The Undead King: The Saga of Jai Lin: Book One (28 page)

“What was that you said?” Mercer asked, holding the tip of Jai Lin to Matchless’s throat. “The world is a place where the strong take and the weak give?”

Matchless’s eyes were trembling. “Please… don’t kill me…”

Brook looked around at the crowd of slavers and mercenaries who had gathered. Most wore looks of disgust. One man, skinny and with a large poof of hair, was shaking his head and even spit on the ground by Matchless’s splayed legs.

“
Pendejo,
” the man muttered under his breath, then turned and walked from the circle.

Brook’s heart was in her throat. Salty was the first living man she had seen Mercer kill; it had surprised her at how efficiently and easily he had done it. She hoped that the man she had grown so close to over the past week was capable of mercy, even against as awful a person as Matchless.

“I should kill you,” Mercer said, letting the sword’s tip sink slightly into Matchless’s throat. Droplets of blood began to trickle out from the blade’s pressure. “But I won’t. You’ll have to live with the shame of begging for your life after having been bested in combat. How does that feel, Matchless?” The slaver only looked at Mercer, a bilious stew of fear and hatred brewing in his dark eyes.

Mercer stepped off the man’s wrist, resheathed Jai Lin and turned back towards Brook. He quickly realized that his troubles were far from over. The gathered mercenaries, though a considerably smaller amount than had initially gathered, still fully encircled him, leaving open no space for an exit. They all scowled and kneaded the leather of their knives and swords in their calloused hands. Mercer knew he wouldn’t leave this circle alive, not if he couldn’t think of something to do.

He thought of what Solloway would do if he were trapped like this. “Don’t stop breathing on me now, Jed.” Mercer remembered Solloway saying as they rowed towards the Rip. “We might need you to provide us with some more of those pyrix spheres for when we’re up there.”

The pyrix spheres.

He grabbed the bag from his belt. “Do any of you know what these are?” He shouted, holding aloft several of the spheres in his hand.

“Bum yum Seeds?” A dull-sounding fat man from the circle posited.

“Shut up, Gregory,” another mercenary chided, this one with a voice as raspy as Solloway’s. “Those are fire bombs, the weapons of a cosmologist.”

“That’s right. These are pyrix spheres. I throw a few of these down and I’ll set this entire camp ablaze. That is, unless you let us leave without harm.” Mercer looked from face to face. It was hard to gauge what they were thinking, which he took to be a good sign. If he began to walk out now, odds were that no one would try and stop him, not when threatened with certain immolation. He took a few steps, his gaze bouncing around the circle, waiting for one reckless person to make a move for him, but they all remained still.

“Let’s go,” he said, when he was standing next to Brook. “Quickly now!” She nodded and turned, but Mercer stopped before taking even one step after her.

A click echoed through the air, the sound of a gun hammer being cocked. He knew without even looking that Matchless was back on his feet, could see how the blood covered his large body in a viscous red robe, could see how he aimed the rifle with a surprisingly steady hand. Mercer had made a fatal mistake in not ending Matchless’s life when he had the chance; now it looked like the slaver was about to end his with a bullet to the spine.

Mercer drew Jai Lin and spun around just as the shot rang through the air. Matchless looked just as Mercer imagined him to, but his focus quickly went from the man to the bullet that was coming straight towards him. There was no time to think the words his father had taught him. Instead, he assumed hawk-stream style in one fluid instant. The world all around him slowed, so that he actually saw the bullet as it rotated through the air on its way to meet him. It still flew as fast as the wind, but he could easily dodge it if he wanted to. He could, but Brook couldn’t, and she was directly behind him.

Cutting the bullet down with Jai Lin was his only course of action. He swung quickly, meeting the small piece of lead straight on with the blade’s sharp edge. The bullet split in two, its two disparate halves careening off in harmless little spirals towards the ground, but not before doing what Mercer thought to be impossible. The air filled with the sound of shattering glass as Jai Lin’s blade broke to pieces.

“No…” Mercer whispered, falling to his knees. The four shards that had broken free from the blade rained to the ground around him, the piece of sword extending from the hilt in his hand only a hand or so long. “No, no, no…”

The mercenaries were stunned at how quickly Mercer had moved, at how he had cut a bullet in half with his sword. Brook was too, but then her eyes darted to Matchless, who was struggling with his gun, desperately trying to load another bullet into its chamber. The slaver’s teeth were gritted, his eyes wide and mad. Mercer was completely caught up in his shattered sword, so he did not notice when Matchless successfully got the gun loaded, nor when he raised it up and aimed it at him.

“Mercer!” She screamed, but it was too late. A loud crack filled the air, a deafening boom. It was louder than the gunshot before, as though from a cannon, and Brook quickly realized why: it was not Matchless’s gun that had been fired.

Instead, the slaver fell backwards, a thin snake of blood spurting from his forehead, his rifle falling to the ground from his lifeless hands. Matchless hit the dirt and lay still, as dead as his friend Salty.

Brook turned in the direction of the shot, and saw a familiar set of gray-green eyes furiously staring down the barrel of his smoking pistol, his mouth a grim line in his beard.

“Don’t touch him, any one of you,” Solloway said, slowly moving his gaze around the circle of mercenaries. “The boy won his freedom fair and square, so he comes with me. Mercer, you alright?”

“Jai Lin… it’s… it’s broken…”

“Stop crying boy. Pick up the shards and put them in your sheath. There’s a good lad. Alright, come on, we’re getting out of here. You too, Brook.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” one of the slavers said. It was the fat one from before, the one who thought the pyrix spheres were bum yum seeds.

“Oh no?” Solloway rasped, clicking back the trigger on his pistol. “Who is going to stop me?” In response, there was a flash of movement through the air, followed by a wet thunk. Solloway screamed, his pistol dropping to the ground. In its place, impaled straight through his palm, was the shaft of an arrow.

“I’m going to stop you.” The woman stood atop a crumbled stone wall, her ivory bow still held before her. Her hair was long, gray, with two thick braids in its otherwise cascading waves. She wore a uniform similar to the one Solloway buried at the beach, only hers was forest green, not desert beige like the sergeant’s.

“Alyssa… But why?”

“Hello Roderick. I knew I’d see you eventually.” Alyssa leaped down from the stone wall, landing as gracefully as a cat upon the torn turf below. As she approached, other uniformed soldiers appeared from behind the tents and buildings, some in green with spears or guns in their hands, others shirtless, wielding only swords. “You’re to come with me.”

“Stay the hell away from me, Alyssa. Damn you, you put a bolt right through my hand…”

“I could have put it through your throat, Roderick. The bounty said that you were to be caught dead or alive, it made no difference. You should be thanking me.”

“I have no gratitude towards the likes of you. You’re corrupt, the lot of you. You know not what you do.”

“And you do?” She had come close to Solloway, was looking him up in down. All Mercer saw in her eyes was pity for the man he’d seen cut down entire waves of the undead with his axe. “You were once the greatest axe man in all the western cities. Paulo Lautrec would be so disappointed at what you’ve become.”

Solloway began to shake. He slowly lifted his wounded hand until it was level with his fiery gaze, then began to pull the arrow out. His breathing came in staggered bursts, the sweat pouring off his forehead, but he didn’t cry out. In a matter of moments, he had removed the arrow, tossing it in the direction of Matchless’s body. Blood gushed from the open wound he held proudly in front of his and Alyssa’s faces, streaming off his elbow like rain down a water spout, a puddle of crimson mud forming on the ground.

“Don’t you ever say his name again,” Solloway whispered, his gaze never wavering from Alyssa’s. She held his eyes but obeyed him, not uttering another word about Paulo Lautrec, the greatest axe man Kingston had ever known.

“Put these three in cuffs and bring them,” Alyssa said to her men. Brook was incredulous.

“Wait, why us? What did we do? What are our crimes?”

“Guilty by association. You aided and abetted a wanted terrorist who has committed grave and serious crimes against the Fort at Kingston and the Green Lands at large.”

“Don’t listen to her, Brook,” Solloway said. “She’s a coward, just following orders. Typical Crenshaw ranger for you. Hey, tell the Lord Commander when you see him that he should take a look in the mirror before he starts calling anyone a terrorist.”

This time is was Mercer who spoke up. “Where are you taking us?”

“To where you were trying to get all along. Dusty Yen would like to see you.”

Alyssa’s men put the three of their hands behind their back and shackled them together with heavy steel handcuffs. Brook allowed them to do it, her mind focused on Leo, who stood a stone’s throw away from the soldiers. She urged the pup to run before anyone noticed him, before he was killed or captured, but Leo only whined and hesitated. It drew the attention of one of the Kingston soldiers. “Hey, what’s this dog going on about, eh? He belong to one of you?”

“Shoot it,” Alyssa said, disinterested. Two of the soldiers lifted their guns, joking amongst one another as to who could get the head-shot first. Brook screamed in her head for Leo to run. The pit bull finally obeyed, turning tail and bolting from the battleground. Dirt erupted around his powerfully muscled body from the bullets that missed their mark, curses from the soldiers following him as he bolted away into the darkness.

“Nice shooting, fellas,” Solloway said, smirking. “Makes me proud to call myself a soldier from the Fort.”

“Shut up, Roderick,” Alyssa said, roughly pushing him forward. The other soldiers were equally forceful with Mercer and Brook, moving them along the thin path between the tents. Carrion crows had already gathered around the bodies of Matchless and Salty, the conglomeration of mercenaries and slavers having gone back to their women and drink.

Curious eyes watched as the soldiers ushered their cuffed guests further along. Some jeered in accents so thick that Mercer could barely understand them, while others watched silently from behind thick mats of hair, strange weapons in their hands, their skins blue. It seemed that Dusty Yen had attracted men from far and wide, from places beyond the Green Lands, but how had he done it? Had he spoken to every man gathered here through the voice of the moon, promising them riches and glory were they to serve him?

He imagined that some of his questions may be answered soon: the large tent before them seemed to pull at everything, as though it were the axis around which the entire camp revolved. Dusty Yen was inside, Mercer had no doubt. He looked over to Solloway, whose face had gone to the color of snow, his breathing shallow and raspy. The blood from his hand still poured freely and had drenched his khaki pants as dark as twilight.

“Wait here,” Alyssa said, pulling the tent flap aside and going inside. The soldiers shuffled around, the contents of their packs clinking together, but otherwise the air was heavy, oppressive, silent.

“Solloway, are you alright?” Brook whispered.

“I’d be better if I had some bourbon in my belly.”

“Hey, no talking!” One of the rangers said. His voice was boyish, unsure.

“Now, now, is that any way to speak to your superior?” Solloway’s chuckle sounded like air escaping from a cracked pipe. It shut the soldier up, and Mercer could see why this man had been his father’s friend. Solloway was fearless.

Alyssa stepped back out from the tent, her face almost as white as Solloway’s. She looked up at her soldiers, her eyes glossed over from whatever it was she had just witnessed within the tent.

“Bring them in,” she said. Her men did as she ordered, jabbing the three shackled travelers in the spines with the butts of their crossbows or rifles, urging them forward. One of the soldiers pulled back the tent flap, and Solloway, Brook and Mercer were pushed in, the guards remaining outside.

The first thing Mercer noticed was how much larger the interior of the tent was than the outside suggested. There was an expansive bed to the far side of the room dressed in plush pillows and sheets, as well as several lacquered book shelves and chests, ghostly faces from the flickering gas lamps reflected in their surfaces.

In the center of the room was a large chair, what Mercer imagined a throne would look like were the stories his Nan used to tell him as a child came to life. Sitting within that chair was a corpulent man of indeterminate age, his hair as white as stardust, his eyes the gold of a cat’s. What was most striking, however, was the extra eye in the man’s forehead, larger than the others and with a greater depth, as if it knew all that was and all that was yet to be.