Dragons shadow, p.9
Dragon's Shadow, page 9
The blue needles.
Not weapons.
Teeth.
They turn humans into batteries by draining them directly.
"Too predictable."
My voice comes out calm.
Almost mocking.
But my hand grips the left Twin Blade's guard until my knuckles go white.
I count my options.
Three Nulls.
Two Twin Blades.
One bar full of civilians unaware of the danger.
Bad ratio.
The first Null lunges.
Fast.
Too fast to be human.
I pivot.
The blade cuts the air.
It doesn't touch flesh.
It slices through the residual illusion still clinging to the creature like a second skin.
The Null screams.
Not a human cry.
A mechanical sound, strident, that sounds like metal being torn.
It staggers back.
Its gray skin crackles.
Blue sparks run along its arms.
Void magic.
The second Null circles the table.
Its hands reach out toward me.
Fingers too long.
Nails like blades.
I draw the right Twin Blade.
Two blades now.
One in each hand.
I cross them in front of me.
Barrier.
The Null strikes.
Its nails meet the metal.
The sound is deafening.
Like a bell struck with a hammer.
The Cry of Lamentation amplifies.
The blades vibrate in my hands.
The Null staggers back.
Its hands smoking.
Not blood.
Ash.
The third Null doesn't move.
Just watches me with its empty eyes.
Then it slides a hand inside its jacket.
What comes out has nothing of an ordinary weapon.
A rod. Long. Dark. Smooth surface that absorbs light rather than reflecting it, as if the object itself refuses to exist in the visible spectrum.
The Rod.
I tighten my grip on the Twin Blades.
The Null raises the rod, not toward me, toward the space between us, and waits.
Subject Variance Detected.
Same flat voice. Same network. Same controller.
I open my throat and let the Cry of Lamentation rise, not from the blades this time, from my vocal cords directly.
Nothing.
The sound dies halfway between my throat and the air. Not muffled. Erased, as if someone had simply decided that frequency no longer existed and the universe had accepted the decision without protest.
The rod pulses once.
I try again.
Same result.
The silence inside my own throat is the most disorienting thing I've felt in fifteen years of work. Not pain, not fear, just that absolute absence where there should be sound, magic, something that resembles me.
The first two Nulls advance.
Synchronized. Methodical. Their mouths open on the rows of spiral teeth.
My blades are still active, the Cry of Lamentation pulsing through the metal, intact, indifferent to the rod that muzzled my voice. The Nulls can still be touched by steel. The third one, the one with the rod, stays back, out of immediate range.
Two I can hit.
One I can't reach without leaving my back open.
And a voice I no longer have.
I plant my soles into the Blind Eye's floor and accept the math for what it is: bad.
The first Null takes a step.
The rod pulses in the third one's hand, cold and satisfied.
A thought arrives. Involuntary. Annoying.
Arthea.
The first Null takes another step.
And my throat stays silent.
Chapter 7
The Rescue
Arthea
Gen's voice crackles in my earpiece, broken up by static.
"Trent is down. Sector 4."
I don't answer. I'm already running.
The brick walls of the Place-des-Arts back alley sweat November dampness. The cold bites my face like broken glass. Every breath tears at my lungs. I don't slow down.
Trent, that arrogant idiot.
This is exactly why I wanted them confined.
The Shadow Market's fire door looms in front of me, massive, locked from the inside. No time for locks. My heel hits the metal with everything I can channel. Arthurian magic amplifies the impact. The hinges scream. The panel explodes inward in a crash that tears through the night.
I plunge into the back alley.
The asphalt glistens under the recent rain. The smell of overflowing trash mingles with something metallic. Blood. Fresh.
The asphalt is soaked with black water, poorly reflecting the distant glow of neon signs.
Thirty meters away, beside overflowing dumpsters, three figures in perfect gray suits. They're not carrying him, they're dragging him.
Trent.
My arrogant tracker is a limp puppet, his head lolling on one of the men's shoulders. His arms hang. His feet scrape the wet asphalt like dead weights.
Alive or dead.
I can't tell from here.
I force my lungs to breathe. To slow. To calculate.
Three targets. Triangular formation. The one on the left has Trent by his right armpit. The one on the right supports his legs. The third walks ahead, sweeping the alley with his eyes. Methodical. Professional.
They move like machines. No conversation. No hesitation.
I check exits. The alley dead-ends behind them. A four-meter brick wall. No visible fire escape. Ahead of them, the lane opens onto Sainte-Catherine. Too much light. Too many witnesses.
They're going to move him out of the zone.
They're going to drain him like the metro kid.
I step out of the shadows.
My boots crack on the asphalt. No stealth. No negotiation.
"Hey! Corporate!"
My voice slaps against the wet bricks.
All three Grays stop. Simultaneously. Like someone hit pause.
They pivot toward me. Perfect movement. Synchronized to the millimeter.
The one holding Trent lets go. The body crashes heavily into a puddle with a dry, hollow sound. No groan. No protest.
Alive. He has to be alive.
I force my legs to hold. My hand grips Excalibur. The dead blade weighs like lead in my palm.
Three rods rise toward me. Thin metal shafts, humming. The sound scrapes the inside of my skull like fingernails on glass.
The center Gray takes a step forward. His face is smooth. Empty. His eyes don't blink.
"Subject Variance Detected."
The voice comes out flat. Mechanical. Like someone reading a system error report.
I step back. My boots slip on the water-soaked asphalt.
Think. Think.
Excalibur is dead. Arthurian magic doesn't work against these things. All I have left is speed and instinct.
And an unconscious mercenary bleeding in a puddle.
The Gray takes another step. The hum of his rod intensifies. Something in the air changes. Compresses.
My skin prickles.
Get him out. Now.
I calculate the distance. Seven meters to Trent. Three opponents between us. Tight triangular formation.
Impossible to get through without contact.
And contact with those rods kills Excalibur.
So don't touch the rods.
I shift my grip on the blade. Hold it in both hands. Even dead, it's still a weapon. Tempered steel. Perfect weight.
The left Gray moves. Not toward me. Toward Trent.
"Last chance."
My voice comes out glacial. Flat. Unchallengeable verdict.
The Gray doesn't answer. It keeps advancing toward the collapsed body.
I throw.
Excalibur leaves my hand. Spins through the air like a battle axe. The blade hits the Gray square in the chest with a dull thud.
It staggers back. Three steps. Slumps against the brick wall.
No cry. No blood.
It stands back up.
What.
I call Excalibur back to me.
The blade tears through the air. Slaps into my palm. Cold as iron pulled from a frozen lake.
Not the moment to panic. Think.
The Gray I hit straightens. No blood. No visible wound. Like I hit it with a wooden stick.
The other two converge toward me. Tight formation. Rods raised.
The sound scrapes the inside of my skull. Louder now. Like claws on metal.
I step back. My boots hunt for asphalt under the black water.
Seven meters to Trent.
Three opponents.
No magic.
I calculate. Speed against mass. Attack angle. Breaking point.
There isn't one.
These things don't tire. Don't bleed. Don't stop.
And Excalibur is dead.
The center Gray takes a step. Its face stays empty. Its eyes don't blink.
"Variance Neutralization Protocol."
The voice comes out flat. Mechanical.
Protocol.
Not a fight. A procedure.
And me, with my dead sword and my useless rage.
I grip Excalibur. Even dead, it's still steel. Weight. A weapon.
If I can't kill them, I can slow them down.
I charge.
Not toward them. Toward Trent.
My legs explode into motion. Arthurian magic pulses through my muscles, amplifying each stride. The asphalt blurs past.
The left Gray pivots. Its rod whistles toward me.
I dive. Roll. Cold water splashes my face.
The rod hits the ground where I was standing. The impact rings like a gong.
I get up. Keep going.
Four meters.
The right Gray shifts to intercept me. Too fast. Too precise.
Not human.
I feint left. Pivot right. My blade slashes the air toward its knee.
Excalibur hits its leg.
The shock travels up my arms. Like hitting reinforced concrete.
The Gray doesn't flinch.
Its rod comes down toward my head.
I throw myself backward. The metal whistles three centimeters from my skull.
The air compresses. Cools. My stomach clenches.
The rod doesn't hit. It cancels.
I roll. Get up. My lungs burn.
Two meters.
Trent is slumped against the brick wall. His head hangs. Blood runs from his throat.
Move. Get up. Help me.
He doesn't move.
The three Grays reform their triangle. Encircle me. Methodical. Patient.
My fingers squeeze Excalibur until my knuckles crack.
I can't win.
But I can get him out.
I pivot. Hit the nearest Gray with everything I can channel.
Not the blade. The pommel.
The impact hits its temple. Its head tilts sideways.
It steps back. One step.
That.
They can be thrown off balance.
I hit again. Pommel against sternum. Boot against knee.
The Gray staggers.
I dive through the opening.
My hands grab Trent's collar. I pull. His body resists.
Too heavy. Too slow.
The hum explodes behind me.
I spin around.
All three rods point toward us.
Excalibur's golden light dies.
Not a gradual fade. It disappears.
Erased.
My hand goes cold. The numbness takes my arm. My fingers grip the guard on pure reflex, but the blade doesn't respond.
Dead.
Excalibur is dead.
I stare at the blade.
Impossible.
Nothing puts out the sword.
Absolutely nothing.
But the blade weighs like dead iron in my palm. Cold. Inert. A simple piece of steel with no soul.
The center Gray advances. Its rod still hums. Implacable. Methodical.
My fingers grip Excalibur's guard on pure reflex. The magic doesn't respond. The thread connecting me to my ancestors is cut.
I'm alone.
Behind me, Trent doesn't move.
Choose.
Him or you.
I don't release the sword.
Even dead, it's still steel. Weight. A weapon.
But not against this.
The Gray raises its rod toward my head.
The hum intensifies. Something in the air compresses. Closes around me like an invisible hand trying to crush.
The air leaves my lungs.
Instinct takes over where magic dies.
I don't think. I move.
My right arm is dead to the elbow, numb. Excalibur weighs like concrete in my left hand. The blade inert. Cold.
But still a weapon.
I let go of the collar. Take Excalibur in both hands. The dead blade becomes a baseball bat.
The Gray pivots toward me. Its face stays empty. No surprise. No fear.
I swing.
Not the blade. The brute mass of steel.
The pommel hits its temple with a dull crack. Its head tilts sideways.
It staggers back. One step.
No blood. No cry.
But it steps back.
It works.
I swing again. Pommel against sternum. Every bit of force I can channel into the impact.
The Gray stumbles. Its rod drops.
The opening.
I dive. My hands find Trent. I pull him by the collar, the arm, anything. His body slides on the wet asphalt.
Move. Move.
The hum comes back. Louder. Closer.
The three Grays reform their triangle. Encircle me.
I step back. Drag Trent with me. My muscles burn. My right arm still doesn't respond.
The center Gray raises its rod. The light changes. Goes white.
I let go of Trent.
Grip Excalibur.
Drive the blade into the ground in front of me with all the force I can summon.
The impact rings out. The asphalt cracks.
No magic. No golden light.
Just the raw shock of steel against concrete.
A crack runs toward the Grays. The black water from the puddle jets up. Splashes them.
They step back. Synchronized.
One second. That's all I have.
I throw myself onto Trent. Haul him up by the armpits. His weight crushes my shoulders.
My legs tremble. My right arm is lead.
I step back. One step at a time. Drag Trent toward the shadow of the dumpsters.
The Grays advance. Tight formation. Rods raised.
The hum scrapes the inside of my skull.
My vision blurs.
No. Not now.
I force my legs to hold. One step. One more.
The shadow of the dumpsters swallows us.
The hum fades. Slightly.
I lower Trent against the rusted metal. My hands search his neck.
A pulse. Weak. Erratic.
But there.
Alive.
The Grays stop three meters out. Their rods point toward us.
My legs tremble. Excalibur weighs like a corpse in my left hand.
The center Gray tilts its head slightly. Not a human gesture. A mechanical calibration.
"Subject Secured."
All three pivot. Synchronized. Perfect.
They walk away.
Toward Sainte-Catherine. Toward the light. Toward the witnesses.
They're leaving.
They're letting us go.
I don't move. My lungs pull in air in ragged bursts. My fingers grip Excalibur's guard until my knuckles crack.
The blade stays dead.
Cold.
Inert.
The Grays disappear around the corner of the alley.
The hum dies with them.
The air comes back. Heavy. Damp. Thick with the smell of garbage and blood.
I collapse against the dumpster. My legs give out. My back hits the rusted metal with a dull thud.
Trent groans.
His eyes open. Barely. Gray slits in a face too pale.
"Run."
My voice comes out broken. Hoarse.
He doesn't move.
I let go of Excalibur. The blade drops into the puddle with a flat sound. I seize Trent by the collar of his coat. The fabric bunches under my fingers. I pull.
My muscles scream. My right arm pulls anyway.
One step. One more.
The alley stretches in front of me like a tunnel without an end.
Move. Move.
I don't look back.
Chapter 8
The Team Meeting
Arthea
The Cauldron's neon sputters above the bar. Blue-white. Cold. No golden warmth. No magic.
Trent sits on the counter, legs hanging. His shirt hangs in shreds. The torn collar reveals the bruised skin of his jaw, a dark streak running down to his collarbone.
My right arm is still trembling. Electric pins run from my palm up to my shoulder. The ghost of contact with the rod.
The Dimming.
I clench my hand. The fingers obey badly.
Trent doesn't look at me. He stares at the wall behind the bar, at the bottles lined up on the shelves. His face is gray. Not pale. Gray.
I set Excalibur against the counter. The dead blade cracks against the wood with a flat sound.
No echo.
No resonance.
Trent startles. Barely. His eyes slide toward the sword, then go back to the wall.
"You're breathing."
My voice comes out too dry. Too hard.
He doesn't answer.
I pull up a stool. Sit. The bar wood absorbs the shocks. I absorb them.
My right arm still refuses to grip properly. I lay it on the counter. Palm open. The fingers twitch.
"Say something."
Trent inhales. A short, choppy breath.
"I should've stayed."
No sarcasm. No nervous laugh.
Just that.
I should've stayed.
I watch my fingers tremble. Count the spasms. One. Two. Three.
"Yeah."
The word falls between us like a stone into a well.
Trent closes his eyes. His teeth press together. The bruised skin pulls.
"They switched me off."
