Warlord

by Angela Knight

  “Uh, my new photographer.” Which was the truth. “From Atlanta.” Which wasn’t. She hid a wince of guilt at the lie.

  “He looks like a fruit.”

  Jane choked, remembering what Baran’s massive body had felt like driving into hers in the shower. She grinned. “Well, he’s not.”

  Tom eyed her shrewdly, no doubt reading that grin. “You do realize your daddy’s rolling over in his grave right now—you taking up with some guy in a tattoo and beads.”

  Jane clamped her teeth shut against the impulse to tell Tom just how little right her father had to serve as an arbiter of morality. Bill Colby had been far too good at hiding behind a good ol’ boy pose. At least with other men.

  Before she could shatter his illusions, Tom’s eyes widened as he noticed Freika loping along at Jane’s heels like the furry bodyguard he was. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s an…Irish wolfhound.”

  “Hound, my ass. That’s a wolf, period. Get it out of—”

  “She’s dying,” Baran interrupted, turning back toward them as he lowered his camera. The muscles in his powerful shoulders visibly knotted under his white T-shirt. “The woman in the wreckage.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Tom snapped. “Get that animal out of—”

  “She needs treatment now. What are they waiting for?” Baran glanced over at Jane, who silently cursed and reminded herself to buy him a pair of sunglasses. The red striations had appeared in his eyes again. Fortunately, Tom was too busy glaring at Freika to notice.

  Glancing at the car, she winced. The little blue Toyota had been crumpled like a beer can in a redneck’s fist. “They probably can’t get the doors open—the car’s too badly damaged. They’re going to have to cut her out of the wreckage.” Giving him a significant glance, she pretended to scratch beneath her own eye. Baran looked back at the mangled car and quickly raised his camera to hide his glowing irises.

  He clicked off a shot as a firefighter climbed gingerly on what was left of the car’s mangled roof. Someone handed a power saw up to him. “She’ll be dead before they can get to her.”

  “Probably. And there’s not a damn thing any of us can do about it,” Tom said. “Look, I’m sure you’ve been at this long enough to know dogs—or whatever—do not belong at accident scenes….”

  Baran tuned out the rest of the man’s protest. I’ve got to get her out of there, he commed to Freika. Even through the noise of idling firetruck engines, his acute hearing picked up the woman’s thin, hopeless cries of agony, more animal than human.

  You don’t know if you’re supposed to save her, the wolf replied. You don’t want to cause a paradox.

  TE said anything we do now that we’re here is supposed to happen anyway. Which means if she’s not supposed to live, she’ll die. But I can’t just stand around. Everything he was rebelled against doing nothing while any civilian endured such agony.

  No, I don’t suppose you can.

  I’ve got to get closer. Distract those men for me. To his computer, he gave a silent order: Begin riatt.

  Initiating riatt, the comp responded. Baran barely braced himself in time as heat blasted through his veins and his heart began to pound in heavy, frantic lunges. With the fire came a dark, feral joy, a product of riatt neurochemicals. He felt his lips stretch into a wild grin.

  How a man could kill as many people as you have and still be so softhearted… The wolf commed as he moved off to circle the oblivious firefighters.

  I’m not softhearted. Baran laughed, endorphins flooding his brain. I just love doing this.

  Oh, yeah, and the metabolic crash afterward is so much fun. Without warning, Freika launched himself at the rescue workers, snarling and growling, his sharp, white teeth snapping together like castanets.

  As one, they jumped back away from him. “What the fuck!”

  “Somebody shoot that goddamned…”

  His own teeth bared in a grimace of euphoria, Baran shouldered between the startled firefighters, thrust both hands through the shattered car window, clamped down on the door frame, and heaved backward. Steel groaned as something popped with a shower of glass. The door tore free.

  He turned to find himself the focus of an astonished ring of eyes. “All you had to do was pull,” Baran said, managing to give his voice a disgusted inflection as he quickly lowered his gaze to the ground. He knew his eyes would be blazing with the effects of riatt.

  After thrusting the car door into the hands of the nearest astonished firefighter, he grabbed the camera still hanging around his neck by its strap. He turned around and started snapping away at the moaning victim, knowing instinctively how the rescue workers would react.

  “How the hell did you…? Hey, you can’t take pictures of that.” Somebody grabbed his shoulder. He let himself be shoved back as the firefighters closed in on the woman and prepared to get her out.

  A skinny man dressed in a padded protective jacket glared at him. “Who the hell are you anyway?”

  “Photographer,” Baran said, and pointed the camera into his interrogator’s face. The man threw up a hand and backed off.

  “Who was that asshole?” one firefighter asked another. “How’d he do that? I tried that door. It was jammed tight.”

  “Must not have tried hard enough. Where’d the dog go?”

  “Hey, you,” somebody said behind him. “Clear a path.”

  Baran backed up another pace to give the paramedics room to bring the stretcher up to the vehicle. He framed a shot of the firefighters tenderly lifting the woman from her vehicle, the faces under their yellow helmets tight with concentration.

  For an instant the woman’s eyes met his, filled with a sort of desperate gratitude even through her pain. He nodded back.

  End riatt, the comp said.

  Baran winced as the battle neurochemicals drained away, taking with them the momentary high. A deep, racking quiver rolled through his muscles, and his stomach twisted with such force, he had to battle the urge to vomit.

  The worst thing about going to riatt was the aftermath, as the body reacted to the wild biochemical swings it had endured.

  Suddenly he was aware of a hot throbbing in his shaking hands as they cradled the lens of his camera. Blood rolled down his forearms. He wondered when he’d cut himself. How bad is it?

  Lacerations to fingers and palms, but no tendon damage, the comp replied. Healing acceleration procedures initiated. Estimated duration five-point-six hours.

  Well, it could have been worse. And had been, any number of times.

  The heat in his hands intensified as the healing began, pain rolling in behind it. He sighed in disgust. Normally he wore protective battle armor when he went to riatt, since the berserker state multiplied his strength by a factor of ten even as it killed his ability to feel pain. But TE had not allowed him to bring the suit here, and his twenty-first century jeans and T-shirt offered no protection to vulnerable flesh.

  Suddenly a huge black barrel thrust itself into his face. Baran jerked and almost knocked it flying before he realized it was a lens even bigger than the one on his own camera. As he recoiled, a black tube his computer identified as a microphone was shoved under his mouth.

  “Bill Clarkson, WDRT News,” the man holding the tube announced as his partner focused the videocamera on Baran’s startled face. The reporter’s expression was avid. “That was amazing. How did you do it?”

  “Do you mind?” Jane snapped, shouldering past the cameraman. “Quit harassing my photographer and go do your job, Bill. Maybe you can even get the story right for a change.”

  “Your photographer?” Clarkson lifted a brow and curled his lip. “Since when can a triweekly rag like the Trib afford a shooter? Especially one that can rip the doors off a Toyota.”

  Baran tightened his grip on his own camera and licked his dry lips, trying to squelch the racking quiver he could feel building in his body. “Impact ripped the door off,” he lied. “It was just hanging there. I only gave it a tug.”


  “Oh,” the reporter said, the gleam in his eyes fading. “Well, that explains it. Why didn’t the firefighters do that?”

  “Hey,” Jane said loudly, “isn’t that the driver of the semi over there?”

  Bill turned, following her pointing finger toward a tubby, bloodstained figure. “Sir!” he called, and strode away, leaving his videographer to scramble after him with the heavy camera.

  She watched them go. “Some people in the electronic media are really, really good. And then there’s Bill Clarkson, the human hemorrhoid.” Jane turned to stare at him. “Was that door just hanging there?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. Oh, hell.” The last was muttered as a short man with a badge clipped to his belt stalked up.

  “I told you to get that fucking dog off this scene,” he growled, thrusting his face as close to Baran’s as he could manage, given that he was seven inches shorter. “I thought it was going to take a chunk out of one of those firefighters. I should run your ass in….”

  “On what charges, Tom?” Jane demanded. “You know County Council never passed that leash law. Besides, Baran got the door open, didn’t he?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “And what the fuck is he, anyway—Superman?” His gaze flicked down, attracted by the bright scarlet dripping from Baran’s fingers. “Jesus, you’re bleeding like a pig. You must have gashed your hands wide open.”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Damn, Baran! What did you do? You’re…”

  Ahhhhh, a voice purred through his comp, drowning out her words, I was right. It is you.

  Baran jerked. That definitely wasn’t Freika, and the only other person in this time capable of comming him was…

  That’s right, Druas said. It’s me.

  Ten

  Freika!

  Yeah, I hear him.

  Stay with Jane. Barely aware that the wolf had moved to join them, he thrust his bloody Nikon into her hands and turned to scan the area. Sensors, he ordered his computer. Pinpoint the Xeran’s location.

  A flashing bright red X suddenly appeared across the highway from him, covering a human figure standing at the edge of a stand of trees. Baran started toward the man his computer had targeted, mentally cursing himself for coming out of riatt so soon. He couldn’t go back into the berserker state again until his computer had rebuilt its reservoir of neurochemicals. And the synthesizing process would take another half hour at least. Send me back into riatt as soon as possible, he ordered.

  “What’s with him?” he heard Tom ask.

  “I don’t know. Freika, dammit, get out of the way!”

  Baran didn’t look around, but he knew the wolf was deliberately blocking her path. The last thing they needed was for her to get within striking range of the Jumpkiller.

  Baran Arvid, Druas commed as Baran crossed the interstate. The Death Lord himself. Now, this is more like it. I knew it was you three hundred years from now, when I saw the vid footage those humans just shot of you ripping the door off that car. The killer’s tone was hearty, familiar, as if they were old friends meeting again after a long separation. You do realize the mystery around you is the reason these killings will become so famous? Which is ironic, when you think about it.

  Do we know each other? Damn, he wasn’t up to a fight with the Xeran right now, but it looked as if he was going to get one anyway. Maybe if he could stall the bastard long enough, his computer would be able to throw him back into riatt.

  And luckily, he still had the suit neutralizing ring the Enforcer had given him. If he could tag Druas with it long enough, it would knock the suit offline and he’d be able to beat the bastard to death.

  Unfortunately, there was no guarantee Druas would let him get close enough. He had to keep the Xeran talking.

  Druas began moving away, retreating slowly even as Baran approached. You have no idea how famous you are among the Xerans. Everyone talks about the Death Lord—all those wonderful duels, all the men you killed. And General Jutka’s put a very high price on your head, by the way.

  So I heard.

  I do believe you’ve got him shaking in his battle boots. I assume he is one of your targets? You’ve killed almost all the others who were present when your team was tortured.

  At the moment I’m much more interested in you. Baran lengthened his stride. The man his computer had pinpointed grinned at him. The Xeran must be generating an image field; the figure staying just out of reach was short and potbellied, nothing like the mercenary’s true build.

  That’s refreshing to hear. The man sauntered away again, keeping just ahead of his slow pursuit. Baran thought about breaking into a run, but he didn’t want to drive the killer into Jumping.

  I was starting to get bored, Druas commed, circling him. The Ripper killings were entertaining, but hardly challenging. It’s not like the little bitches could fight back, could they? Though they did squeal well….

  Baran snarled, remembering Mary Kelly’s helpless struggles.

  Still, the killer continued, I was thinking of giving it up until I saw the archival footage of you while I was doing a little research. I recognized you the minute I saw you. Even at a distance the smile on the round, bland face was chilling. That’s when I realized the Tayanita killings were my work. I must have come here, and TE sent you after me. Now, there’s a challenge, I thought. Me against the Death Lord. Gave me a shiver. He beamed. And now here you are.

  Eyes narrowing, the Warlord stopped in his tracks. Maybe the bastard would come closer if he didn’t follow. The question was, would Baran be able to put the Xeran down at normal strength? Not that he had a choice, with Jane’s life at risk. If you want a fight, I’ll be more than happy to oblige you.

  But not yet, I’ll wager. You just dropped out of riatt, so you can’t power up again for a good half hour or so. Reading Baran’s expression, Druas grinned. Don’t look so surprised. I did a little research on Warlords when I decided to play this game. But I wonder—how much research did TE let you do on me?

  They gave me all the data I need.

  Oh, I doubt that. Knowing Temporal Enforcement, I’ll bet there’s a great deal they didn’t tell you. Though why they’re so afraid of causing a paradox, I have no idea. If the universe doesn’t die when you make the Jump to begin with, you can do whatever the hell you want. The grin on that round, ordinary face took on a thoroughly inhuman cast. And there’s a long list of things I want to do to sweet Jane.

  Baran fought to keep his rage from showing. You’ll never lay a hand on her.

  Won’t I?

  No. Because I’ll kill you before you get that close.

  The killer sauntered closer until he was just out of Baran’s reach, bland human eyes studying him with cruel interest. You’re fucking her already, aren’t you? I wondered about that. Is she good?

  You’ll never know. To his computer, he thought, How much longer to riatt?

  Twenty minutes.

  Too long. Too damn long.

  Actually, Druas said, before this is over I’ll find out exactly how good she is. But not yet. If you’ll excuse me, I have women to kill, police to mystify…

  Hell. Baran lunged for the killer. He risked getting caught in the backwash of the Jump, but if he could just pin him long enough for the ring to do its work…He clamped a hand around the man’s wrist.

  “Idiot.” Druas’s fist slammed into Baran’s head so hard he saw stars, but he didn’t let go. “You’re going to get fried, you fool!” And he was right; Baran could feel the energy of the Jump building as the killer’s armor began to glow.

  Warning! Temporal field building! The comp blared, its voice seeming to echo in his skull. Step back! Baran ignored it, blocking another hard punch, intent only on holding on. The ring was heating on his hand….

  Too late. A blinding white light exploded in the center of his vision as an electric jolt tore though his body. Something picked him up and threw him with an eardrum-shattering boom.

  He never felt the groun
d come up and hit him.

  Jane, trapped behind the furry barrier of Freika’s body, saw a lightning bolt knock Baran ten feet like the slap of a giant’s hand. He hit the pavement flat on his back as a thunderous boom drowned out her scream.

  Freika whirled and raced toward his fallen partner, a black streak faster than any dog she’d ever seen. Jane sprinted after him, her heart in her throat, dimly aware of Tom pounding at her heels.

  Baran lay sprawled on his back, his eyes closed, his face so pale his scarlet tattoo looked like blood. His brawny arms and legs were flung wide, lacerated palms upward. Freika nuzzled his face, whining like the dog he wasn’t. Jane fell to her knees beside him, reaching desperately for the pulse in his strong throat. It throbbed comfortingly against her fingers, but he didn’t move. “Baran! Baran, wake up!”

  She’d known him less than twenty-four hours. How had he become so damn important to her so damn fast?

  Jane looked wildly at Freika. The wolf jerked his head, but she couldn’t tell what he was trying to communicate. Unfortunately, they didn’t dare talk in front of Tom.

  “Paramedics!” the detective bellowed, but the standby ambulance crew was already pounding toward them.

  “What the hell happened?” Jane heard one yell.

  “Dunno,” Tom called back. “Looked like maybe a lightning strike, but there’s not a cloud in the sky, and I don’t see any power lines nearby.”

  “How is he? What’s going on?” Jane whispered fiercely to Freika while the detective was distracted.

  The wolf pressed against her and whispered back. “His comp says he’s okay. He just got in too close when Druas Jumped.”

  “Druas was here?” She looked around wildly, remembering Mary Kelly’s blackening face, the silver flash of the knife, the spray of blood and tissue…. Instinctively she covered Baran’s big, helpless body with her own.

  “He’s gone now.”