Blackhawk: Far Stars Legends I

by Jay Allan

  Lucerne’s men hadn’t broken yet, but the relentless blast from his autocannons sent them diving to the ground and lunging for whatever meager cover they could find. He had singlehandedly almost shut down their fire, and now it was time for his troops to move from the defensive. To attack.

  “Forward,” he roared, “everyone. Destroy these raiders.”

  He stood where he was, firing both guns, grunting hard from the exertion of holding the massive weapons. His troops were moving ahead all across the line now. He saw a few drop, but his fire was pinning most of Lucerne’s survivors. As soon as the Carterians reached their enemies it would be two and three to one at close range…and that fight wouldn’t last long.

  Then he heard something…more soldiers. Coming from behind.

  He swung around, bringing one of the autocannons to bear to the rear. There were about twenty-five of them approaching. They were a ragged lot, not ordered like Lucerne’s men. They had no uniforms…they looked more like farmers than soldiers, most of them clad in gray cloaks of some sort. But they were armed, and they were firing.

  He saw two of his men drop, shot from behind by the newcomers. He felt another wave of rage, and he opened up on them, firing on full auto.

  The attackers started to drop, half a dozen of them going down in a few seconds. About half of the others wavered…then they turned and ran. But the rest were still coming, perhaps half a dozen.

  He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he dropped one of the autocannons. The hit wasn’t that serious, but it hurt like hell, taking his fury to a crescendo. His head turned, his eyes locking on the source of the shot. It was a woman. She was tall, thin, a riotous mass of dark brown hair hanging out from her cap. And she was almost on him, a gray-clad man at her side.

  Trax whipped around, swinging his remaining autocannon around as he did. He wasn’t going to bring it to bear quickly enough to fire, but he smashed the heavy weapon into the man, breaking his arm like a twig. His target screamed and fell back, dropping to the ground. But the woman was on him.

  He reached out, swung at her as she came on, but she ducked, avoiding his blow. She had a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. She struggled to bring the pistol to bear, but Trax grabbed her arm, twisting, turning the weapon aside.

  She howled in pain as he jerked her arm, breaking her wrist and then twisting again. Trax smiled, staring down at her face, tears streaming from down her cheeks, and he yanked hard again, pulling her savaged arm. She screamed in pain, looking up at his laughing face with terror in her eyes.

  He pulled hard yet again, lifting her off the ground by her broken wrist, laughing as she cried in agony. But then he felt it, a jab in his leg. He looked down, his anger flaring again as he saw it. She had planted the knife in his thigh. She’d lost her grip on it, but the blade remained, stuck deep in his leg.

  He pulled her around with one hand and slammed his other fist into her head, sending a cloud of blood flying all around. Then he threw her hard to the ground.

  He paused, leaning down, gripping the knife and pulling it from his leg. He moved forward, holding the blade and standing over her. Blood was pumping from his wound, but he seemed to ignore it. He glared down at her and kicked hard, his huge booted foot slamming into her side. She yelled in pain and coughed hard, spitting blood from her mouth as she did.

  He leaned down, staring right into her eyes, savoring the look of pain, of fear he saw there. This woman, this raider…she was a brave woman, a capable fighter. But she was no match for Bulg Trax.

  He lowered his face, his eyes right above hers as he held her own blade to her gut…began to push it slowly into her…

  * * *

  Blackhawk threw the assault rifle aside, his last clip expended. He reached down, pulled out his pistol. He fired twice, taking down a pair of enemy soldiers who had jumped out in front of him. He was almost to the rear of the convoy, and from DeMark’s ongoing coms, things had gone from bad to downright critical.

  Blackhawk had taken a hit, a slug to the side, and his uniform was soaked with his blood. He could tell the injury wasn’t too bad, but it still hurt like hell. He ignored the pain, and he pushed himself forward. There would be time to mend his wounds later, but right now, battle called.

  He ducked between two transports, spinning around, coming out behind the last truck. He stopped abruptly. The field before him was a nightmare, covered with the dead and dying. DeMark’s troops had been driven back, and the Carterians were rushing the battered position even now.

  He reacted on instinct, firing, almost like a machine. Crack. Crack. Crack. He was targeting the Carterians moving on DeMark’s position, taking down at least a dozen before he emptied the clip. He was about to reach for a reload when he heard a scream.

  He turned to look, but even before he could there was another yell, louder than the first, piteous. And he recognized the voice.

  Cass!

  He swung around, looking for her. Nothing. There were a couple of the Grays still standing—he hoped that wasn’t all who had survived—but not Cass. And there was a giant, a Carterian as large as any man he’d ever seen.

  Then he saw. Cass. Lying on the ground under the big man. And his hand…driving a blade into her gut.

  “No!” he screamed, dropping the pistol and pulling his sword from the sheath. He was already moving, running across the field toward the giant.

  “Carterian,” he screamed, desperately trying to draw the man’s attention from Cass. “Turn and fight me, dog.” Blackhawk’s voice was angry, elemental. There was no doubt what part of his psyche was in control now…and his voice was the essence of pure rage.

  The Carterian turned, grabbing for his own blade as he saw Blackhawk moving toward him. He stepped forward himself, slashing hard as soon as he came into range. His face had been twisted into an angry scowl, but that changed to a look of surprise as Blackhawk shifted his body, expertly parrying the blow.

  The two combatants switched positions as Blackhawk’s momentum carried him past his adversary. He felt an almost irresistible urge to turn, to check and see how badly hurt Cass was. But he held firm. It was the dark side again, he knew, saving him from his own weakness. The newer thoughts were fixed on Cass, on the need to go to her…but his older self was in control now, and that part of him was single-minded. Kill the enemy.

  He looked at the Carterian. Blackhawk was a large man, tall and muscular, but his adversary seemed almost like a giant come alive from the pages of some ancient myth. He was tall, towering above Blackhawk, and he was enormously muscular. Blackhawk knew this was a dangerous opponent, even for him.

  His body tingled, his system pumping huge amounts of adrenalin into his arteries. He stared at his enemy, eyes focused, his mind watching for the slightest movement, even a hint of which way his foe would come at him. This was the battle trance in its purest form…Blackhawk alone, facing a deadly enemy. One he knew could kill him.

  The world was gone, thoughts, memories, motivations…all vanished. There was nothing now, nothing save the fight, the call of battle.

  The Carterian stood for a moment, still surprised at the skill Blackhawk had shown in evading his attack. His face was twisted into an enraged scowl, but his eyes were focused, controlled.

  This is no immensely strong idiot. This is a skilled warrior.

  Then, the Carterian moved, quickly, suddenly. He came straight ahead, his sword in front of him, driving straight for Blackhawk’s body.

  Blackhawk reacted, saw the first hints of movement. His enemy was lumbering straight at him, like a wild beast…feral, controlled by rage. For an instant he thought he’d overestimated the man, that for all his size he was nothing but a brainless giant, lacking cunning, finesse.

  But there was something else, deep in Blackhawk’s mind. A warning. Do not underestimate this foe.

  Then he saw the move, felt shock at how quickly the immense mountain of a man could shift his body, alter his momentum. The Carterian swung sharply to the
side, his blade dropping low as his body twisted, the blow coming in under Blackhawk’s own sword.

  Blackhawk saw the move, almost too late, and he jerked his body hard, away from his enemy’s sword. His own blade came around, adjusting to the Carterian’s move, but too late. He felt his foe’s blade bite into him. He’d almost avoided the slash, but it caught him in the side, barely, just a shallow cut. He knew it wasn’t serious, but it hurt like hell…and the fact that his enemy had drawn first blood tore at him deep inside, where his warrior’s pride lived.

  This is a capable opponent, you fool…and it has been far too long since you faced an enemy more dangerous than drunks in a tavern or footsoldiers in the field…

  Blackhawk’s eyes were fixed on the Carterian’s, his hand tightly clasped around his blade. He had lost the first round…but he wasn’t going to give his enemy another opening.

  He took stock of the warrior. The Carterian was big, strong…but Blackhawk knew his own genetic enhancements would equalize that. The giant would be surprised when Blackhawk revealed his true quickness, strength. That was an advantage, one he intended to use to the greatest effect.

  He stumbled back, appearing as though the slash had hurt him worse than it had. But he didn’t overplay it. He knew his opponent was a veteran, that he would know the wound was minor.

  The giant lunged forward, pressing his advantage. Blackhawk held out his blade, parried the blow. The Carterian’s strike was hard, and Blackhawk’s armed ached as he held his sword firm against the attack. His enemy pulled his sword up, struck again. Blackhawk realized the man was used to overpowering his enemies. Strength, not finesse was his game.

  Blackhawk parried blow after blow, analyzing the Carterian’s every thrust, his every step. He was on the defensive, watchful of his surroundings, looking for any enemy soldiers who might try to intervene. But the Carterians were occupied. The troops Blackhawk had brought with him were pouring into the fight…and DeMark’s people had leapt out of their meager cover and charged back in. The battle raged all around, even as Blackhawk and the Carterian commander fought their own private war.

  Blackhawk felt rage, anger that this man had hurt Cass. He craved his enemy’s blood, and he knew one thing. There would be no quarter in this battle.

  The Carterian was becoming angrier with each parried blow, throwing all his strength into repeated attacks, each a bit less controlled than the last. Blackhawk was drawing his enemy on, tiring him. His own arm ached, fatigue and pain from fending off the repeated blows taking their own toll. Blackhawk’s endurance was strong, and he knew he could outlast his enemy. But there was no time for that. This was no arena, it was a battlefield, and victory hung in the balance. And Cass. He needed to get to her, to help her.

  He twisted hard to the side, the Carterian missing him entirely, sword slamming into the ground. Blackhawk’ lightning countermove caught the giant unprotected, a sharp stab to the side, the razor point of his blade sinking deep into his enemy’s thigh.

  Blackhawk pulled the blade back from the wound, and twisted his body hard again, coming around, ducking just as his opponent swung hard.

  That was close…he’s tiring, but he’s not done yet. This man could still kill you…

  He took a step back, resetting himself. But his attention wavered despite his warning to himself. His eyes darted toward Cass, trying to get a look at her, at how badly she was injured. It was an error, a lapse, and his enemy was on him, another swing. This time the giant connected. Blackhawk felt the impact, the blade hitting him in his midsection. The edge of the sword had turned, caught on his coat, but the force of the heavy metal weapon hit hard. He wasn’t cut, but he knew immediately his opponent had hurt him again. He had broken a rib at least, and perhaps worse.

  Then he felt something, his mind emptying, all thoughts gone save the death of his enemy. Suddenly, the struggle between his old persona and the new one was gone. There was nothing now, no thoughts of Cass, of Lucerne, of the battle raging around him. Just coldness, like the depths of space. His time in the Far Stars, the years of aimless wandering, his allegiance to Lucerne…it was all gone. He was as he had been years before, on battlefields far away. Death personified.

  He lunged at his enemy, eyes focused like lasers. He heard the clang of the blades as his enemy barely parried. But then his sword moved again, fast, a blur. His side hurt, the gash on his shoulder pumped blood down his side, but he ignored it all. There was nothing. Nothing save his enemy…and his sword.

  He swung again, knocking the Carterian’s blade to the side, then he turned, kicked his enemy hard, sending the giant falling to his knees. Then another swing, even harder, with all the strength he could manage. The enemy, raising his own blade just in time…and the hypersteel of Blackhawk’s expertly-crafted weapon slicing through, snapping his foe’s sword with a loud clang.

  Blackhawk could see the surprise in his enemy’s face, the shock. And something else, something he suspected this man was not used to feeling. Fear.

  Blackhawk suspected this man would refuse to surrender…but he didn’t care. There was no pity in him, no mercy, not even the respect for a worthy adversary. No, he was a killing machine, and nothing more.

  He looked down into his beaten foe’s face, savored the terror he saw. This was victory, distilled to its pure, brutal essence. He was death, come to deliver another enemy to the deepest dark.

  His sword flashed, moving so quickly no eye could follow it. For an instant, his enemy knelt, unmoving, still staring at him. Then his head slid slowly to the side, severed, falling to the ground a second before the body followed, blood erupting from the neck. Blackhawk felt a wave of emotion, satisfaction. This was what he’d been born to do. He reached down, scooped up the Carterian’s severed head, holding it by the hair.

  “Death to them all,” he screamed, holding the head before him as he stared out at the melee. “Death to the Carterians.” There was frozen venom in his voice as he screamed to the soldiers surrounding him. He hurled the giant’s head into the melee and charged in himself, leaning down, picking up a rifle from one of the dead.

  He fired…then again. And with each hit he felt a wave of satisfaction. He fed from the death, from the pain and despair of his enemies. This was victory. Total domination, destruction. Even the treasure convoy was unimportant. Only one thing mattered. The Carterians must die. All of them.

  Chapter Thirty

  Deep Southern Desert

  “The Badlands”

  Northern Celtiboria

  Blackhawk stood on a mound in the middle of the battlefield, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies. He was wounded in several places, covered in blood. Some of it was his own, but most had come from the men he’d killed. Dozens of Carterians had fallen by his hand, and the rest by the soldiers he had led. There had been no quarter, and not a man from the convoy still lived. Soldiers, guards, drivers, laborers…Blackhawk had ordered them all slain. Some of Lucerne’s men had resisted, especially toward the end when the last of the Carterians tried to yield. But in the end, Blackhawk had held his pistol to the head of a lieutenant and assured him he would only repeat himself once. In the end, his orders had been obeyed.

  His memories were hazy, vague reminiscences. He had killed the Carterian commander, he remembered the combat with the giant. It had been like a rebirth, waking him from a long sleep. Then he’d plunged into the battle, shooting, hacking, killing enemies with abandon. His thoughts were new…and old. He had awakened, and the elemental energy of combat flowed through him.

  He was unmoving, like a statue, staring out over the detritus of battle, hundreds dead, carrion birds flying overhead, swooping down to pick at those around the perimeter of the field. It was all that was dark and cruel about war. But it was not disturbing to him. There was comfort in it. He was home. But he was not Arkarin Blackhawk, as he had been moments before…he was another, one born of the darkness.

  He stared at the field, at the bodies of his own men, Lucerne’s men, and he
was emotionless. They were the cost of victory, nothing more. For spouses and children and parents back home, who would miss these soldiers, cry in the night for their loss, he felt nothing.

  But there was something else, from deep inside, a spark. It was pain, sadness for the losses his soldiers had suffered. Loyalty, satisfaction at the victory, but regret for its cost. The man who had fled from all he’d been, who had wandered lost and aimless…until he’d found Augustin Lucerne. Blackhawk was still there, hanging on, but the cold, heartless killer was in control.

  “Blackhawk…”

  He spun around, reached out, grabbing the speaker by the throat.

  “Blackhawk,” the startled man rasped, “…it’s Jarvis Danith, from the Grays…” The voice was clipped. Something was wrong.

  The spark that was Blackhawk flared inside, struggling with the frigid warrior that had taken control. A battle raged in his mind. The dark side had seemed supreme, but now the Blackhawk persona was driven onward. It had seen Jarvis, the expression on the pirate’s face. And that focused him on a single thought.

  Cass!

  Suddenly he remembered. Cass. The image of her lying on the ground as he fought the enemy leader. He’d forgotten, the part of him that cared for her completely subsumed by the dark warrior. But now the emotion roared back, pushing the Blackhawk persona forward, forcing the frozen side of him back down, into the dark place it lived. Visions of Cass appeared, flickering remembrances of her in the confines of the Gray’s old headquarters, standing in the desert smiling at him…but they all faded back to the same thing. Her, blood-covered form, lying on the sand.

  His hand was still holding Jarvis, choking his stunned comrade. He released his hold.

  “I’m sorry, Jarvis…” Blackhawk was going to explain, but then he realized there was no way he could, not without hours to tell the tale. Not to someone who would never believe the incredible story anyway.