The first strike pierced the knight’s breastplate faster than Szarel could even notice. The palm didn’t simply crush the breastplate; it sliced ??through the entire thickness of the plate, sending the Troll flying toward the entrance. Two shots thundered across the observation deck, piercing the air and ricocheting off the shifting walls—Paikan had already appeared behind another veteran, ready to rip out his spine.
Szarel distanced himself from his son’s death, from questions about how this bastard had ended up here, and from his grief. With dispassionate composure, he directed a wave weighing five thousand tons at the face, reveling in the battle, and the tongue licking the commander’s blood from his lips. The invisible battering ram slammed into the flesh, throwing the head back.
He expected to hear the crunch of teeth and the crushing of his face. Instead, veins bulged like ropes on Paikan’s face and neck. The overlord pulled himself through the dense stream of telekinesis, looking at the magister with undisguised admiration. The knight spun, his mace swing almost catching the distracted enemy.
Back! A gurgling wheeze escaped the magister. His tongue wriggled helplessly, filling his entire body with pain.
Paikan’s hand pierced the Troll’s fist, becoming trapped in Szarel’s hastily erected barrier. The crusader retreated. His broken fingers could no longer hold the mace, but he opened fire on the enemy’s legs. The projectiles only carved gouges in the deck. The tyrant began moving again, his gaze never leaving the magister.
A whirlwind of violence swept across the retracting platform. The palms’ edges shattered the knights’ wrists; the pinpoint strikes of the fingers blinded Szarel’s personal guard. With a slight movement of his shoulders, Paikan shrugged off the heavy telekinetic pressure that had been created intending to cause the tyrant’s boots to sink into the deck, holding him back and then throwing him out with the most intense concentration of force in a single point.
Szarel didn’t dare use the perception-enhancing drug. His torn facial artery blazed scarlet, and his lingual and carotid arteries were damaged. Judging by the heaviness in his lungs, his trachea was flooded with surging blood. He’d never tested the mixture under such conditions, and the risk of losing consciousness remained too great. His armor systems were already pumping a life-threatening dose of adrenaline into him, but the magister accepted it as inevitable.
Paikan had to be thrown out before they got inside the cruiser!
Two knights joined Jake, paying their final respects to the Order. The last one crawled closer to the tyrant, grabbing his knee. The previous swing of the hand had severed the Troll’s legs at the ankles. Paikan himself continued to exude confidence. The pauldrons of his armor had burst, revealing hissing wires and broken hydraulics; half his cloak swept the floor, held in place by a single clasp. Only a few bruises bulged on his cheekbones. The veins in his left eye had burst, turning the white of it scarlet; a clump of hair had been torn from his scalp, but his keen gaze remained fixed on Szarel.
Paikan closed the distance with sharp jerks left and right, gouging the deck with his legs. He leaped, ending up above the magister. His fist struck the solidified air, getting stuck in it, and a sharp explosion of pressure near his chest sent the overlord flying across the deck, which shook from the shockwave. Before Paikan could even land, a telekinetic noose caught his leg, dragging him outward. Thrusting his hands into the floor, the murderer broke free, rising.
The magister’s will conjured a thin trident in the air, concentrating enough pressure within it to pierce the Shroud of Darkness from top to bottom. He sent this very thing into Paikan’s nostrils and mouth, accelerating the telekinetic construct to the speed of sound, intending to end the fight in a single attack.
The slash tore Paikan’s ear boat in two, opening a gaping hole in the cruiser’s hull behind him. The attacker dodged, guessing the timing of the fatal thrust almost perfectly.
“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Paikan touched his ear and licked the blood from his finger. “The feeling is mutual. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I have conquered another height. You are truly worthy of the title of magister. This visit was not a waste of time...”
Szarel closed a circle around Paikan’s arms, watching the slits appear on his sleeves. Thinning the inner edge of his telekinetic hoop, he directed his power toward the ruler’s elbows, undismayed by his miss.
Anything can happen in war. The one who endured to the end won.
He had no hope of defeating the talkative opponent, who had fallen into a trap through his own stupidity. Szarel vied for time and opportunity, directing Paikan toward the open part of the platform. In their perception, a brief eternity had passed since the start of their skirmish, but in reality, not even the first minute since the commander’s death had elapsed. Even Paikan’s speech sounded rapid, a result of his habit of communicating with powerful Abnormals.
Szarel’s regeneration was already underway. Torn arteries were closing, internal fat reserves were burning, being digested to restore the lost body part. Blood was being pumped from the lungs; the nose managed to let oxygen in. Muscles pressed against the skin, but that was normal. Szarel leaned on his staff, finding strength in his rage, completely immersed in an ocean of all-consuming hatred. My son. My boy... You took what no one had the right to touch. Your reign will end at my hand.
As he’d predicted based on Latif’s reaction, Paikan began to free himself from the trap, laughing with delight. His arms retreated from his body, threatening to create a situation in which he could duck and lunge at him. Szarel remained vigilant, creating obstacles in the air.
Paikan’s abilities were roughly equivalent to those displayed by Warlord Onyxia, the heroine of the Reclamation Army. The same perfect ambush, the ability to read enemy behavior based on instinct, the fluid ability to perceive information in accelerated and normal modes without disorientation, slightly slower speed, less refined skills, and a small advantage in superior physical strength. A Class A Abnormal, no doubt.
But if that was all he possessed, then why was he still alive? Many in the Land of the Oath underestimated the Sword Saints, considering them pompous fools compared to the veteran Oathtakers. Szarel wasn’t one of them. The beast before him could easily have been slain by one of the leaders of the noble houses that made up the Ice Fangs Order.
So there was something else. A power? Or a peculiarity of the body? A technological secret of the armor? Too many possibilities. Szarel couldn’t take any chances.
Suddenly, an orange circle appeared on the door leading to the platform. The spear pierced the decaying slag, then a monstrous blow shattered the barrier, and Commander Eloise, looking like nothing more than a head mounted on a colorless humanoid chassis, flew straight toward Paikan, plunging the tip of her jousting spear into the bracers raised in defense.
It was enough for Szarel to create a veritable wave of destruction, tearing away the deck floor, crushing the corpse of one of the fallen crusaders, and slamming enough force into the enemy to knock him off his feet and send him flying straight through the closing wall of the observation deck.
“Don’t flap your tongue!” Paikan shouted.
Szarel didn’t stop; adding his forces to the forming force shield, he rammed Paikan into the ground, a good distance from the returning strike force. The tyrant found himself outside the cruiser’s protective field, which had allowed the foreign object to pass through.
“Magister…” Eloise said in a mechanical voice, thick with static. She glanced at the dead and wounded. “The shells have brought boarders inside of them. With your permission, I’ll join in repelling the invasion.”
Szarel waved his hand, telekinetically pulling the severed heels toward the surviving crusader. He immediately pressed them to his ankles. Szarel followed suit, lifting his severed jaw and resting it against the wet wound on his face. He didn’t bother moving his tongue, turning on the display, and focusing his attention on the figure in black outside the ship.
The damaged tissues tugged at each other, reweaving and dissolving the nascent foundations of a new jaw to conserve calories. Within his mangled jaw the pain still pulsed, acquiring an unprecedented intensity as the nerves reconnected and the body was purging the tissue of infection, but Szarel refused to lose consciousness, feeling the regeneration process itself lift his tongue, pushing it through the healing hole. The urge to scratch the healing muscles drove him mad.
The magister waited, determined to make sure the main threat to the personnel wouldn’t return.
****
Paikan scrambled up the slope of the resulting crater and zigzagged toward the Dauntless, dodging shell fire that spread creeping cracks in the road and plasma bursts that scorched the side of the mountain range with their heat. The holocaust of heat and the tornado spitting out rocks around him didn’t faze him in the least.
He was happy. His heart pounded loudly, his mind racing with the most amusing ideas, all aimed at finding ways to get back on board and resume the interrupted duel. But that could wait; a man like the crusader leader wouldn’t allow himself to be killed so easily.
Pleasure deferred had a way of bringing true enjoyment.
The bulk of his personal transport broke through the curtain of dust, and he hurried to climb onto it.
****
“What’s going on, sir?” Ruda asked, entering the bridge.
The corridors of the Shroud of Darkness glowed green, and a mechanical voice droned, warning of intruders. As soon as she climbed the ramp and heard it, her first instinct was to rush down the corridors to the children, ensure their safety, and smite anyone bold enough to invade the Order’s abode.
Her order was to ensure the safety of the personnel. The crusaders split up, hearing the hiss of the infantry’s laser rifles and a deep, distant roar. The shells that had damaged the cruiser had unleashed a horde of colossal, crippled Malformed. Saws, swords, and hammers served as arms; with every movement, they clawed the corridors with numerous bony growths, incessantly spewing corrosive acid from their twisted maws.
These weren’t civilized mutants but a pack of broken creatures from slave markets, conditioned to obedience and drugged to ignore pain. The infantry were having a hard time, but anti-personnel turrets and the help of the commanders gradually cleared the cruiser’s corridors.
While she stood in the elevator, like a statue, heading to guard the bridge.
“We’ve engaged a heavy Volnitsa unit. Preliminary scans hint at a pre-Extinction origin,” the operator’s dispassionate voice answered in place of the captain.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
A chill ran down Ruda’s spine. She tore herself away from the displays showing the boarding battles and stared at the screens transmitting surveillance data.
A black rectangle, magnified by the cameras’ zoom, burst into view from the north. Any resemblance to Latif’s mobile fortress ended at the enormous wheels, their weight pushing through the trenches. The behemoth’s hull was unmarked by the needlessly welded-on weapons; each artillery mount and emitter occupied its clearly planned position, not blocking fire when attacking a moving enemy. The armor surface sparkled with cleanliness, and the skull-shaped idol that served as the apex of the extravagant spire glared malevolently at the retreating crusaders.
Beams of every color stretched across the road, linking the opponents. The plasma and projectiles of the Shroud of Darkness raged, causing multi-kilometer firestorms on the enemy screen, rising into the sky. In response, the attacker concentrated energy on specific sections of the shield around the cruiser, sending missiles that did not detonate prematurely from the heat. Upon impact, they somehow channeled the full force of their explosions forward, drilling a path through the force shield.
Captain Mikhas’s icy calm, ordering the laser beams to focus on shooting down the missiles, inspired Ruda. She wasn’t sure about the Trolls. Their faces betrayed no emotion.
“Designate the target as a destroyer,” Mikhas said. “They can’t have the industrial capacity to reproduce counterforce weapons. They’re wasting valuable supplies now. Proceed across the bridge. Instruct the engine room to prepare for emergency maneuver activation.”
“Sir!” the senior officer responded. “They could collapse the entire bridge, sir,” she announced after relaying the order.
Ruda silently agreed with the woman’s fears. The ground bubbled, turning into a sticky, boiling mass around the hovering pyramid, forcing the crew to constantly adjust their altitude to avoid excessive engine strain. Columns of steam and smoke enveloped the shield like a veil; corpses and debris outside evaporated into dispersing dust. Sonic waves, capable of instantly killing a person, rolled away from both vehicles, causing avalanches on the mountain slopes.
Both machines became shining stars, surviving thanks to their protective fields and burning their way across the tormented land.
“Not if they want to gain anything from our confrontation, they don’t.” The captain loomed over the control panel, directing the battle based on sensor data and incoming reports, oblivious to the visual chaos outside, unseen since the last war against Chosen Prince. “The raiders operate on the principle of balancing costs and benefits. Latif tried to escape us instead of directing his wreck in the hopes of eliminating us both. Our adversaries are plunderers seeking to obtain the Shroud of Darkness relatively intact. A trap awaits us—a trap we’ve already disarmed.”
Then why did you give the order to prepare for maneuvers? Ruda wanted to ask, biting her tongue. The captain clearly knew more than she did.
With such an arsenal, the trap could be repeated.
****
“Ease the onslaught,” Paikan commanded, standing on the hull behind the thundering cannons.
The soldier who had brought him the communicator lost his footing. The overlord grabbed him by the arm, preventing him from rolling under the wheels. As soon as the cannons stopped talking, he released his comrade, interrupting his thanks with a gesture and pointing to the door.
The chicken walked onto the bridge. Paikan smiled, having precisely calculated the placement of the planted charges in relation to the pyramid moving above them. His finger pressed the button. The explosion would lower the bridge section, causing the pyramid to tilt, followed by an involuntary ramming of the surviving section, bringing monstrous overloads...
Nothing happened; only occasional explosions thundered on either side of the bridge supports. The pyramid picked up speed, hovering halfway across.
“Inconsequential setbacks,” Paikan said, enjoying the continuation of the chase. “Collapse the western section in front of the enemy transport.”
“Hail, Paikan!” the officer responded.
This is what happens when subordinates invent formal forms of address. I always end up being some kind of idol. No creativity. Paikan lamented, watching the spears of blue laser beams licking the bridge supports. Several emitters concentrated their power at once, cutting off the last section of the bridge, and the pyramid wobbled, suddenly losing its balance and falling down the slope.
Do they have it or not?
“Paikan! We’ve been repelled...”
“Shhhh...” Paikan whispered, interrupting Draz.
The flash illuminated the bottom of the enemy ship, lifting it upward, and it floated over the resulting cliff. So they still had surprises left! One, two... At the count of thirty, the Oathtakers transport started descending, threatening to demolish the sandy slope. But the severed section of the bridge creaked back into place, allowing the ship to level off and continue hovering toward the bastion, to the overlord’s immense delight. Then the invisible force released the fragment, and it collapsed.
His counterpart proved even more capable than he expected! With a crash, the raised section of the bridge collapsed, disintegrating into pieces, but Paikan had already caught a glimpse of the crusader leader’s true potential. The man possessed telekinesis, projecting it over an impressive distance and capable of truly devastating use, whether through blunt force or slashing blades. Certain questions still remained. Did he need line of sight to wield the power? Did he waste effort using telekinesis? He had already confirmed his suspicion that the clouding of his mind in agony disrupted the magister’s concentration, but it was wise to consider all options. Paikan touched his healed ear as he hurried to the bridge.
Not for nothing! He had not left his refuge in vain! What fun!
A tail of vehicles belonging to bandits of various leaders trailed behind the Dauntless, swallowing a whirlwind of dust. Tens of thousands had gathered at his call, and fresh gangs were arriving every hour, desperate to prove their loyalty after the failed, abortive Draz rebellion. Paikan knew exactly where and how to use these superior numbers if his backup plan failed.
“Souzan, are you all right?” he greeted the woman first, deliberately leaving Draz for last. “Excellent. Operator, make a turn and send the Dauntless across the bridge. Have our escorts wait until the terrain cools. Souzan, congratulations. Your recommendation regarding purchasing ammunition from the Reclamation Army arms market proved most beneficial.”
“The middlemen were so costly,” the officer sighed. “We wasted most of our ammunition, sir.”
“Your displeasure is noted, but it was not at all in vain. My friend,” he turned to the giant, “was the resistance too intense for you?”
“Their tin can arrived too early.” Draz hesitated, his gaze betraying surprise at the fading bruises on his master’s face. He was still so na?ve. Anyone could be injured. “I’m told you scooped up a bunch of slaves from the market. Where are they? What are you scheming?”
“Whatever do you mean? A crossing, naturally,” Paikan replied, ignoring the first question. “Didn’t you ask me for revenge? How could I fail you?”
He hoped his new playmate would appreciate the presents. The Crusader Orders had a dark past. The first gift was supposed to bring it to the surface.
“Paikan…” Draz began, grabbing Souzan into an embrace and holding onto the control panel for stability as the operator steered the machine across the bridge, creaking under the weight, straight toward the gap.
“Fly!” Paikan clapped his hands.
The display to the left of the operator showed a view from the Dauntless’ rear. The nozzles emitted flames that stretched almost the entire length of the bridge, and their speed increased exponentially. In the compartments, corridors, and on the bridge itself, no one noticed any difference, except for Draz, who braced himself for the inevitable fall. Reports of the impossibility of maintaining such speed trickled in to the operators. Paikan smiled encouragingly at them, counting down the seconds silently.
Twenty, twenty-one…
The Dauntless reached the cliff without pitching its nose down, as most of the personnel had worried. It flew over the gap, crushing the bridge’s edge on the opposite side, crossing the trench.
Fifty-one, fifty-two…
Finally, the entire length of their enormous transport crossed the chasm, finding itself on the road to the Itil’s turf. At the sixty-second mark, the bridge systems forcibly cut off acceleration, extinguishing the blazing tail that had heated the road. Enough. More than enough.
“Release repair teams; begin restoring the crossing,” Paikan ordered.
“Are we going to let them go?” Draz asked.
A finger snap summoned the medic and armorers to their side. Paikan endured the humiliating examination, gently hinting to the girl that Souzan and Draz were in greater need of immediate attention. He hadn’t punished the youthful babe’s willfulness. There were so few left who didn’t fear him or worship him blindly.
Where did he go wrong?
“No, no, they won’t escape. Never,” Paikan promised. “We need to transport our horde and give them instructions. We’ll split up, just briefly, to ensure the crusaders have absolutely no chance of slipping out of the next ambush.”
****
“Don’t stick your head out!” Ney grabbed the infantryman by the shoulder, belatedly realizing it was a girl, and unceremoniously threw her back.
The bruises and bruised pride weren’t as deadly as the spinning circular saw blade that flew through the place where, a breath ago, his ally’s neck had been. Something vaguely humanoid growled as it lunged at him. Walking on six legs, with two metal claws and working saws, the mutant dragged its sagging belly across the floor, barely fitting into the corridor and scraping the walls with sharp pincers that riddled its hide, which bore the marks of a recent surgical procedure that had implanted motors powering mechanical replacements for amputated body parts.
A maw reeking of carrion, containing three rows of broken fangs, gaped open, drenching Ney with saliva and poisonous acid. The creature clearly hadn’t been paying attention to what it had vomited on, and the acid had corroded the claw. But the mutant’s sheer fury forced the crusader back, regretting the loss of his flamethrower.
With a blow from his mace, Ney broke the elbow of the attacking chest, then fired into its thicker leg, forcing the creature to fall to its belly. Six blobs of yellow, resembling a cross between lanterns and the faceted eyes of a spider, stared at him, not even flinching from the thrust that had reduced half of them to slurry. The mutant let out another roar, rushing forward. Its shove knocked Ney to the floor. The infantry’s shots opened scorched wounds in the attacker’s shoulders, doing nothing to dampen the monster’s ardor.
“I don’t have time for cuddles!” Ney regretted again that Ruda had been sent to guard the bridge.
He was glad of his beloved’s improvement—less than a week ago, she would have rushed into battle—but now he desperately needed reinforcements. Behind the mutant, its kin were approaching, pounding at anything that made noise and tearing off ventilation shaft hatches, blindly trying to climb in. Many of the would-be boarders had made the crusaders’ job easier by slaughtering each other, but the remaining ones simply refused to die.
By sliding the mace between himself and the carcass trying to crush him, Ney lifted the mutant enough to shove the hand cannon into its gaping maw.
“Say ‘A’ and catch the birdy...”
“This sacrilege will not go on any further.” A chomping voice echoed across the battlefield.
The mutant was swept off Ney, leaving the wounded creature sprawled across the path ahead. The same fate befell the frenzied rabble. They froze in place, still roaring in a heap, trying to take even a step. Accompanied by the clatter of his sword staff on the floor, the magister approached, offering his knee as support so the knight could stand.
Szarel looked ill. With one hand he pressed his torn jaw to his face. His front tooth had fallen out of his mouth and hung by a thread of nerve. The shifting bones pierced the gray skin of his jaw. The magister leaned on his sword staff, maintaining his upright posture.
“My gratitude, sir.” Ney bowed. “Allow me a second to finish them off.”
“No.” The magister’s speech came slurred, squelching. “Sedatives. I have a bad feeling about this. Enough blood. Sedate them, Ney. Soldiers! When we’re done, drag them to the cells and tend to their wounds. You and I are ending this intrusion, Ney.”
****
“That’s it, girlie. Hop after hop. Don’t rush; we’ll make it.” Farrin blushed, hearing Chernogor’s encouraging exhortations.
The survivors of their squad descended onto the road an hour after Paikan’s troops had repaired the bridge. Farrin refused to let the men carry her like the seriously wounded on a stretcher and leaned on Chernogor, moving alongside him in short hops, holding her injured foot up in the air. To be honest, she didn’t particularly believe in the possibility of reaching any settlement before their water supplies ran out, but simply giving up wasn’t her style.
Chernogor, even after he had lost his arm up to the wrist, walked confidently. The commander expressed approval of Farrin’s proposals by personally bringing the slain sniper’s rifle. They looted the corpse, taking the meager supply of painkillers. With a heavy heart, Farrin abandoned them in favor of the more seriously wounded and now fought back tears. Everything ached. Every movement caused a grenade of agony to explode inside her. She began to entertain thoughts of asking her allies to ease her suffering with a shot to the back of the head.
“And leave Bahran to another? Ha, fat chance!”
“That’s right, precious, that’s right. Don’t give up; you youngsters have your entire future ahead of you.” Chernogor wasn’t even sweating. “We’ll have fun at the wedding, right?”
“We’ll get drunk...” Farrin bit her lip. She was delirious. Had she really started speaking her thoughts out loud?
Sky, I know I’m a sinner and all that. Strike me with lightning; no biggie. But if you save my comrades, I swear to serve the weak.
“Commander!” They turned.
Farrin cursed, punching her wound to stave off unconsciousness. Dust rose on the western horizon, right in the passage their cruiser had used to reach the bridge. It seemed Paikan had gathered not one, but two armies, and they were in the path of their reinforcements. Hearing the guttural roars, Farrin frantically tried to remember which band had used the beasts in their raids. Nothing came to mind.
The gods had a cruel sense of humor. She shouldn’t have expected mercy.
