by J. L. Lyon
Pain suddenly exploded at the back of his head, and before he could even register what was happening he was on his back. Someone had hit him from behind, and hard. But who? One of the Persians?
As his grasp of the world began to fade, his eyes shifted to the place where his attacker would have needed to be to strike this blow. The scarred face of Specter General Marcus stared down at him, smiling. “The MWR will have your head for this, Blaine. The least I can do is deliver it to him.”
Derek’s hand twitched, longing to hold his Gladius, but it was too far away to help him. And all he could think about, as unknown hands pulled him back toward the shadow of the buildings, was the black-clad warrior.
It was him.
Delirium took him, and then the world went dark.
45
SORROW ALWAYS FOLLOWED BATTLE, no matter the outcome. Even in victory, the costs had been high. Grace had led fifty men into battle against the Spectorium, and only seven survived. Now that the adrenaline of the moment had subsided, she felt the pain of the wound on her cheek like thousands of burning needles pricking her skin over and over again. Crenshaw could barely walk, and limped along beside her as they ventured slowly back into the city square.
Her remaining warriors stuck close by them, blades out to the side like an honor guard as they followed three golden-armored Persians through the shallow mists left by the battle. They had witnessed the Spectorium’s discovery of how to reactivate their blades and had followed suit, but the Persians had insisted they stay out of the battle. There had been more than three of them at the time, and little choice.
Bodies littered the ground, and the more they advanced the more difficult it became to go around. At points either Grace or one of her warriors helped Crenshaw step over the ones they could not avoid. Some were the enemy...some were men she had commanded. Honorable men, whose time in this world had come to an end.
But hers hadn’t, and she didn’t know what to make of it.
“I wanted to die today,” she whispered softly so that only Crenshaw could hear. “During the initial charge, I believed it was coming, and I welcomed it.”
She waited a moment for Crenshaw to reply, but he didn’t. He just kept his eyes on the ground as they maneuvered across the battlefield. So, she went on.
“It’s been like this for a while now. After Dad died, there was Eli...but after Eli died what did I have? Only my responsibility to keep the people of Silent Thunder alive for as long as possible. But I never cared about my own survival. Perhaps if I had I might have done a better job.”
“Don’t say that,” Crenshaw said forcefully. “You are not to blame for the men who died out here, or for any that have died in the months since we fled Alexandria. They chose to lay down their lives for their own reasons: their families, their fallen nation, their ideals. Even if help had not arrived, we had broken the Spectorium beyond the ability to hold this city. That was our goal, and we achieved it. Jonathan Charity himself might have been hard-pressed to lead us as you did today.”
“But how can I continue to command when I feel so...broken?”
“If perfection were a requirement for commanders, there would be none,” Crenshaw replied, grimacing as he tripped and then regained his balance. “As it so happens I know the exact thoughts going through your mind...because I have been there. When my parents were killed so brutally—put on display for the entire world to see—I still had hope that my wife and sister were alive. Then Lori died, and a few years later Lauren followed her. After that I spent years searching for Elijah, losing a little bit of hope with each passing day. I wanted to die then, too, Grace. In the darkest times, I contemplated doing the deed myself.”
“What stopped you?”
Crenshaw paused as though searching for an answer, “I don’t know. I suppose, strange as it sounds, it’s because I was alive. If I had lived, while all those I cared about had gone on before me, there must be some purpose. There must be something left for me to do. And I couldn’t rest until I knew for sure what it was. I don’t know if that makes any sense...”
“It does,” Grace nodded. “For me it was duty, but now I know that is not enough. I kept holding on to Eli’s memory, believing it would give me the strength I needed to make it through. But all it really did was force me to live in the past and despair for my future without him. I can’t go on like that.”
“Are you saying...?”
Grace looked down at the tattoo on her arm, “It’s time for me to move on.” A thrill of freedom coursed through her as she spoke the words. “There is a reason I am alive, and I can’t let his death keep me from it any longer. There is something I want now, Crenshaw, something that until today I never believed possible.”
“What is that?”
“Victory,” she said darkly. “I want to step over the smoldering ashes of Napoleon Alexander’s palace, and smile.”
They came to the base of the stairs to the city capitol, where a fourth Persian stood waiting for them. Their escort split off to the side and saluted this fourth man, leaving the seven surviving members of Silent Thunder to stand awkwardly before him. Like supplicants, Grace thought sourly.
“Hold on tight to that dream, Grace,” Crenshaw whispered in her ear. “But we’re not out of the woods yet.”
Grace couldn’t help the bile of bitterness that rose in her throat. These men had saved her life, it was true, but that did not make the victory theirs. She had lost forty-five men in that battle, and their sacrifice would not be diminished by Persians.
She took a deep breath and spoke with the strength and confidence due her position, “I am Commander Grace Sawyer, leader of the Silent Thunder 2nd Battalion and Magistrate of Corridor Prime. Do you speak for the Persians?”
“Greetings, Commander Sawyer,” the Persian’s accent was thick, though not difficult to understand. “I am Shahzad al-Zarif, Captain of the Swords of Persia. And yes, I speak for these Persians.”
Grace heard a sharp intake of breath from Crenshaw, and tilted her head to the side. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Al-Zarif,” Crenshaw whispered back. “Ahmed al-Zarif is the name of the man who united the nations of the Middle East into the reconstituted Persian Empire. The man who started the war that destroyed my world.”
Grace pressed her lips into a thin line. She had no idea how common the name al-Zarif might be among Persians, but there was a good chance the man before her was related to the founder of the Persian Empire. His son, perhaps.
“General Ellis Crenshaw,” al-Zarif went on. “It is an honor to meet you. You are just as much a legend in my country as you are in your own, though for different reasons.”
“I would imagine so,” Crenshaw replied with a wan smile.
An awkward silence stretched between the three of them at the implications of that exchange, and then al-Zarif went on, “I see you both are wounded. We have skilled doctors who will—”
“Why have you come?” Grace asked. “What is it you want?”
Al-Zarif hesitated, evidently hearing the underlying accusations in her tone: You do not belong here. You are not welcome.
“Careful,” Crenshaw warned.
“We have come at the request of another, to repay a debt. He would like to speak with you now, if you are willing.” al-Zarif asked.
Her first inclination was denial. Despite the fact that they had arrived in time to rout the Spectorium and save the few of her men who had survived, they were Persians. Surely they could not be trusted. They had to have some ulterior motive, but what?
Painfully aware of their disparity in numbers and equipment, however, she could not say no. If the whole of their force wanted to charge and finish them, there was little she could do to stop them.
“Why did you help us?” Grace demanded.
Annoyance flashed briefly across the Persian’s face, “Perhaps I am not familiar with Western customs, but you have a strange way of showing gratitude.”
“Gratitude? For what
?”
“For saving your life.”
Grace gritted her teeth, “Yes, you saved me. You saved seven lives out here tonight. Congratulations. But does seven lives pay back the debt of the millions that perished in the Persian Resurgence? Is that enough to redeem you?”
“Grace,” Crenshaw warned again. “Stop.”
She knew she had probably gone too far, but their very presence here—on ground from which her father had fought to expel them—was in insult. There was a voice in the back of her mind, urging her to see reason. These are not just Persians, some faceless enemy. These are men of flesh and blood...men who just came to your aid.
But al-Zarif took it in stride. “You speak the very same words that have been leveled at us before the gates of many potential allies. We were told you were different, Commander Sawyer, that you could be reasoned with. So explain to me now why a generation of Persian men and women should be doomed to carry the sins of their parents. Tell me why you believe that I, when I was just a boy at the time of the Resurgence, am guilty of the blood that stains the world. Your seven lives is nowhere near what would be required to attain redemption for such crimes, but those crimes do not belong to me.”
“They belong to your nation.”
“They do,” al-Zarif nodded. “But I assure you that Persia has suffered. We have reaped the consequences of the seeds of war we planted in the world, more perhaps than most. Persia destroyed the world...now we want to help rebuild it. We come under a banner of truce.”
“Truce?” Grace retorted. “I know what you did to our men in the north.”
“Then you should be doubly grateful,” al-Zarif said. “Your people were near frozen and starving when we found them. We fed them, protected them, guided them back here to you. The worst we did was tell your Commander Aiken and his men that they could not join us in the fight, because they had no armor.”
Grace was conflicted. On the one hand she wanted to believe everything that the Persian was telling her. But at the same time, she suspected some sort of trap.
“You said you heard I was different,” she said. “What did you mean by that?”
“I was told you are a leader unlike any other. That you believe in freedom for all peoples. That you are one of the few truly good people in the world, and would give us a fair hearing.”
“Who told you those things?”
“The man who brought us here. He waits for you now, in your Stone Hall.”
- X -
Davian’s men grew tense as a Halo landed nearby. Some had gone on back into the city to bring back help, while three others had remained behind with him to help dress his wounds. The third Halo had been damaged in the fight and could not be trusted to carry them all safely back to the downtown sector.
But Davian was relieved to see the vessel—more so that it was not trying to cut them to pieces with bullets. If it had been an enemy, they would not have landed. Much to his surprise, it turned out to be better than any rescue party he could have imagined.
Liz emerged alone from the vessel, and upon seeing his sorry state jogged over to meet him. His men relaxed when they saw her.
“Are you alright?” she asked, inspecting the bandaged parts of him. “You don’t look so great.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” he grinned. “You, on the other hand, look stunning as ever.”
She grinned and turned to the others, “Medication?”
“A little,” they shrugged.
“Well, I might have to take advantage of this, then,” she motioned to her Halo. “Let’s get him inside. I’ll carry you all back to the city.”
Two of the operatives lifted Davian up by the arms and supported him as they made their way to the Halo. Once inside, they moved away, and Liz knelt in front of him. She took his hand in hers and met his gaze, “Thank you, Davian, for trusting me.”
In an instant the worries of their earlier exchange fell away. Something was happening between them, he could see it in the way she looked at him.
“Thank you,” he replied. “You saved us all.”
“About time I started pulling my weight around here,” she smiled and gave his hand a squeeze, then stood up to face another operative who motioned to the empty pilot’s seat, “What happened to him?”
“Who?” she asked.
“The pilot. Did he run off?”
“I flew this here.”
The shocked expressions the operatives gave her were almost enough to make her laugh again.
“Buckle up, gentlemen. It's time to see what happened at the city capitol.”
- X -
Grace and Crenshaw followed Shahzad to the Stone Hall and met Bruce along the way. He brought them up to speed on the progression of the battle. Van Dorn was dead and his army pacified. She had Liz to thank for that, though the details of her involvement were still a bit unclear. The important thing was that both she and Davian were alive, and very few of the Silent Thunder operatives who had gone with the Great Army had perished in the fight.
She was now the undisputed Magistrate of Corridor Prime. The Generals in Corridor North and Corridor South had already sent short messages congratulating her on her victory. Longer conversations would soon follow.
But for now, all of that had to be put aside, for a small Persian Army had taken up residence at the seat of her power. How to deal with them? Shahzad insisted they were not here as enemies, but how could that be? And if her men had trouble accepting the idea of fighting alongside the Great Army, how would they react to an alliance with Persians?
It was almost too much for her. The past few hours had been filled with so many emotions, and her brain was addled with the weight of them. How could she be trusted to make such an important decision? To befriend the men who had destroyed the world...to ally herself and Silent Thunder to the remnants of the Persian Empire? She had never prepared for a possibility like this.
Her thoughts turned to all of the names carved into that wall beneath the Silent Thunder dome—people Crenshaw had memorialized in what small way he could. How many of them had died by a Persian blade? How many families and children? In that moment she even heard the echo of James McCall, explaining his reasons for betraying Silent Thunder: I lost my wife, my two sons, their wives, and five grandchildren when the Persians invaded. I did not want peace. I did not want reconciliation. I wanted blood...
She was well aware of the significance of the moment. If she refused to cooperate, there were no guarantees the Persians would leave the city peacefully. If she said yes, it would be a turning point in the history of the world. The Persian Empire, at odds with the West for centuries...an ally against a common enemy. Perhaps it would provide them with what she knew they must desire: redemption for their nation, and a place at the table in the world to come.
But was that a betrayal of those whose blood had been spilled in their invasion? If so she would betray those who had died fighting against them, as well as those who had risked everything to push them off this continent. Of those men, her father was one. What would he have done?
They reached the door to the Stone Hall and Shahzad pushed it open for them, “He wishes to speak with the two of you in private.”
Grace gave Crenshaw a short look of trepidation, and he gave a shrug in response. They went into the Stone Hall and Shahzad pulled the door shut behind them. Their boots echoed throughout the chamber as they slowly approached the Stone Chair.
A man waited there, armored in black, helmet still hiding his features, studying the structure of the chair. He turned at their approach, unsettling Grace with the inhuman feel of that opaque visor and mechanical voice.
“Thank you both for coming.”
“Did we have a choice?” Crenshaw asked.
“Of course,” the warrior replied. “We did not come as conquerers. We came as friends.”
“You are not a Persian,” Grace said, matter-of-factly. “Shahzad speaks of you as a friend, but not as an insider. You brought them here, but for
what purpose?”
“We have much to discuss, the three of us,” the warrior said, taking his gaze off the chair and turning toward them. He approached them slowly and stopped a few feet away. “For instance, I know what you have been doing this last year, courting a power best left buried. I also know that a hunter was sent after you in the Wilderness. He is but the first of many.”
“Why should we trust a man who brings Persians to our doorstep?”
“You disappoint me, Grace. I never thought you would be one blinded by prejudice, to not recognize a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when it comes your way. You seized upon it here, in Corridor Prime. Will you now let it pass you by? I told them you had the ability to see beyond the ravages of the past, to recognize new hope when it rises—the hope of forging a more peaceful future.”
“Perhaps that idealist is who I was, once,” Grace said. “But not anymore. You’re about fourteen months too late.”
“Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”
“You are welcome to try.”
“Once a wise…teacher…told me that the greatest victory,” he paused, watching her closely, “is not to kill the greatest warrior in the world. It is to convince him to join your side.”
She froze, the words like an icy hand clutched tightly around her heart. It was an old saying that her father had passed down to her, one that had become somewhat of a proverb in Silent Thunder. But it wasn’t the words themselves that got to her, it was the way he said them: like an inside joke that only she would fully understand.
Grace studied the black-clad warrior, her heart thumping hard in her chest. “Where did you hear that?”
“From you.”
Her knees nearly buckled beneath her, and she might have fallen if Crenshaw had not been there to help keep her on her feet. Emotions exploded in her chest: fear, anger, confusion, joy, disbelief. They all swarmed before her, and she didn’t know which to latch on to. Should she be angry? Or happy?
