Enemy in the Dark (25 page)

“Indeed, Vagran, that is exactly how I'd expect
you
would see it. Clearly you are no wiser now than you were then.” Blackhawk
nodded to his adversary. “We were friends of a sort, once. But that time is long past. And it doesn't matter anymore. You know who I am, what I am. I cannot allow that information to leave this room. You have come to the end, Vagran. This is where you die.” He pulled his shortsword slowly from the scabbard, his fingers clenched tightly around the worn grip. “You know you cannot defeat me. I am still the teacher, and you the student. Now it is time for the final lesson.”

“You
were
my teacher, but that was long ago, and much has changed since then. You abandoned who you were, left your greatness behind to languish here, at the edge of the universe among the detritus of humanity.” The imperial pulled out his own blade and held it out in front of him. “We shall see who passes this last test.”

Calgarus crouched into a fighting position, his feet moving slowly, his body edging toward Blackhawk. The two men stared into each other's eyes, and they began their deadly dance.

Blackhawk took a deep breath. He was exhausted, and his old wound still ached. Calgarus had always been a dangerous fighter, and Blackhawk reminded himself his old protégé had nearly a quarter-century's experience since last they'd met. The imperial was younger, too, though only by a few years.

As always, Blackhawk felt the adrenaline surging through his body, giving himself over to the part of his mind that always took control in combat.

Let's see what you're made of, Vagran.

He moved suddenly, feinting forward to the left then ducking and slashing with his blade. Calgarus dove backward and lunged out with his sword, parrying Blackhawk's strike just in time. The imperial stumbled, but he caught himself.

“You strike like a snake, just as you always did.” Calgarus
nodded his head slightly. “But I am not the green young man you abandoned so long ago.” He raised his sword and brought it down hard. Blackhawk extended his own weapon to block the strike, and a loud clang echoed from the walls.

Calgarus increased the intensity of his attacks, swinging his blade at Blackhawk's with as much force as he could manage, but Ark stood firm, parrying every blow.

Then Blackhawk ducked below one of Calgarus's strikes and brought his own blade around in a vicious swing. The imperial jerked backward, but Blackhawk's blade bit into him, barely. It was a flesh wound, but it was the first blood drawn.

Yet Calgarus barely paused, throwing himself toward Blackhawk, his anger feeding his attack. He swung hard at his enemy's sword, pushing it to the side as he reversed the move and slashed at Blackhawk's body. But the older man was the quicker, and he evaded the blow.

The fight went on, the two exchanging strikes all across the room, each seeming to read the other's every attack and responding with the proper defense. Though Blackhawk couldn't manage to land a decisive blow, he was getting the better of the engagement. He'd drawn first blood, and Calgarus was tiring out. Blackhawk had entered the battle exhausted and wounded, but his natural abilities were beyond that of any normal man, however well trained and experienced. Calgarus's skills were a match for his own, but the imperial couldn't overcome the genetic engineering that made Blackhawk such a deadly adversary.

“We don't need to do this.” For the first time since they'd encountered each other, there was a hint of desperation in Calgarus's voice. The fact that he was talking at all was the proof
Blackhawk needed to know he was winning. Vagran continued, “I don't know what happened to you so many years ago, but you can come back with me. You can reclaim your position within the empire.”

Blackhawk stared at his adversary with pity in his eyes. Calgarus's attempt was laughable. No one knew the ways of the empire better than Blackhawk. There was no going back, no forgiveness for traitors and deserters. Only death awaited him back in the empire—even if he could have brought himself to return to what he'd been.

Which he couldn't.

“That is not the way for me—I left that path long ago. It is you who are lost, Calgarus. Your soul is mired in darkness, and with each step you walk farther past the point of no return. Nothing remains for you but the hope for salvation in death, and that shall take you soon.”

Calgarus tested with his blade, probing for a weakness while his old mentor spoke. But Blackhawk parried easily, and then launched his own attack.

The
Claw
's captain brought his blade down toward Calgarus's neck. The imperial twisted around, holding his sword up to block the killing blow. But it was a diversion, and Blackhawk pulled his arm low, his sword slipping under Calgarus's and biting into his side, sending a spray of blood through the air.

The imperial howled in pain, and he lunged back, holding his sword in front of him with shaking hands. His breath was coarse, and the pain was written on his face.

He stared at Blackhawk with a strange expression. Fear certainly, but also astonishment, as if only now he'd begun to believe his old friend would really kill him.

“We were brothers, comrades. We served side by side, earned the gratitude of an emperor.” He stared across the floor, and Blackhawk could see the pain and fear in his eyes.

“I do not want the emperor's gratitude. That is what you will never understand. Those days you view as a time of glory—they are my great shame.”

Calgarus staggered, his side soaked with blood. He was badly wounded, but it wasn't mortal. But the fight was over. That was obvious to both of them.

“I . . . I yield to you.” He shuffled forward and let his sword arm drop to his side. “I am your prisoner.”

Blackhawk was startled by Calgarus's surrender. He'd been ready to kill his opponent in battle, but to murder him in cold blood? To refuse his surrender and summarily execute him?

“I surrender to you, Blackhawk. I beg for your mercy.” Calgarus's blade hit the ground with a loud clang. “If you would kill me, my old friend, then strike me down. I am unarmed and helpless.”

Blackhawk felt his heart pounding. His mind was racing, old dark memories mixing with newer, lighter ones. His old self could have rationalized killing a captive in cold blood, even an old friend. All he'd known in those days was duty—and the pursuit of power. But now he understood so much more. He had friends, loved ones, attachments he'd never have allowed himself twenty years before, when Vagran Calgarus had been his comrade and pupil.

But none of that mattered now.

An atrocity to hide a nightmare . . .

“I'm sorry, Vagran. I truly am. But you are what you are, and I cannot allow what you know to leave this room. The imperial evil you represent must not spread any further.” Blackhawk
tried to justify his actions, to himself at least, but it was pointless. He knew just why he was going to kill Calgarus.

He took one last look into his old friend's eyes, and he saw the terror rising inside his old friend, the realization of what was happening. Then he swung his sword, taking off the imperial's head in one blindingly quick motion.

He instinctively took a step forward and grabbed the younger man's body, sliding it slowly to the ground instead of letting it fall. He knew Calgarus had been an evil man, and Blackhawk couldn't begin to calculate how much brutality the imperial had probably inflicted over the past twenty years. He didn't have the slightest doubt his old pupil deserved death for his acts, but Blackhawk was still wracked by guilt.

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.

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 parched 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 danger
ous 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.