It was no Delaluzian chasing the boy. Arming swords were traditionally the weapon of the Alarian army, as opposed to the sabre preferred in Delaluz. Alarie had infiltrated Tejon Company to get the boy.
They knew. Somehow, Alarie knew who the boy was.
However they had discovered it, David wasn’t about to let them take him.
He crept around the hut. It was empty, the cloth-door shifting in the light breeze. Stopping short of revealing his position, he craned his neck around the curve of the structure and saw his quarry.
The Alarian was almost on the boy, moving stealthily up behind him.
David drew a revolver and stepped out from the hut, cocking the weapon as he did so. The clack of the hammer locking back was loud in the still air.
Both hunter and prey heard, spinning to face David. He shot the Alarian between the eyes.
The sound of the gunshot, however, was lost in an explosion.
Light and thunder pummelled David from behind. Rafe ducked against the wall of the hut, arms over his head to protect his eyes from the abrupt flare of blinding light. David stood against the shockwave, the rolling concussion pulling at the hem of his coat. The heat stroked his back, fading as the initial blast subsided into a bonfire. Smouldering fragments of brick slammed down around him, lighter tufts of burning thatching drifted out further.
Glancing over his shoulder, David noted that where the hospital had once been, there was nothing more than raging flames and a few blackened, broken walls. He wondered if Castillo had been in there, but was more worried that Dina might have been.
When he turned back, Rafe was, once more, gone.
“Ciro curse that boy,” David muttered.
About to take a step, a thrum of caution from the other inside swept through him.
David stopped. The ground in front of him shivered, then depressed a little. Before he could step back, the depression collapsed in on itself. Dirt blew up into David’s face. Coughing, he moved away, blinking his eyes clear of grit and dust. Even before the dirt had settled, he heard faint whirring, then grappling hooks flew out of the new hole in the ground, trailing whipping ropes. They arched over and hit the ground a dozen or so yards beyond the edges of the hole. The hooks scraped across the dirt, their points digging in. When they were secure, the ropes went taut.
Putting away the revolver, David drew a dagger and went to cut the ropes. He’d taken two steps when a dozen yards behind him, another patch of ground sank an inch or two before falling inward. More hooks and lines shot out of the earth. Further away, another hole opened up, then another.
In the distance, the final dirigible’s engine cranked up to high power. People began shouting and several gunshots pierced the engine’s drone and the whoosh of the flames eating the hospital. A hand appeared at the edge of the first hole. It grasped the rope of a grappling hook and tightened. The enemy soldier’s face came next, straining as he pulled himself up.
David shot him in the face. As the dead Alarian dropped backwards, another hand appeared and David shot it as well. Fingers vanished in a spray of red and a man screamed.
Duck. Even though he knew now this guiding force wasn’t Saint Ciro, years of obedience made David do it.
A whispering blade spun by overhead. On the balls of his feet, David twisted about and shot the man crouching at the lip of the hole behind him. Something pulled him off balance. Throwing a hand out to catch himself, David let whoever had hold of his coat pull him over. That man got a dagger through his eye for his trouble, but the man sitting on the far edge of the hole, in leather armour and Alarian tabard, levelled his revolver at David and fired.
The bullet grazed David’s temple. At first all he felt was the push against his face, the tug on his skin and hair, then a blessed moment of nothing before the pain hit. White-hot fire speared across his head, blinded him. He shot regardless, hearing a muffled grunt but didn’t know if he hit the man. His body reacted with pure instinct, rolling away from the hole, hands reaching for the weapons he was most comfortable with.
When he flipped to his feet, vision clearing, the long sword was in one hand, a dagger in the other. Around him, were dozens of Alarians and scores more were pouring out of the holes. As one, the enemy raised revolvers and rifles and, in a rising crescendo of clicks, cocked their weapons.
“Well, well,” the man directly before David drawled. “Look who brought a sword to a gun fight.”
Several of the soldiers laughed.
Even before he’d been cursed, David had been an extraordinary swordsman. Raised by the church he’d been given training and when his skills had proven exemplary the Abbot had wasted no effort to bring the greatest teachers of the time to improve them further. After he’d been made immortal, and lived through more conflict than any person had a right or desire too, his speed and skill had increased even further.
Those who had laughed were dead before their fellows even registered the fact David had moved. The long sword swept across two necks in the first swing and slammed into the chest of a third. The blow caved in ribs, pushing them into his lungs. A thrust of the dagger opened the big vein between thigh and groin. Using the force of withdrawing the dagger to spin him around, David faced the final laugher. Still turning, he swept first the dagger across the man’s throat, opening up a gaping red slash. Then the sword followed, sliding through the existing wound, crunching through bone and cartilage until it broke free of the body in a bloody spray. The Alarian’s head toppled to the ground.
Poised with bloody blades held out to either side, David took a moment to assess what he could of the chaos erupting elsewhere in the camp. The last dirigible had not lifted off, its engine still whining but at a lower frequency. There were gunshots ringing out from that direction, echoing between the walls of the camp, but the shouting had died down, the initial surprise of the attack over. Most likely the officers would be pinned down somewhere, but no matter how well they fought, they would lose, and sooner rather than later. The camp was lost.
“Impressive,” the speaker said into the stunned silence of his men. “Still, I think we have the advantage.”
Lowering his blades, David turned to face him. “You don’t and I think you know that. Otherwise you would have shot me already.”
The man fired but David was already gone. An Alarian behind David went down.
Several more soldiers fired, trying to track David, but none of them hit him. He ducked and wove his way through the Alarians, laying about him as he went. The bullets that followed him more often than not did his work for him, as many Alarians falling to their fellows as to David’s steel.
“Stop firing,” the speaker shouted and he was obeyed, but that was when the real fight started.
They came at him with swords, dozens of them closing around him. David wasn’t worried because only two could comfortably face him at one time and he was moving too fast, too erratically for someone to get an accurate shot off. They got lucky several times, cold steel slicing through his coat and into his skin, but he ignored the wounds, channelling the pain into resolve.
David slammed the dagger deep into the thigh of one opponent, letting it go to get a two handed grip on the long sword and swing it up and over, cleaving it down through the neck and chest of the other. He left his blades imbedded in their victims and reached for his revolvers.
One was down to two shots, and those he put into the head of the nearest soldier, holstering the empty weapon while firing the other gun into the crowd. There were some benefits to being outnumbered, at least. Going down on one knee, he reached into a pocket on his thigh, noting a bleeding gash just above his knee. From the pocket, he took several fire-bombs.
Firing his last shot, David rolled over, holstered the gun and came up running. Soldiers charged him front on and he tossed one of the fire-bombs to the ground at their feet as he threw himself into a backwards flip.
The fire-bomb shattered and the released magic expanded in a red flare. The first men to hit it
were incinerated, those behind cooked in an instant. Heavy leather coat pulled over his head, David was protected from the worst of the magic, though the back of his hand holding the coat was singed and heat licked at his partially exposed legs. The power of the fire-bomb was intense but tightly focused, taking out anyone within a ten yard radius.
David tossed four more fire-bombs in quick succession, two randomly, two in line with the first, opening up a burning path in the surrounding enemy. Retrieving his sword and dagger, he raced into the remains of the three fire-bombs, the lingering heat in the ground enough to reach up through the thick soles of his boots and touch his feet. The smell of burnt meat, scorched leather and hot steel filled his nose and mouth, smoke clouding his vision.
He had three more fire-bombs but didn’t use them. As the confusion faded and the Alarians closed in once more, he used his blades, speed and agility. David feinted and sliced, thrust and rolled. He leapt, twisting in mid-air to put his smouldering boots into the chest of a charging soldier, coming down in a neat tumble, rising to his feet only to flip over a sword thrust and come down on the chest of another soldier. Opening his throat with a sweep of his dagger, David couldn’t avoid the blow to the back from the man he’d just dodged. The blade didn’t get in too deep, at first sliding across the steel plate sewn into the back of his coat, finding the flesh just above his left hip and digging in.
Growling, David twisted about, dragging the point of the dagger out of his body, tearing leather and flesh. His sword cut through the leg of his attacker just below the knee, slicing meat and cracking bone. The Alarian went down and David punched him in the throat.
All the while, deep inside, the other guided him, directing his movements and alerting him to dangers he couldn’t see. It felt so natural David forgot it wasn’t him, that he wasn’t entirely alone in this cursed existence. At times like this, he was pure instinct and drive, abandoning himself to the power coursing through his veins.
He worked his way, bloody and steady, through the enemy and toward the central yard of the camp. The astringent scent of the burning hospital told him when he’d got that far. Here, he threw another fire-bomb, using the distraction to break away from the Alarians, tossing himself over a broken wall of the building, using it for cover. The moment the initial burst of magic died he was up and smashing his way through the smouldering remains of the beds in the ward. At the far side, he leapt up and grabbed the top of what was left of the wall and hauled himself over. Tumbling down the far side, he found himself in the clear.
Castillo’s tent was flattened, smoking in places where burning rubble had landed on it. Those of the Sacerdios had fared a little better, though there were burnt holes in the canvas and a couple of the support poles were broken. Beyond them, the Bone Mage lay in a crumpled heap, the back of his coat scorched. Not far away was Ruben in a similar pose.
David ran to Castillo, crouched beside him. He checked the mage’s pulse. It was steady and strong. Rolling him over revealed a huge lump on his temple, where falling debris had hit, knocking him out. The Fire Mage came awake at David’s touch, shouting, arms and legs thrashing in fright and confusion. David slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” he hissed. “Alarians are all around us.”
Settling immediately, Ruben blinked, and when he recognised David, nodded his compliance. David let his mouth go and picked up his weapons.
“The Bone Mage is alive but out cold,” he said, looking about for signs they’d been discovered. “You have to get him out of here before the Alarians find you.”
“Where to?” Ruben asked.
“I believe there is one dirigible still waiting to go. I can hear its engine. Can you fly it?”
He nodded. “What about the others? Meraz and the officers, the mages. We have to get them as well.”
“I have no idea where they are, or if they’re alive. If we find any of them on the way to the dirigible, they can come too, but otherwise, you two are getting out of here.”
“And you?”
“I have a man to find before I can leave.” David helped him to his feet. “We have to hurry. Pick him up.”
“Give me a moment. I’m not feeling very steady yet.” Ruben stood with hands on knees, head hanging. From that vantage point, he looked David over. “You’re bleeding. A lot.”
“It happens,” David muttered. “We have to go.”
With Castillo flung over Ruben’s shoulder, they hurried through the broken night. Some of the intense lights that had lit up the camp were dark, creating patchwork shadows, their edges ragged with the jumping light of spot fires.
At the cover of the engineering tent, David surveyed the central yard. It was pocked with holes and littered with discarded grappling hooks and ropes. There were dead Alarians scattered here and there, a few Delaluzians as well. The mess tent was destroyed, allowing for a clear view of the last dirigible in its cradle by the supply tents. Its balloon strained against the ropes, anchor chains keeping it on the ground. The red flare of its engines illuminated a squad of Alarians bunkered down behind a hastily built barrier of water barrels and potato sacks from the kitchen. Their backs were to the gondola and they faced the command tent. The front wall of the tent had been ripped away, burned and shredded by fire-bombs. A barricade of tipped over desks and tables protected a few Delaluzians.
It was a futile, last ditch effort on the part of the defenders. Even as David assessed the situation, they ran out of ammunition and the Alarians became aware of it a moment after David did.
With a loud battle cry, the invaders rose up from behind their barricade and fired non-stop into the Delaluzians cover. Heavy wooden tables splintered, desks shattered and the remaining defenders scattered, two of them falling under the hail of bullets.
“No,” Ruben moaned.
David adjusted his weapons and settled the butts of the revolvers into his hands. “I’ll distract them. You get the Bone Mage and as many of the others as you can into the dirigible and take off.”
Ruben shifted the unconscious man across his shoulders and nodded grimly.
Letting the calm of instinct and experience take him over, David walked out from cover and directly at the gathered Alarians. He emptied two revolvers within moments, tossing them aside and drawing another pair. Shocked by the attack from the rear, the Alarians spun and returned fire, scrambling back toward their pile of barrels and sacks. David took a bullet to his thigh and one to his gut, but he shunted the pain aside, gritted his teeth and concentrated on his aim. Each time he pulled a trigger an Alarian went down and by the time he’d emptied his second set of guns, his opponents’ numbers were halved. He had two more bullets lodged in his body, one grating between two ribs, the other in his shoulder, just above his lung, and several grazes from where he’d been able to dodge a direct hit.
That he kept coming, kept fighting back, with crossbows when he was out of bullets, began to upset the Alarians. They screamed at him to just die, they demanded an explanation as to why he was still standing, still walking. David just kept going, taking out his sword when he was out of bolts.
Through the searing pain and glare of battle lust, David noted the Delaluzians were moving out of the compromised command tent, crouch-running to the gondola. He heard Ruben calling them over, saw the shouts catch the attention of the enemy and moved to strike down the man turning to see what was happening behind them.
Something hit David’s back. It hit hard, making him stagger. Going down to one knee, he looked at his chest. An arrow point jutted out of his right side, just under his ribs, pointing downward. Another blow and this one burst out through his left lung, streaks of red decorating the barbed head. He coughed up a gout of blood.
A ragged cheer went up from the Alarians, which quickly turned to screams of agony as red fire magic streamed out from the gondola and caught those nearest to it.
David reached up and grabbed hold of the arrow sticking through his gut. Teeth gritted, he pulled it through comple
tely, the fletching springing free of his flesh with a splatter of blood. The second one was harder, lodged in between ribs as it was. It ground against his bones when he tried to pull it out, drawing a deep, guttural scream from him as it broke clear and slid through his body to fall red and slick to the ground.
It was hard to breathe, a crushing weight sitting on the left side of his chest. His lung was deflated and would remain so until he could heal. He’d fought through worse, though.
Using his sword as a prop, David forced himself to his feet. The Alarians were in turmoil. Not only had Ruben attacked with his magic, but so had the Earth Mage, opening the ground beneath their feet, sinking them up to their knees and sealing it closed. One by one, the water barrels burst open and the water was lifted up, splitting off in smaller portions to fly at the faces of the enemy, blinding them as they tried to flee.
Breathing in short, shallow gasps, David turned. In the tower by the gate was the archer. An Alarian with a longbow. The soldier drew back another arrow, sighted David and let fly. David swung his sword and snapped the arrow out of mid-air, its broken pieces skittering away to either side. The archer reached over his shoulder and drew another arrow. He set it to the bow and drew once more. David waited.
An arrow punched David in the right side. He was flung to the ground, gaping at the second archer atop the wall behind the supply tents. The whistle of another arrow caught his attention in time for him to roll out of the way. Hitting his right side snapped the arrow off, grinding the point of it down into his hip bone. Another arrow sped for him and he clumsily knocked it away with his arm, though it scored a deep wound across his wrist.
Two more arrows were loosed and David had a moment to think this would take him out of the fight, when a wall of dirt sprang up in front of him. The arrows thudded into it hard enough to punch through, their points stopping just short of touching him.
Dead Bones Page 27