capital Orphanage. Why did so much seem to lead back to that place? 301, Liz, and now this assassin. How many lives had that place destroyed? How many monsters had it created?

  “Why are you headed west?” the man asked.

  “To regroup with the rest of Silent Thunder,” Grace replied. “We were attacked, and I—.”

  “I know all about the pursuit of the Spectorium, and that does not concern me. You were already traveling west when the Spectorium fell upon you. Where were you headed?”

  “We...” Grace trailed off as the pieces fell together. He knew…it was impossible, but somehow he knew. She thought back to her conversation with Crenshaw, just a little less than a week ago now, though it seemed like an eternity. Why are we looking for this, Crenshaw? Why not leave it buried?

  Because we don’t know who else knows.

  “Silent Thunder is a nomadic group. We wander. If not for the Spectorium chasing us we might never have made it this far west.”

  The assassin paused for a moment to study her, then flashed a hollow grin. “I can understand why you want to protect the information. Things worth killing for are normally worth dying for. But you’ve only proven to me that what I seek is of value. Now, why are you heading west?”

  “I already told you. I don't know what else you expect me to say.”

  His grin faded and he drew the knife at his belt. Grace's heart thumped in anticipation, prepared to endure whatever torture he had planned but terrified all the same. This man had probably devised tortures she could not imagine, and she could imagine some terrible things.

  But he did not advance on her. Instead he took a step back and paused. She narrowed her eyes at him, unsure of his game. And then he turned, swift as if in the heat of battle, and drove his blade deep into Liz's right shoulder. Her scream was muffled by the tape, but it pierced Grace all the same. She cringed as he yanked the blood-soaked knife back out and settled his gaze on her.

  “That was a warning,” the assassin said. “Nothing too permanent, just a little blood loss. Lie to me again, and I'll take something more valuable.”

  Grace hesitated, her gaze shifting between Liz and the assassin. Liz shook her head and mumbled something that sounded a lot like Don't do it. He is going to kill us anyway. A reality she already knew. But could she sit here and watch her friend suffer to protect what little information she possessed?

  “Keep your mouth shut, whore,” the man waved his knife at Liz. “We've already established that I don't plan to kill you.”

  A spark of hope ignited at the possibility that what he said was true. If she just told him what he wanted to know, he would complete his mission and let Liz go free. Grace would die regardless of the outcome, but she could save Liz untold suffering. A fitting final act, if not quite the one she had imagined for herself.

  But to tell this man what she knew...if what Crenshaw said was true, it could risk the lives of every person on the planet. But perhaps if she could just tell him enough to satisfy his need...maybe she could mitigate that risk. She set her eyes on Liz again, and frowned. There was a different look in her eyes now: determination, ferocity. It made no sense given their situation.

  “Well?” the assassin asked.

  “We are headed to the Corridor.”

  “Better,” the hollow grin returned. “Corridor Prime?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what lies in Corridor Prime that my master is so intent you never find?”

  “A weapon,” she replied. “Something extremely powerful.”

  “How powerful?”

  “I don't know,” she lied. “But it must be significant. Enough maybe to turn the tables of the war.” Grace noticed Liz shifting strangely against the tree, but did not look for fear she might draw the man's attention to her.

  The assassin studied Grace closely, trying to spot her lie. Satisfied, he moved on, “How do I find this weapon?”

  “It is hidden somewhere in the city. There is a map, but I don't have it.”

  The assassin stepped toward her, hooked now on the information she had fed him, lusting for more as it became clearer he might have found his leverage after all. Everything else faded from his attention, so that he did not see as Liz freed herself from her bonds and stepped away from the tree. She bent to lift a thick branch from the forest floor.

  All the while Grace kept her features constant, trying hard to ignore the fountain of excitement rising in her chest.

  “The map...” She said, keeping his attention. “Is in the possession of one of my people. His name is Harry Balzac.”

  “Good. And where can I find this Harry Balzac?”

  Grace cracked a smile, and at that moment the assassin got the joke. His expression soured and he turned to exact vengeance on Liz. But instead his head connected perfectly with the branch swung by Liz's good arm, and he dropped to the ground.

  Liz's shoulders slumped, and she ripped the tape off her mouth. Then she looked at Grace incredulously, “Harry Balzac? Really?”

  Grace shrugged.

  The assassin coughed blood out on the ground and drew Liz's ire, “Still tying bonds like he taught you. I learned to escape those when I was four. Just takes a little time.” She raised the branch and brought it down with enough force to crush his skull, but he turned just in time to grab hold of it. He flipped Liz over him, and the momentum tore the branch from her grip. She crashed into the ground, and once again Grace's dread returned.

  But Liz was back on her feet quicker than the assassin could rise, and she attacked him before he could prepare. He returned to his back within two seconds, and Liz kicked the branch from his grip. His knife having fallen in her initial strike, he was now weaponless.

  Liz tried to deliver a second hit to the man's head, but he caught her foot and pulled her to the ground, attempting to pin her beneath him. But Liz had trained all her life to defeat men in combat, most of whom outweighed her and could overpower her in a straight fight.

  She kicked the assassin in the groin—hard, from the look of it—and took advantage of his shock to push him off her. She rolled to her feet and kicked him again, this time in the stomach. She bent again for the branch, but that gave him the opportunity to roll away from her and grab—

  “Gu
n!” Grace yelled. It was her weapon, confiscated when she gave herself up, and she could do nothing but watch helplessly as the assassin aimed the gun at Liz.

  But her branch swung true yet again, and knocked the gun from his hand. It landed in the dirt at Grace's feet. The assassin charged Liz before she could fully recover from the swing, and all she could do was bring it up like a shield. The assassin took hold of it and drove her back against a tree. She gasped as the air was forced from her lungs, and fell to her knees on the ground.

  The assassin grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the dirt. It was then that Liz saw the gun and dove for it. The man caught her leg and flipped her over, then straddled her to hold her down. His hands closed around her neck.

  Grace looked down at the gun, mere feet from her, and cursed that it had not come even a foot closer. If so, she might have been able to...

  Liz reached for the weapon even as she attempted to stay her strangulation with her other hand, and Grace knew what she had to do. She dropped to her butt on the ground and stretched her leg toward the gun. It was still out of reach, but just barely. With Liz's choking cries as her motivation, she stretched further, putting so much pressure on her bound arms that she felt they might break, and managed to get one toe beneath the weapon. She kicked, and the gun slid across the ground toward Liz's outstretched hand.

  Her fingers grasped for it, but could not do any more than graze it. Grace had not kicked it far enough.

  The choking noises slowed and Grace closed her eyes, wishing she could cover her ears to shut out the rattle that would signal the death of her friend.

  Four gunshots cut through the air, and her eyes snapped open. Four holes had appeared in the assassin's chest, and he slumped over, dead. Now free to breathe again, Liz sucked at the cold air like a wounded animal and pushed the dead man off her.