by J. L. Lyon
A gold-armored Persian stepped over the body of the Specter he had just slaughtered, smiling as he came, and gave Derek a mock salute with his scimitar. Derek smiled back confidently, despite confidence being the last thing he felt. He couldn’t possibly snap the necks of every warrior on the plain. There had to be some other way.
The Persian came at him, scimitar whirling, and Derek took a defensive stance. He needed time to think, to figure out how he might get around the seemingly invulnerable shield surrounding the Persian’s body. But the Persian didn’t leave him much time for tactical considerations. Skill was not even the proper word for how he handled the scimitar. Derek didn’t even have a word in his vocabulary for the artistic finesse with which the Persian fought. The scimitar was not just an extension of his arm, but of his body, as much a shield as a weapon, an incredible tornado of parries and blows.
No one who came late to the blade could fight like that. This man had likely been trained from the day he could first hold a scimitar.
Think, Derek urged as he barely dodged the edge of that sinister blade. It is too late to withdraw now. He didn’t have to listen to the cries or count the bodies on the ground to know that most were of the Spectorium. Derek was the best fighter among them, and if this is how he had fared he could only imagine what was happening with the rest.
Then, suddenly, it hit him: his analogy of steel upon steel. Both the Persian’s armor and his Spectral Gladius were made of Perfect Light...and just like steel, one might overcome the other with the right application of force.
The Persian’s movements had become lackadaisical—playful, even. He is mocking me. Without a doubt, the man was a much better fighter. But skill with the blade wasn’t everything. Derek feinted left, and the Persian swung wide, leaving an opening for Derek to drive Exusia straight through his chest.
A high-pitched noise, like metal being ripped, echoed off the buildings as the Persian’s armor gave way. It glowed white at the site where the blade entered the man’s body, and the Persian wore an expression of pure shock.
Derek withdrew the Gladius with another high-pitched rip, and the Persian crumpled to the ground. A few feet beyond him, Gentry stood locked in battle with another scimitar-wielding Persian. Derek advanced quickly and drove his Gladius up to the hilt into the Persian’s back. Gentry stared at him with wide eyes.
“This is no time to fight fair, Specter General,” Derek smiled. “Now let’s go kill some Persians.”
And that was when their enemies began to die.
-X-
“There is a pocket of heavy resistance developing out on the larger road toward the square,” Shahzad said, pulling his scimitar from the body of a fallen Specter. “Many of our men are falling at the hands of Grand Admiral Blaine.”
The black-clad warrior paused and turned his head in that direction.
“Blaine must be dealt with,” Shahzad went on. “If you would like, I can—”
“No,” the black-clad warrior said, holding up a hand. “I will deal with him.”
Shahzad's scimitar whirled in the air as he prepared to face more attackers. They were coming in pairs, now, after the fashion of their grand admiral. “As you wish, Commander. This is, after all, your party.”
44
DEREK PULLED EXUSIA FROM the chest of another black-armored foe, and in the intervening pause took stock of the battle. The Spectorium had come into the fight with greater numbers, but with their armor the Persians had quickly eliminated that advantage. In the moments since Derek had introduced their new fighting tactic, the tide had turned, but only in their small section of the battle, which by that point had almost shifted all the way back to the city square.
Their killing spree had made the enemy withdraw from them to regroup, which meant there was a hole in the battle surrounding he and Gentry. Not because the Persians were cowards, but because they knew how to win. Once the rest of the Spectorium was defeated, the danger he, Gentry, and their companions posed would also be gone.
Yet still, that didn’t stop some from trying.
One of the black-clad warriors approached, and again Derek felt that spark of recognition. This was the one who had first fallen between him and Grace Sawyer, he was certain of it. And there was something about the way he carried himself, that air of confidence and command, that warned this encounter would be different.
He turned to Gentry and nodded in the newcomer’s direction. Then together the two men raced to meet the shadowy foe. So far they had been successful by catching their enemies in a pincer attack, forcing them to fight one from the front while the other dealt the killing blow from the back.
The warrior met them in the hole their foray had made in the battle, so calm and collected as he entered their domain that Derek, by instinct, put out his hand to signal Gentry to stop. The warrior just kept on walking, and when Derek signaled Gentry again, this time to split and get around the enemy, the warrior still came on calmly. He stepped into the space right between them, looking first to his left, at Gentry, and then to Blaine on his right.
Derek paused for a moment and noted the color of the man’s Gladius: pure crystal, the refracted light giving it the appearance of a very large diamond. Again something tingled at the back of his memory, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“You hesitate, Grand Admiral Blaine,” the warrior spoke in his mechanical voice. “Why, when you have already killed so many?”
“None of your men have come at us this brazenly,” Derek replied. “Just trying to decide if you have some hidden plan or if you are just stupid.”
“You should decide quickly,” the warrior said. “Your men may not survive long without your aid.”
Derek’s gaze shifted to the surrounding battle, where nearly three of the Spectorium were falling for every one Persian. Despite his revelation of the armor’s weakness, there were many who simply could not best their opponent long enough to accomplish the maneuver. Where glancing blows were enough for the enemy, they had to plunge their blades straight through that armor to do any damage. Not the most even of battles.
But the time to order a withdrawal had come and gone. His forces were committed now, to the bitter end. And he had no plans to die here.
He lunged forward, Exusia flashing like a bolt of lightning straight at the black-clad warrior’s chest. The warrior knocked Derek’s blade away and turned just in time to avoid Gentry’s equally quick strike from behind. He’s good, Derek noted. We need to be careful...
Derek’s follow-up swing would normally have sliced the man’s arm off at the elbow, but instead his blade ricocheted off the black armor. Derek was forced to duck as the warrior swung at his head and then blocked Gentry’s next blow with his arm.
Interesting, Derek thought. This man was the first he had fought that truly used the armor to his advantage. The rest had attempted to fight them as any normal swordsman, viewing their armor as a last defense. The warrior used his armor as both weapon and shield, parrying blows as he might have done with a second Gladius.
He fended off Derek and Gentry’s attacks with masterful ease, allowing them to come within a breath of their fatal blow and then denying them victory in the final second, almost as though he was playing with them...delaying them.
Or waiting for their first mistake.
Gentry thrust forward hard, seeing an opening that simply wasn’t there, and stumbled from lost momentum when the warrior sidestepped his attack. Open and vulnerable, he could not move fast enough to dodge the warrior’s elbow, which came down on Gentry’s head with a sickening thunk. Gentry crumpled to the ground, and Derek noted his own moment of distress at the possibility the man was dead. He had already come to trust and rely on him, despite how short a time he had known him.
The black-clad warrior paused, Gladius hanging leisurely at his side, as Derek squared off to face him alone. The rest of the battle seemed far away from them now, which meant no one from the Spectorium would be able to help. He was on his own.
“It’s just you and me, now,” Derek said, holding his arms out and motioning to the empty space. “At least make it a fair fight. Turn that armor off.”
A brief moment of silence stretched between him, during which the eyes behind that black visor no doubt sized him up, trying to estimate his chances without his armor. Derek had simply been spouting off a challenge, and did not really expect the warrior to take him up on his offer. Needless to say, he was surprised when the warrior nodded slowly, “Very well, Grand Admiral Blaine. Now we fight as equals.” With his free hand the warrior flipped a switch on his belt, and though there was no discernible change, Derek presumed that the shield around him had been removed.
The warrior squared his feet and held his blade up in the ready position, and Derek reciprocated by holding his parallel to his face, point raised toward the sky. Then, he struck.
Their blades collided with a high-pitched metal clash that rang out across the city square, and the force of it reverberated through Derek’s arm. He couldn’t suppress the thrill that came with knowing he faced an evenly matched opponent, and as he launched into his next maneuver he let loose for the first time that night. Exusia darted right, left, up, down, so fast that he himself barely had time to register the next move before it was already made. The Gladius was alive in his hands, a cruel creature of death that had a mind of its own.
Only a few Spectral-adepts that he had met in his lifetime could have countered such a precise and furious assault, and they were all dead. Yet somehow, every time it seemed as though he was about to deliver the finishing stroke, his opponent’s blade was there to deny him. There were even points where the warrior anticipated him, and was in place to counter an eternity before the blow was struck.
Has he studied my fighting style before this battle? Derek thought as the battle pushed closer to the center of the square. He must have, to be able to predict my moves like this. But how? It wasn’t as if there was a repository of footage on his fighting technique.
I’ll just have to give him something he hasn’t seen. There was a move he had only used once, in a situation where he had also been evenly matched, but he had not used it since.
It was the move he had used to defeat his partner.
Derek allowed the black-clad warrior to get a bit closer with some of his blows, made him believe he was gaining the upper hand. And then, after a few very close calls, he backed away, leaving himself open to attack in the process. It was a feint of course, something he had studied independently during Specter training, but in the heat of battle opponents would almost always take the bait.
Seeing the opening, the warrior sent his Gladius into a stab straight for Derek’s torso. Derek spun out of the way just before the thrust hit, and launched into a turn to drive his own blade into the warrior’s unprotected left side.
But when the turn was complete, the warrior was not there.
Fire leaped across the top of his hand, and Exusia dropped to the ground. He tumbled forward to avoid the next blow surely aimed at his back. Somehow the warrior had anticipated him again, and during the feint ended up behind him.
He came to his feet, muscles tensed to go down fighting, but paused as he saw the warrior just standing calmly, watching him. He raised one finger on his armored left hand, “Fool me once.”
Derek blinked, confused. The warrior spoke as if he knew him, though Derek was sure he would remember someone this skilled with the Spectral Gladius. Again he had that strange tingle of familiarity at the back of his mind. Almost every opponent he had ever faced had died in the encounter. Unless...
All the pieces clicked into place, and the truth hit Derek like a Gladius driven straight through his chest. The breath fled from his lungs as he recognized the way the warrior carried himself, his fighting style, his ability to anticipate Derek’s every move...it was the only thing that made sense.
But that can’t be, he thought. It’s not possible.
His eyes turned to the battle, which had moved on north of their position. The action had slowed, and it was obvious even with a cursory glance that more gold and black bodies still stood than those in navy. They had lost...the Spectorium was finished.
- X -
Van Dorn rode a moveable platform behind the rear line of his army, raised so that he could see more of the battle as it unfolded. He made adjustments constantly as needed, and as Liz watched from her place in the shadows it reminded her strongly of an event she had attended long ago: a symphony. Van Dorn was like a conductor, performing his art with finesse and expertise, though this particular composition was of death and mayhem.
An entourage surrounded him to relay his orders and to protect him from threats, but all eyes were to the south and the battle. Liz had made her way around to the north to come up from behind, her wounded leg augmented by a piece of Persian armor. She still could not believe that the Persians had helped her, patching up her leg as best they could and then offering her the grieve so she could walk. Her leg had immediately become stronger when the material touched her skin, and she could only imagine how it felt to wear the entire suit. When she explained her mission they had allowed her to go on her way, to finish what Grace had sent her to do.
She studied each man on the platform, picking out the guards from the officers, and then emerged cautiously from her position. She kept to the shadows as much as possible—difficult with only a few buildings in this sector—and finally made it to the platform.
Silent as a phantom, she lifted herself up onto the contraption and prepared to—
One of the guards turned and looked right at her. He opened his mouth in horror and surprise, but it was too late for him. It was too late for them all.
Ignis came to life in her hand and sliced into the nearest guard, drawing shocked screams from the rest of those on the platform as they realized they were under attack by a Spectral-adept. The guards attempted to fire on her, but they were too slow, and she dispatched the second, third, and fourth with no difficulty.
The guards felled, only Van Dorn and his two senior officers remained alive, and she placed them between herself and the rear line in case any of the soldiers had heard the commotion. She lowered her Gladius and raised her sidearm instead, aiming straight at Van Dorn’s head.
“Give your forces the stand-down order, General,” she said. “This army now belongs to Grace Sawyer, the Magistrate of Corridor Prime.”
The general alone had retained his calm during the slaughter of the guards, and he looked on her with disdain, as so many other men had done in her life. All he saw was her beauty—a young girl with a gun, beyond her depth and out of her element.
“Sawyer will not be magistrate by the end of this day,” Van Dorn said. “So why don’t you put down that gun and you and I can discuss terms.”
“Terms?”
“For your future.”
“You have no control over my future,” Liz said. “I, however, do have control over yours. I will give you one final order, General. Stand down your forces, and relinquish command to Magistrate Sawyer.”
“Or what?” he smiled. “You’ll shoot me? No, I don’t think so. You don’t have the look of a killer.”
She tilted her head, realizing that this man was no different than the ones that had abused and taken advantage of her for as long as she could remember. Whatever future he had planned for her, she doubted it would be as advantageous to her as it was to him.
“Perhaps,” she said, “that’s what makes me so good at it.”
Liz pulled the trigger and Van Dorn’s head snapped backward. The rest of his body slumped down to the ground unceremoniously, and she turned the gun to the shocked face of his immediate subordinate.
“Congratulations, Major General. You have just been promoted. Stand down your forces.”
The soldier, visibly shaking in the aftermath of his master’s grisly death, raised a hand to his ear and spoke, “All forces, stand down. I repeat, cease fire.”
“Tell them the rest
,” Liz ordered.
“General Van Dorn is dead,” the major general complied. “This army now belongs to the Magistrate of Corridor Prime…Grace Sawyer.”
Liz kept her weapon trained on the man and holstered her Gladius. Then she activated her own comm, “Davian, the deed is done. Bring down that wall.”
- X -
“You should have withdrawn when you had the chance, Grand Admiral,” the black-clad warrior said. “The deaths of all your men...that is on you.”
“Who are you?”
The warrior hesitated, and then replied, “Go back to Alexandria. Face the retribution of the man you have chosen to serve.”
“Who are you?” Derek repeated.
His question was ignored, as the warrior turned toward the battle where the last of the Spectorium were being put to the sword. Then an explosion ignited the sky to the north, and the shimmering wall flickered and disappeared. The weight of defeat settled down upon Derek’s shoulders, but it was not so heavy as the terrible thought coursing through his mind.
“Your battle has ended. Soldiers beyond counting will soon pour back into the city, and you will not find a friend among them. Go, Grand Admiral.”
He drew his sidearm and took aim at the warrior’s back, “Don’t walk away from me, you coward! I asked you a question!”
The warrior paused to look over his shoulder, and Derek waited with bated breath.
“You wouldn’t be asking the question if you didn’t already know the answer.”
“I need to hear you say it.”
“No,” the warrior said. “You don’t.” And with that he continued on toward the battle.
In a rage, and for reasons he still didn’t quite understand, Derek opened fire. He emptied what remained of his magazine at the warrior’s back, and each and every bullet disintegrated against his armor. At some point, he must have turned it back on. He did not flinch or look back. It was as if Derek didn’t even exist.
He couldn’t let the man go, not until he was certain of the truth. He rose to his feet and started after him, “Tell me your name! Say it! Tell me—”
