Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  Do I deserve death any less than Calgarus? I walked away from what he was years before, but does that wash away those old sins? Or do the shades of those I killed still wait to petition against my soul for vengeance?

  And now I have killed a man to hide those sins.

  Blackhawk knew he’d once been no better than his old protégé; indeed, he’d been worse. Now he stood, alive, staring into the dead eyes of Vagran Calgarus. Was redemption just an unattainable dream? A wispy image, always out of reach?

  He felt a strange compulsion, a temptation to drop his sword and wait—to wait until more guards came. He’d lived far longer than he deserved, longer than he’d expected when he had fled what he was, with no idea of who he could become. Death here would be but a tithe of the fate he deserved for all his sins, a small measure of justice for those he’d slain.

  But he pushed the feeling back, and the strange need for self-preservation kicked in, as it had so many times before. He’d never known if it was some old conditioning deep in his brain or a facet of his carefully engineered genetics, but there was something inside him—an irresistible need to survive, to fight against any odds, to suffer any pain or torment.

  To never give up.

  He sucked in a deep breath and took one last look at Calgarus’s severed head. Then he turned and slipped out into the hallway. It was time to get out of here. Time to leave the past behind, to become Arkarin Blackhawk again.

  CHAPTER 23

  BLACKHAWK RACED THROUGH THE STONE PASSAGEWAYS, TRYING to find a way out. His wounds hurt like fire, and his fatigue was almost overwhelming, but he pushed himself with single-minded purpose: get out of the palace and slip through the battle lines to get back to his friends. It was all that mattered. Even if only to get them word that the empire was here. It was beyond doubt now, and he had to make sure the news reached Augustin Lucerne.

  The palace shook hard—again. It sounded like DeMark’s people were bombarding the place. A few chunks of stone from the ceiling hit Blackhawk as he ran, and he heard louder crashing sounds ahead.

  Fuck . . . the last thing I need is to get sealed up in these tunnels . . .

  He’d made a promise, and by Chrono, he was going to see it done. And that meant getting out of here . . .

  Footsteps ahead, estimate two or three contacts, approximately forty meters past this intersection.

  Blackhawk didn’t respond to Hans, but he lunged to the side, taking cover just down the passage on the right. He was out of ammunition, so he needed a close-range fight. He’d tried to get a gun from one of the dead guards, but the cave-ins had made that difficult. Some of the bodies were covered with debris, and he’d come across several guns damaged by the falling rock. But he hadn’t found anything useful.

  He’d have to hide from these approaching guards, or sucker them in. Otherwise, they’d just blast him to pieces.

  He stood quietly, his shortsword in his hand. A few seconds later, he heard the enemy himself, without the AI’s assistance. He listened, closing his eyes, locking out everything else, getting a feel for the distance.

  Twenty meters? He flashed the thought to Hans.

  I estimate sixteen. Project enemy will reach the intersection in nine seconds.

  Blackhawk’s hand tightened on the sword’s hilt.

  Six seconds.

  He took a deep breath, inhaling slowly, quietly. He felt the muscles in his arm flex as he tightened his grip on the blade.

  Four seconds.

  He imagined his enemies, walking down the hallway, just around the corner.

  Two seconds.

  He held still for another beat then he leaped around the corner, his blade already swinging. His eyes focused as his body moved in front of the enemy troopers, and he subtly adjusted the trajectory of his strike. The razor edge of the blade sliced across the throat of one of the soldiers, and he fell back immediately, hands on his neck, trying in vain to hold back the arterial flow of blood.

  Blackhawk let his momentum take him forward, and he thrust hard with the sword, taking the second guard under the ribs. He gritted his teeth and thrust with all his strength, feeling the blade drive through his victim’s chest cavity. He pulled back, trying to extricate the blade, but the dying man twisted to the side, and the momentum of his fall pulled the sword from Blackhawk’s hand.

  His head swung around, and his eyes focused on the third enemy. The man was still surprised. He had dropped his assault rifle when his comrade’s body crashed into him, and his hand was down on his belt, pulling his pistol from its holster.

  Blackhawk’s eyes were on the weapon, watching as it moved slowly up toward him. He lunged hard, bringing his leg around in a backward roundhouse kick. The battle trance made each second seem an eternity. He felt his leg moving through the air as he watched his enemy’s gun moving toward him.

  It’s going to be close . . .

  His boot slammed into the side of the guard’s face, and he felt his victim’s head snap wildly to the side, heard the sickening sound of his neck breaking. The pistol cracked loudly, but Blackhawk’s strike had hit first, and the shot went wide. The guard fell to the floor, landing with a thud that implied utter finality.

  Blackhawk took two steps to regain his balance and checked to make sure all three of his adversaries were dead. Then he pulled his sword free and grabbed one of the pistols before he continued down the hall.

  “We’re approaching the target now, sir. The regular Nordlingener forces appear to have obeyed the surrender order, but we’re encountering resistance at the outer defenses of the palace.” Martine’s voice was hollow and tinny on the comm.

  “Push ahead with all speed, Colonel. If Blackhawk is . . .” General DeMark paused, and his eyes drifted to the right, where half the crew of Wolf’s Claw was standing next to King Gustav. “I want Blackhawk found immediately,” he said into the microphone.

  “Yes, General. Captain Zel’s people are assaulting the perimeter as we speak.”

  “Keep me updated. I mean every detail, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir. Martine out.”

  “Thank you for your efforts, General. We are extremely grateful.” Katarina stepped forward and nodded to DeMark.

  “Of course, Lady Venturi.” DeMark smiled. Katarina’s charms were rarely ineffective, even when she wasn’t attempting to employ them and the subject was as disciplined as the Celtiborian general. “I am certain that Ark will make it back.” DeMark was a poor liar, and his tone implied he was anything but sure.

  “Arkarin is an extremely capable man, General. He has escaped from some very difficult situations.”

  Katarina wanted to believe he would make it out of the palace. Indeed, in most situations, she would have believed it. But she could still see the expression on his face before he took off in pursuit of the strange man who had accompanied the guards. Blackhawk had gone pale, as if he’d seen a ghost. The man was an agent of some sort, she’d guessed that immediately, and clearly one he’d encountered before. But she’d never seen Blackhawk so rattled.

  And, in turn, that rattled her. In fact, these last few days had her unsure of herself, and that was a feeling she didn’t like. But the lie of convenience that had been her life aboard Wolf’s Claw was crumbling around her, for even she no longer thought of herself as just a passenger. And while she wouldn’t yet admit she had affection—in some cases, more than affection—for the crew members of the Claw, she knew with certainty that these people meant more to her than anyone in the Far Stars.

  And Blackhawk was the core of all that. Without Arkarin Blackhawk, the unlikely family of the Claw’s crew couldn’t exist. He had assembled them—he was the glue that held them together.

  She turned and walked to the side of the room. The others were restless too. “What is it, Ark?” she whispered to herself. “What darkness has come out of your past?”

  “Odds, we’re going in. Evens, stay in position and provide covering fire.” Gregor Zel’s voice was a harsh growl, and his parche
d throat burned like fire. His men had been fighting for two days with nothing more than a few thirty-minute breaks. They were exhausted and hungry, and their canteens had been dry for the last twelve hours.

  They’d moved quickly through the city, slowed only by the need to accept the surrenders of various enemy units and send details to the rear with the prisoners. Zel had begun to wonder if the fighting was truly over. Then his people reached the palace, and they were pinned down almost immediately by heavy fire.

  The enemy had positioned heavy autocannons around the perimeter of their defenses, and the massive firepower of the weapons threatened to turn any attempt to storm the palace into a bloody fiasco. Finally, Zel brought up his two mortar teams with orders to silence the autocannons. It had taken half an hour of sustained bombardment, but they’d finally taken out the last of the heavy guns, opening the way for the company to storm the palace.

  “Let’s move.” He lunged forward, leaping over the small stone wall in front of him and rushing toward the palace. The enemy fire was light. With the autocannons silenced, there were just a few sporadic bursts from different locations around the building. The shooting from behind was heavier, his own men immediately targeting the sources of the enemy fire.

  He ran hard over the manicured lawn, trying to reach the relative safety of the stone wall of the palace. The enemy fire was light, but it didn’t matter. Gregor Zel had seen hundreds of comrades fall, guilty of no greater error than being in the wrong place at the wrong moment.

  I will never get used to running across an open battlefield.

  He threw his hands out, cushioning the impact as he ran up to the wall. He looked quickly side to side. Everything looked clear. Then he snapped his head around, checking on his men. It looked like a couple were down, but fewer than he’d feared. So far, so good. Now he had to get inside. And find Blackhawk.

  He moved around the perimeter of the building, working his way to the main entrance. “First and Second Platoon with me. Everyone else, around back.”

  He peered around the corner, toward the front of the building. The massive double doors had been blown apart, and the shattered remnants were lying in front of the entryway. Zel ducked back just as someone opened up from inside, and he heard the bullets impacting right around the corner, sending shards of broken stone flying all around. It was two assault rifles, he figured, three at most. That was a lot less resistance than he’d expected.

  “Plessey, Bevern . . . you guys set up here, right behind the corner.”

  The two men moved forward, each holding one of the grips of the heavy autocannon. They moved swiftly, and in less than a minute they were ready to fire. They pushed the massive gun to the side, bringing its muzzle just past the corner.

  Zel took one last glimpse then he pulled back again. “The front entry, guys. We’ve got two or three bogies in there. Blast it to hell.”

  A couple seconds later, the gun was firing on full auto, sending hundreds of heavy rounds into the doorway. Zel leaned over his firing crew to get a look. The enemy shooting had ceased.

  Just as the door had ceased to be. As well as much of the wall surrounding it.

  “That’s enough. Squad A, take the entrance.”

  Zel watched as his men ran across the open ground toward the shattered doorway. There were sounds of sporadic fire around the field, but the advancing troops made it all the way without losing anybody. He watched as half took up position around the exterior while the others slipped inside.

  A few seconds later, his comm unit crackled to life. “Entry secured, Captain.” A few seconds passed. “I don’t know what the hell happened, sir, but it looks like a nuke went off in here.”

  “Hold your position. I’m sending the rest of the platoon in.” He turned and blasted out his orders. “Squads B and C, to the door.”

  The eighteen survivors of the two units dashed across the open space and linked up with Squad A. Zel was about to order the other platoon to advance when he heard the sounds of fighting behind his position.

  He whipped his head around and he could see figures silhouetted against the intermittent light of a series of fires.

  “Lieutenant Quarrel, take D and E squads in, and assume command at the entryway. Proceed with caution and occupy the palace.” He turned his head and yelled, “F squad, with me.” He pressed the release on his rifle, sending the half-empty magazine flying through the air as he slammed a full one in place. “Let’s move!”

  Blackhawk shoved hard, and he felt his sword push past the resistance and slide into his opponent’s chest. The man’s face was right in front of his, and Blackhawk saw the life drain out of his eyes. There were at least ten of them on him, and he knew in his current condition he wasn’t going to be able to beat them all. He’d emptied the pistol he’d taken from the last set of guards, and he was back down to his trusty blade.

  He made sure to stay close to his enemies. As soon as he gave them a clear shot—or they decided this enemy was too dangerous and they’d blow away a couple of their own men to take him down—Blackhawk knew he’d be dead.

  Until then . . .

  He pulled hard, freeing the blade and swinging it in a quick motion, drawing the razor-sharp edge across the throat of another attacker. Blood sprayed everywhere, and from the warmth on his face, he knew he looked like he was covered with warpaint.

  Blackhawk’s eye caught the glint of a blade coming at him, and he ducked just in time, punching hard with his left hand into the gut of his attacker. The man dropped his sword and fell to the ground and, an instant later, Blackhawk’s blade pierced him from behind.

  The Claw’s captain was deep in the battle trance. There was no pain, no fear, only the exhilaration of combat. His blood boiled with the lust for battle, and he relished the victory over each dispatched enemy. It was always easy during the calm moments of his life to convince himself he didn’t enjoy killing. But when he was actually in a fight to the death and struggling with every bit of energy and strength remaining to him, he knew the truth. He’d been bred for this, and it would always be a part of him. The feeling of his blade piercing a foe, the surge of excitement as he dispatched attacker after attacker—it touched him on some primal level. It energized him. It felt . . . natural, like he was one with his true purpose.

  It was the conditioning, he knew that. He’d broken much of it years before, forced it from its control over him. But it was still there, and every time he went into battle he felt it. It was no longer his master, but rather a prisoner instead. And, sometimes, an uncomfortable ally. Yet even that was tenuous. Because while it would rush to his aid in combat, the caged monster also longed to escape, to claim him again.

  It took all of his iron will to hold it back, to keep it in its place.

  He spun around again, and he saw more men approaching, ten or twelve, moving quickly. They were armed with assault rifles, and there was something about them.

  I know those uniforms . . . he thought, fighting through the battle trance.

  Which is about the moment they began firing at the soldiers surrounding him.

  Thank Chrono—Celtiborian soldiers!

  “Hold your fire!” Zel’s men were halfway toward the strange melee. He’d ordered his best shots to pick off the soldiers around the perimeter. They were clad in the uniforms of the palace guard, the same livery worn by the soldiers who’d fired on his people earlier. But this wasn’t an enemy position, it was a fight. And whoever these men were attacking was probably an ally.

  “Arkarin Blackhawk,” he shouted as his men moved forward. “This is Captain Zel of the Celtiborian Expeditionary Force. If you are there, identify yourself.”

  “I am Arkarin Blackhawk,” a voice cried from the center of the deadly scrum.

  Zel kept running toward the surging mass of struggling bodies. He threw his rifle over his shoulder as he approached and drew his blade. “Swords,” he shouted to his men. He could hear the sound behind him, hard metal ringing as ten blades were pulled from
their sheaths, almost as one. “Strike with care. There is an ally in there.”

  His force crashed into the mass of enemy soldiers, and battle was joined. Swords swung through the air, clanging loudly as they struck their counterparts. The mass of men surged and flowed around the area. The two forces were similar in number, but the Celtiborians were veteran soldiers, and Marshal Lucerne had always insisted his men train with their blades as seriously as they did with their guns. And they were attacking the guards’ rear, which made it even less of a contest.

  And in the center of the bloody mass, Arkarin Blackhawk dispatched foe after foe, fighting his way grimly toward his rescuers.

  When it was over, Blackhawk stood before Zel. He was wounded in half a dozen places, but nowhere severely. He was covered head to toe in blood, though little of it, Zel suspected, was his own. The Celtiborian didn’t even want to guess how many men Arkarin Blackhawk had killed during his escape from the palace.

  “You’re safe now, Captain Blackhawk. General DeMark sent us to find you.”

  Blackhawk stared back for a few seconds, and it looked like he was about to say something. But he just fell forward and collapsed into Zel’s arms.

  The Celtiborian stood firm, holding the exhausted man while he turned toward the squad leader. “Sergeant Avanari, contact headquarters at once. Tell them we found Captain Blackhawk. Alive.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “IT IS GOOD TO SEE YOU, MAK. IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG.” VOS stood up from his chair and walked toward his second in command. “Out,” he said, smiling as the door wardens and the chamberlain scrambled to leave the room. He didn’t have to shout anymore or throw things. He’d finally gotten them trained to jump at his commands. Still, I may toss something every now and again, just to keep them on their toes.

  “And you, Governor.” Wilhelm was resplendent in his dress uniform. Vos thought he had broken him of the practice of dressing formally every time they met to discuss things, but the long separation had apparently caused a minor relapse to old habits.