Funeral games far star 3, p.31
Funeral Games (Far Star #3), page 31
“I’m sorry, Ark.”
He put his own hand over hers. “I’m just surprised. I’d never have guessed . . . Katarina and Ace? That’s not one I would have predicted.”
“We don’t pick who we fall in love with, Ark.” She leaned around, looking up at him with a smile. “You can’t possibly think I would have picked you, can you? Like I couldn’t have found someone easier to deal with?” She held a snarky grin for a few seconds. “Or that you couldn’t have found some beautiful maiden somewhere who couldn’t wait to do every stupid thing you told her to do without an argument?”
“There have been a lot of beautiful princesses. Maybe I should take a closer look . . .” He smiled and nodded. “No, you’re right. But still, I’m surprised by it.” His cheerful expression faded quickly. “I just hope he finds her. In one piece.”
He paused for a few seconds, then he shook off the melancholy.
“Whatever happens, we’ve got work to do. We need to get to the broadcast center. If we don’t get you on the air soon, this whole planet is going to ignite like putting a torch to dry straw.”
Rachen crept through the rubble of a semicollapsed building. There had been heavy fighting in Alban, as Blackhawk’s mercenaries pushed deeper into the city. It looked like most of Carteria’s Celtiborian soldiers had slipped away after the death of their commander, but the imperial browncoats were still mounting serious resistance. The chaos was helpful in sneaking close to Blackhawk, but it was frustrating as well. He’d been stalking the adventurer turned general for hours now, waiting to catch him alone, but he’d been with someone every moment.
Taking out Blackhawk with his followers and allies so close was dangerous. He’d taken a serious risk in the rotunda, attempting an assassination in the midst of such a large crowd, and it had allowed Blackhawk’s Sebastiani friend to track him down. She’d been an impressive warrior, and the pain from his wounds reminded Rachen that he hadn’t defeated her by the kind of comfortable margin typical to his encounters. Indeed, his injuries were slowing him down, which made going after Blackhawk like this even more dangerous.
But none of that mattered. Brothers of the Exequtorum did not fail missions. They did not pull back because they were injured or conditions were difficult. Whatever the risk, he had no choice. He had to make his move now.
Blackhawk had just detached six of his people, including his second in command. He was perhaps twenty meters away from the mercenary soldiers who were with him. He finally stood alone . . . almost. The blond woman, Lucerne’s daughter. She was there too.
She is Blackhawk’s weakness. He has affection for her. It will disrupt his logic, slow his response. I will kill them both. Her first, and then him. She is not on my mandate, but the death of both of them will throw Celtiboria into total chaos. It will ease my escape path . . . and mandate or no, it will serve my master’s interests.
Rachen was lying behind a large chunk of the building’s wall. He’d been there for ten minutes, lying dead still, watching the scene before him. Motion was his enemy, as it made it far easier for someone to spot him. Far better to wait for the prey to wander into your grasp than to jump around chasing him.
He had an assault rifle out in front of him, one he’d pulled off a dead soldier. It wasn’t ideal for use as a sniper’s weapon, but it would serve his purpose. He hadn’t risked retrieving his own gear. The battle with the Sebastiani assassin had been more difficult than he’d expected. And the Sebastiani had been in his quarters. It was possible she’d alerted someone as to his identity, or even left a trap for him.
No, going back would have been too large a risk.
Delaying the attack wasn’t an option either. The battle on Celtiboria was almost over, and Blackhawk had pulled victory from the jaws of defeat. The adventurer could leave the planet any minute, and once he buttoned up in his ship and blasted off, Rachen would be back to the beginning. He’d have to reestablish contact, and that could take months.
The assassin slowly moved the weapon into place, his eye fixed on the small aiming sight. He was targeting Astra. Just take her down, one shot to the head. Then Blackhawk. There’s something about him, some kind of toughness. He survived my venom somehow. I have to be sure this time. Three shots to the head. Then I get out of here.
He held still, slowing his breath at first, then holding it altogether. He took one last look down the rifle, and he squeezed his finger slowly, methodically . . .
“The main broadcast center is about a kilometer in this direction.” Astra was pointing to the southwest. “It’s that tower there . . . the one with the blue glass.” She turned and looked at Blackhawk. “It’s the only place besides the palace where we can get a signal out planetwide . . .”
Blackhawk had been listening to her, but he felt something, a coldness, the sixth sense he so often had in battle. It wasn’t anything mystical, just the subconscious reaction to his enhanced senses. Sometimes his eyes or ears caught something, and he reacted before his conscious mind had time to consider the threat.
In the rubble over there. Movement. A reflection.
He grabbed Astra and began to throw her hard to the ground.
“What the . . .” she began, but Blackhawk wasn’t listening. He saw the threat, and he knew immediately what it was. Another assassination attempt. And this time Astra was in the line of fire.
He heard the gunshot, even as he was drawing his pistol. He saw Astra lurch forward, heard her protestations cease, her words replaced by a yelp of pain.
He fired his pistol repeatedly, unloading the cartridge as he ran forward toward the threat. He wanted to stay with Astra, longed to check her injury, to make sure she was okay, to hold her in his arms. But his instincts were in total control . . . and they knew only one course of action.
Neutralize the threat.
“Help Astra!” he screamed, with a volume and firmness of command that grabbed the attention of everyone within fifty meters. He was peripherally aware of people running behind him, toward her. Help her, please.
He had covered half the distance before he’d emptied his pistol. He doubted he’d hit his enemy, but he’d forced him to duck behind the wall of the broken structure. And that’s what he wanted. Blackhawk was running on pure rage, Frigus Umbra uncaged, feeding his need to kill his opponent.
This would be close-in work, not an extended firefight.
This man is Exequtorum. I could lose this fight . . .
He tossed aside the pistol and drew his blade, grabbing the end of the half-collapsed wall and leaping up, swinging himself around. His enemy was there, and ready. He’d dropped the gun when he’d hurriedly pulled himself out of the line of fire, and now he stood facing Blackhawk with a sword in his own hand, a weapon plucked from one of the dead soldiers lying nearby.
“You are a capable man, Arkarin Blackhawk,” the assassin said, as the two moved slowly, each evaluating his opponent.
“Capable enough to kill you,” Umbra said, Blackhawk allowing his alter ego to step forward, face his enemy. “I have never killed one of the Exequtorum, but I will remedy that now.”
“So you know of my order?” The assassin was moving as he spoke, as was Blackhawk, each seeking an opening to press his attacks. “You continue to surprise me, Arkarin Blackhawk. You are not at all what I expected to encounter out here in the Far Stars.”
“Not everything is as it seems. You appear to know me, but I find I’m at a disadvantage.”
“Ah . . . indeed. I am known as Lord Rachen, Captain Blackhawk.”
“Well, Lord Rachen, you killed my friend. Augustin Lucerne was a good man, and he deserved better than to be murdered in his quarters.” Blackhawk’s eyes narrowed, his mind taking stock of his adversary. “And now, I will avenge him.”
The two men faced each other, each staring into the other’s eyes. They held their weapons aloft and moved slowly, cautiously.
Blackhawk felt Umbra’s rage inside him, the supreme arrogance of the undefeated imperial general. But he tempered his alter ego’s rash anger. Rachen was no normal enemy, and if he made even the smallest mistake, the deadly assassin would vanquish him.
The two had almost circled each other when Blackhawk lunged forward, thrusting his battleworn blade toward his enemy’s chest. But Rachen wasn’t there. He’d seen Blackhawk’s strike and quickly shifted to the side, evading the blow and positioning himself for his own attack.
Blackhawk felt a coldness move through him, a warning. He realized immediately that he had committed himself too aggressively, that he’d allowed his foe to gain an advantage. His instincts took control, and he felt his arm moving, his blade ahead of his conscious thought.
Pain. Rachen’s blade bit into his flesh . . . barely. Then his own blade clanged against the assassin’s, pushing it aside amid a small spray of his own blood.
Blackhawk could feel the sweat pouring from his head, down the back of his neck. He’d almost given his opponent a killing blow.
He sucked in a deep breath as he pulled back, watching Rachen as the assassin watched for another chance. No, he thought. I underestimated you once . . . my own folly. I will not do it again.
The two continued their deadly dance. There were few warriors anywhere that would be a match for either man. Death was their trade, and they were among the most skilled of its purveyors.
And after this struggle, there’d be one less in their elite ranks.
Rachen sprang forward, his motion as rapid as it was unexpected. Yet Blackhawk was ready. He saw the assassin’s approach, knew where the blow would come. He slashed with his own blade, parrying Rachen’s blow with a loud clang. But the imperial wasn’t deterred. He swung again . . . and again, and each time his sword met Blackhawk’s.
The two traded blows, each successfully blunting his enemy’s attacks. Blackhawk could feel the adrenaline pumping into his arteries, his heart pounding in his ears. He channeled his determination—and Umbra’s rage—into each strike, but still Rachen matched him at every turn. Blackhawk had faced death before, many times . . . but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d feared defeat fighting a single opponent.
He’s favoring his left leg, Blackhawk thought, noting the slightest hitch as the imperial assassin stepped aside to counter his blow. Use that. You need everything you have to defeat this man.
Blackhawk lunged again, bringing his blade in from the right, forcing his opponent to step to the left.
Yes, that leg is definitely injured.
Blackhawk took a step back, maintaining his defenses. He’s too skilled . . . I’m not going to catch him napping. This is a war of attrition, and I need to wear him down. He felt the slickness of blood on his side. His wound was nothing of consequence, more a reminder he’d allowed his enemy to draw first blood. It was painful, but he ignored that, and he channeled his frustration, the anger at his own carelessness, into his attacks.
Rachen lunged forward once more, swinging his sword with a primal ferocity. The blade slammed hard into Blackhawk’s, and he felt the impact all the way up his arm. But his sword held firm. Again, the assassin struck . . . and again, striking at Blackhawk’s weapon with all the strength he could muster.
Blackhawk winced as yet another blow slammed into his sword. His armed ached, from the impacts, from the fatigue . . . but he held firm.
The enemy’s blows are weakening. He is becoming fatigued. Now is the time to press your attack.
You think I’m not tired?
You are weakening as well, though more slowly. Your genetics are your advantage. Your adversary is as skilled as you are . . . perhaps even more so.
He felt a rush of injured pride. Better?
Immaterial at present . . . and nearly impossible to accurately measure. But your advantage in stamina is clear. You are becoming fatigued, but he is tiring more quickly. Use that.
Blackhawk felt a burst of anger toward the meddlesome AI, but even as he did, he realized Hans’s advice was sound.
He leaped back, vaulting over of a pile of rubble that had once been part of a wall. Rachen was surprised, but just for an instant. Then he came at the captain, stabbing at Blackhawk over the wall.
That’s right . . . you think I’m retreating, that I’m too weak to continue. You think it is time to finish me. So come . . . come at me with whatever you have left . . .
Rachen thrust again, but Blackhawk sprang back, away from the wall. The assassin followed, jumping over the shattered masonry in a single bound. And something else . . .
Blackhawk caught the move out of the corner of his eye, the imperial grabbing a chunk of broken stone as he glided over the wall. He landed and threw the rock in a single motion. Blackhawk ducked, dropping down as he felt the projectile just scrape the side of his head.
Chrono, he’s good . . .
And then Rachen was on him.
His blade brushed aside his enemy’s, but the assassin’s body slammed into his, and the two fell together, rolling painfully across the debris and shattered masonry of the ruins.
Blackhawk sucked in a deep breath and pulled his knee up hard into Rachen’s stomach, rolling away as his enemy fell back. He leaped to his feet and brought his sword around, but the imperial managed to scramble back to his feet and get back in a defensive position.
“You are a highly skilled warrior, Arkarin Blackhawk . . . far more formidable than any I expected to encounter out here.”
“I am Arkarin Blackhawk . . . here. But I am not from the Far Stars, no more than you are. I came from the empire, just as you did.”
Blackhawk paused for an instant, and the two faced each other, unmoving. Deep inside himself, Blackhawk surrendered, allowing the monster to come fully out of its cage, in all its brutal savagery. “Prepare for death, dog, for you face Frigus Umbra, not some pirate or petty adventurer from the fringe of human space.” Blackhawk’s eyes blazed, and he could see the reaction in his opponent . . . the fear.
Rachen paused. It was just for an instant, a momentary shock at hearing such a familiar name, but it was enough. Blackhawk/Umbra lunged forward, hand tightly wrapped around the worn hilt of that deadly shortsword. The imperial agent reacted, pulling back, trying to avoid the strike as he brought his own blade up to parry. But that single instant of distraction had been too much. His efforts avoided the killing blow, but Blackhawk’s sword plunged into his shoulder, sinking in deeply, and slicing to the side, freeing itself from his flesh in a spray of blood.
The Exequtori stumbled back, bringing up his sword, maintaining a fighting stance. He appeared to be oblivious to the pain, but his side was covered in blood.
There was no thought on either side that surrender was an option. No consideration of mercy or quarter.
Blackhawk/Umbra pressed on, swinging mightily at his enemy. Rachen parried every blow, but Blackhawk could tell his opponent was weakening. The shoulder wound wasn’t mortal, but the assassin was losing a lot of blood. And any weakness in a fight like this was fatal.
Blackhawk felt like he could smell his enemy’s blood. He could feel victory, the kill, within his grasp. He wasn’t a soldier now, not an adventurer, not even a pit fighter in some gladiatorial spectacle. No, he was a predator, pure and simple, a feral beast locked into the hunt. There was nothing in his mind now, no thought, no feeling . . . nothing at all, save the death of his enemy.
He swung again, with all the strength he could manage, and his sword clanged loudly as it slammed into Rachen’s. The assassin struggled to continue the fight, to parry Blackhawk’s deadly blows, but eventually he stumbled, falling to one knee.
Blackhawk swung his sword down viciously, knocking the blade from the assassin’s hand. He could feel his heart beating in his ears, like some drum calling him to war. His hand gripped his blade like a vise, and every muscle in his body was tense, ready to finish the battle.
Rachen tried to put up an arm to protect himself, but Blackhawk’s sword struck hard, severing it just below the elbow. Blood poured from the hideous wound, yet even then, the assassin was silent. He was Exequtorum. Blackhawk knew he would not show pain or fear. But he didn’t care about the pain.
Just as long as the bastard feels it.
He slashed the blade across Rachen’s throat in a motion so quick it was barely visible; his sword was already through when the torrent of blood began to pour out. But he wasn’t done. He brought his sword around again, and he rammed it hard through Rachen’s chest, shoving it through his opponent’s heart with all his strength—until the hilt slammed into the breastbone, and ten centimeters of bloody blade protruded from the dead assassin’s back.
He stood there for a moment, Blackhawk and Frigus Umbra, for a brief instant one and the same. He was covered in his enemy’s blood and holding the assassin’s body up with his sword. Then, in a blinding motion, he ripped the blade back out, and Rachen’s body fell to the ground.
He remained where he was, his fist clenched around the sword, and inside he struggled, pushing the Umbra side back, fighting to remain himself. To remain Blackhawk.
Slowly, at least it felt that way to him, though no more than a few seconds passed, he regained his composure. He was again Arkarin Blackhawk. He stood covered in his defeated foe’s blood, and he realized he was surrounded by Carano’s stunned soldiers. They stood and stared, shocked at the spectacle they had just witnessed. But there was only one thing Blackhawk cared about.
“Astra!” he screamed, as he spun around and ran back to where she had stood.
CHAPTER 28
“ONE OF OUR ADVANCE ELEMENTS FOUND HER. WE HAVEN’T BEEN able to identify her yet. I’m afraid most of the Celtiborian information systems are still offline. I don’t know if she is your missing crew member, but she fits the general description you provided.” Major Danforth was one of Carano’s senior staff officers, overseeing the operation of the field hospitals. Carano had personally called and ordered him to cooperate with Blackhawk’s people.
“Just take me to her,” Ace snapped, the edge in his voice unintentional. He didn’t know if the mystery woman in the field hospital was Katarina, and from the description Danforth had given him of her injuries, he wasn’t sure he hoped it was. The thought of finding her just in time to watch her die . . .
