Stefan was waiting for me in the lobby downstairs where I'd left him, albeit none-too happily. I smiled at him as I exited the elevator, and he fell in with me as I headed out the side way, out into the shopping mall that lay adjacent to the office tower. "Looks pretty good," I said at last. "Need to come in for another interview next week, though."
Stefan didn't respond at first, looking distinctly unhappy about something. "My Lord, is this really necessary?"
I glanced at him. "Is what necessary?"
"Having to-- to labor as a subordinate to a group of humans? We have more than sufficient funds to--"
"--To have me living in the lap of luxury for the rest of my life. Yes, I know. Unfortunately, that isn't how I operate. I won't be beholden to anyone, Stefan. Not even Dithra."
The ex-spook's lips pressed together into a thin straight line, his eyes automatically sweeping our immediate surroundings. "We are not asking you to accept charity, my Lord; none of our people would ever offer another of us such insult," he replied, obviously choosing his words carefully. "Instead, if we were to offer you, um, compensation for the difficulties we've. . . . My Lord, what is it?"
We were nearing the mall's central mezzanine, heading for the stairs that would take us down to the parking garage when I was hit by a wave of vertigo and wrenching nausea. I staggered, my hand, already dripping with an icy sweat slapping against a nearby wall for support. "Don't know," I gasped, bent almost double. "Dizzy. . . ."
The collar of my dress shirt suddenly felt as if it were constricting around my throat, strangling me. Desperately I tugged at it, trying to loosen it, only to stare in surprise as it shredded beneath my fingers. Fingers? No, talons, their black, razor-sharp points sliding smoothly forth from hands whose skin was rapidly hardening, segmenting, metallic scales racing their way up my arms. Clothing ripped and split, bursting from my warping form as my center of gravity changed and I toppled, my arms, now forelegs, hitting the floor with a thump.
I shook my massive head, my mane jangling as around me the typical sounds of a shopping mall seemed to abruptly cutoff, almost as if someone had thrown a switch. All around, shocked, pale faces stared at me. Tail lashing in agitation I opened my jaws to speak, but all that came out was a coughing snarl. Suddenly a woman screamed, the sound striking my now-far keener senses like a blow, and the place erupted into pandemonium as people exploded away from me in an almost-liquid wave of fleeing bodies.
No. Oh dear Lord, Ancestors, no. I took a step after them, horrible sounds issuing from between my fangs as I stove to speak, then was brought short as I felt my left wing-barb snag a section of overhead lighting, tearing it loose and sending it crashing to the ground around me. I was growing, rapidly expanding to my normal size, which was far too large for this place.
I struggled to extricate myself, fighting down panic as the walls squeezed down upon me. A forearm bumped a balcony railing. The marble structure broke loose, sending large chunks of stone to rain down upon several people on the lower level, crushing them. I tried to turn, and felt my massive tail smash a storefront in, bringing several more portions of the ceiling down in a hail of twisted metal and sparking wiring, killing more.
I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I fought my way out into the open-air well in the center of the mall, leaving a trail of devastation in my wake. There was a shout, and I whipped my head about to see two police officers on a balcony above me, their eyes wide with fear and disbelief as they drew down on me with both shotgun and sidearm. I flinched as bullets and buckshot caromed off my armored skull. I opened my jaws to reason with them, plead with them, but was horrified to feel the warmth at the back of my throat surging upwards unbidden, a gout of azure flame spearing forth to transform the two men into twisting, burning scarecrows, within seconds falling to smoking ash--
"Sir?"
I jerked violently, my breath drawing in with a tearing gasp as if just emerging from far-too long underwater. A rolling eye caught the concerned face of one of the mall's security men.
"Sir, are you all right?"
A voice replied; it took me a moment to recognize it as Stefan's. "Just a momentary problem, sir," he said smoothly. "My friend spent many years in the tropics, and unfortunately collected a few souvenirs in the process. Occasionally, they announce their presence."
As he spoke, I slowly became aware of the mall bench beneath me, of the sweat dripping off my face to further soak already sodden clothing, of two strong hands steadying me. I watched the security man recoil slightly as the implications of Stefan's words sank in. "Is he con-- Um, should I call for an ambulance, sir?"
"No, he should recover in a moment. We thank you for the offer."
A small frown creased the security man's face at the dismissive tone in Stefan's voice, but finally nodded and left. Stefan watched him out of earshot, then bent to me. "My Lord? Can you walk?"
Hell, I can run! I almost laughed at the sudden recollection, then nodded dazedly. "Get me out of here, Stefan."
"Yes, my Lord."
Stefan glanced at me, the fifth time he'd tossed me that anxious look in the past ten minutes as he piloted the massive BMW back to Dithra's estate, at a speed not-quite great enough to attract the attention of the local police.
Finally, I answered his unspoken question. "I don't know," I replied, rubbing my pounding head and slumping lower into the leather seat. "All of a sudden, everything went nuts. Hallucinations. Bad ones." I started to sit up, but the cold winter sunlight streaming in through the windshield made me wince painfully. I scrubbed at stinging eyes. "Damn," I pronounced with feeling.
"We should be back at the house in just a few minutes, my Lord," Stefan said in an obvious effort to be reassuring, but giving me yet another worried look in the process. I simply nodded, and nothing more was spoken for the duration.
I was still pretty wobbly when we got there, so Stefan helped me inside, eventually depositing me on one of the sofas in the room where Dithra and I had last met. I settled into it with a groan. The ex-spook seemed to almost flinch at the sound. "How are you feeling, my Lord?"
"Like I've been run over by a main battle tank," I replied wryly. "Don't worry; give me a cup of coffee and I'll be fine."
"I fear I must disagree with you, my Lord; I believe that you are under attack."
The statement was delivered so quietly and with such stone-calm that it took several seconds to register. I blinked. "Say again?"
Stefan's expression was pensive as he seated himself in the chair facing me. "My Lord, although my personal abilities for wielding it are very poor, I can assure you that I know Power when I feel it, and Power was precisely what I felt surround you in the mall just before you collapsed."
I stared at him, Mary's dust-dry voice whispering in the back of my mind. Mortals are as clear air to the magic. It passes around and through us as if we did not exist. "Stefan, that's impossible. There's no way that Power could latch onto me when I'm in this form."
"Then someone has found a solution to that restriction, my Lord," the former agent replied implacably, his face set. Dark eyes lowered to study the floor for several long moments. "Dithra must be made aware of this," he said at last. He rose to his feet. "My Lord, if you will excuse me for a moment?" I nodded, and Stefan turned and strode swiftly from the room.
I sat there alone for a while, thinking, slowly recovering from that afternoon's ordeal. Finally, I felt it safe to move about on my own, though that damnable weakness in my left side was worse than ever. I wandered to the kitchen to fix myself a quick cup of Joe, then returned to spend a few minutes hobbling aimlessly about the room, eventually finding myself standing in front of the case containing that ancient, supposedly accursed katana and its companion blade, studying them as my thoughts went round and round to little effect.
A tiny movement just inside the shadow of the weapon's simple wooden scabbard caught my eye. Mildly startled, I tilted my head for a better view. It was a spider, a wolf spider from the size and shape of it. The black, velvety fur covering its spare, elegant form was marked across the top of the thorax and abdomen by a jagged, narrow stripe of metallic silver. The creature moved once again, and tiny eyes like polished onyx gleamed in the cabinet's light as they seemed to stare up at me. I found myself smiling at the sight of the deadly little predator. "You're beautiful," I whispered. The spider didn't respond.
"My Lord?"
I jumped slightly, then turned to see Stefan approaching, his expression not looking particularly pleased. "My Lord, I was unable to contact my Lady Dithra directly, but I did leave a message where I know she will find it." His gaze dropped for a moment, then back up to me. "Hopefully, she will find it soon."
I felt my lips quirk up into a wry smile. "That bad, is it?"
Stefan gave his head a small doubting shake. "I do not know, my Lord; my knowledge of these things is very weak. It could be that whoever attacked you is limited to little more than harassment, perhaps they can do much more." He returned my smile. "In any case, it would be wise to err on the side of paranoia, don't you agree, my Lord?" As he spoke the gleam of the katana's metalwork caught his eye. "Ah; one of my Lady's most prized possessions." He smiled more openly as he approached the display, obviously trying to change the subject. "The humans of the lands of your Ancestors craft many beautiful things, do they not? Even instruments of death become works of art."
"Yes," I replied, deciding to go along with it. I glanced down at the sword, but the spider had silently vanished. I frowned. "Stefan, I get the idea from talking with you, Dithra, others, that our people don't like to work with material objects. Surely we must create something. Tools? Art? Music? Anything at all?"
Stefan studied the case and its contents for a few moments before replying. "A difficult question, the simple and terribly inadequate reply being no, my Lord, we do not. I have no proper answer for you as to why, but I do have a personal theory, should you care to hear it." I gestured assent. He frowned slightly, gathering his thoughts. "Among the humans, I have from time-to-time encountered those who, for one reason or another, cannot see color. Then there are others who look at Man's written language, and no matter how hard they try, see nothing but random marks. What I believe, and many a dragon will hotly deny, is that when it comes to tools, our people suffer a similar selective blindness. We know that tools exist. We can pick them up, examine them," he gestured at the case and its contents "possess them. But we do not understand them. Like some blind being that has never seen the color blue, we know the concept is there, but, infuriatingly, it is forever just out of reach." He smiled, a trifle sadly, his eyes sweeping across Dithra's gleaming display cases. "Many elder dragons are avid collectors of humans' work, did you know, my Lord? Some collect art, some collect objects of wealth, some collect other things." He smile broadened. "I know one elder female who collects musical instruments. But it is not greed, as the old human legends claim. Rather, it is because of our endless fascination with these tools, these riddles, forever begging to be solved."
"But I saw you use an automatic in Baltimore, Stefan," I objected. "And a firearm is most certainly a tool."
"Indeed it is, my Lord," Stefan replied, gesturing respect. "But I am quite sure the concept of tools would have been beyond me as well, had I not been forced to live as a human child would for the first fifteen years of my life." He looked at me. "I can use Man's tools, but creating them is still beyond me, I regret. That particular talent belongs only to you."
I gazed at Stefan thoughtfully for a long moment. So. I started to say something, but quickly decided to change the subject. "And the other things? Music? Art?" I said at last.
Stefan gestured negation. "Art, in the physical sense, is simply another manifestation of humans' abilities with tools. As to music, a dragon's voice does not accommodate such a thing easily." He then gave me a sidelong smile. "We do, however, have some quite excellent poetry. Perhaps some time, when there is a season available to us, I will be privileged to recite to you one of the more popular ones."
I blinked. A season? I gave my head a small, sharp shake. "That, um, sounds like something to look forward to, Stefan, thank you."
"You are quite welcome, my Lord," he replied, a faint sound of almost-laughter in his voice, doubtless due to my expression. "But come back to the sofa, my Lord; you should conserve your strength."
I felt a twinge of annoyance, and my lips tightened. "Stefan, I'm not in that bad a shape. I can still--" I took a step towards him, and as soon as I unlocked my knee my left leg promptly collapsed. Had Stefan not reacted instantly to prop me up I would have fallen heavily to the floor. "Then again, maybe not," I mused dazedly as a wave of dull nausea rolled over me.
Stefan half-helped, half-carried me back to my former seat, where he propped me up with some cushions. His face was closed as he did this, but the way his eyes refused to meet mine spoke volumes. I must have looked like hell. "My Lord, if I could get you anything--"
"Coffee, Stefan. That would be just fine." The ex-agent stared at me worriedly for a moment, then nodded and hurried off to the kitchen, eventually returning with a steaming mug that I sipped at gratefully. "Thanks."
"You are welcome, my Lord," the agent responded soberly. He stood there for a moment more, as if unsure as to what to do next, then finally seated himself in the chair across from me. "I am quite sure Dithra will have received my message by now, and is on her way back," he said at last.
And just what the hell would she be able to do? I quickly quashed that bitter thought and changed the subject. "You know, I never did get the opportunity to hear more from you about our people. Why don't you tell me some more? Tell me how the politics work."
Stefan blinked at me for a moment, then, almost grudgingly, a small wry smile began to battle its way across his face. "My Lord, the term 'Byzantine' does not even begin to describe our politics. Do you truly wish to learn about them? You may find them to be more than a little confusing. By the Ancestors, they certainly confuse me."
He wasn't kidding, either.
"Battleaxe One, I got something, bearing, ah, two-three-zero, low and slow."
I blinked behind the tinted visor of my flight helmet, then turned my head in that direction, keying the stick-mounted transmit switch as I did so. "Where-- um, okay, got it. We have any traffic in this sector?"
I glanced over to my wingman in time to see him shake his head from within his armored canopy. "No sir, nothing out here that belongs to us. Take a look-see?"
"Affirmative on that, Battleaxe Two." I tilted the joystick and the Warthog responded instantly, the nose dropping and swinging to the left, the thrumming of the two big turbofans behind me increasing in pitch and intensity as I advanced the throttles, quickly coming up to attack speed. Once again our target glinted in the sunlight. Metal? Did some damned fool blunder into our sector, or-- I shook my head slightly in self-annoyance. At this closure rate, we'll find out soon.
The glinting object must have detected us for it seemed to hesitate, then change to a heading leading directly away from myself and my wingman, but still far too slow to escape us. Hm, no, not a single object, but a group. Lizards. Metallic scales? New one on me. Two large, several small; looks like a family, trying to sneak out of the combat zone. Not too far from making it, either, save for sheer rotten luck. I keyed my mike. "Identified, Two. Hostiles. Selecting cannon." Battleaxe Two acknowledged as I flipped the master switch to ARM and the huge 30mm Gatling gun in the nose of my plane came alive, the kill-dot illuminating on my heads-up display as I dropped the nose, playing with the rudders a bit until my targets were firmly centered. "I'll take first pass, Two; you can mop up."
"Battleaxe Two, roger," my wingman responded as he dropped back. We were closing rapidly to killing range. Through the HUD I could see one of the larger of the group, the male, possibly, moving to interpose himself between us and his family. I felt a twinge of regret as my finger found the joystick trigger and began taking up the slack. Sorry, pal, but you should've thought of them before you started this stupid war.
The male was turning towards us now, jaws agape in a defiant roar that I couldn't hear. I tweaked the rudder pedals again to make sure the first burst of AP would catch him in the head, a quick and painless death, I hoped. As my finger tightened the last fraction of an inch and the cannon began its own deadly snarl, my eye finally met my prey's. Abruptly the A-10, my wingman, everything was gone and I was falling, falling into that golden gaze. . . .
I found myself in my true form, flying through a starry blackness, alone now after one brief, agonizing glimpse of my mate and children. Something was drawing me on, across some vast, shadowed, twisted terrain, leading me as surely as if there were a leash around my neck, its owner pulling steadily.
I don't know how long I flew through those unknown skies, but finally I saw something ahead, a flat, circular area in the midst of that tormented land, from the center of which emanated an eye-hurtingly bright blue-white glow. Something within me yearned towards that light, and whatever was leading me on seemed to oblige by tugging me down towards that clearing.
I landed, moved forward. The light had resolved itself into a luminescent spark held within a cage consisting of lines of sullen crimson light, tiny flames of grimy orange and blood red seeming to lick fitfully along them. As I drew closer, the yearning within me for that glow swelled into a strange, terrible hunger. Beyond the cage, I could just make out another form, large, draconic in shape. The form's pale blue eyes shone coldly in the light, and it was to those eyes that I began to bow in submission--
TACK!
My eyes opened to stare at a blank white ceiling. There was a moment's disorientation, then I realized where I was; on the bed in Dithra's guest quarters. How'd I get here? Did I drop off while talking with Stefan? Did he carry me all the way up here? What--
TACK!
My gaze snapped to the window from which the sound had come. The rest must have helped, for I left the bed and moved across the darkened room with relative ease, carefully peering out the window into the gloom of the overcast night.
Nothing-- no, down there in the yard, someone was looking up at my window. I felt my breath drawing in sharply as I recognized Pasqual's face a moment before she abruptly spun to look behind her, then darted away into the night. I stared after her. What the hell? Then I lifted my eyes in the direction she'd been looking, and down by the road saw someone illuminated by the light of a passing car as they rolled over the top of the perimeter wall.
We were under attack.
I cursed silently to myself as I eased myself back away from the window. Damn. I knew I shouldn't have stayed here! I gave my head a savage shake to clear it, then closed my eyes and did my damnedest to shift to my proper form, but after long minutes of agonizing, utterly wasted effort I was forced to realize there was nothing there. The dragon was gone.
I clutched at my throbbing skull, a horrible feeling of loss crashing through me. But I had no time for this and I brutally shoved those paralyzing feelings aside. Stefan. I had to find Stefan. I felt a dull gratitude that the agent hadn't seen fit to remove my clothes as I padded in stocking feet to the door, easing it open to listen intently. A few moments of silence, but then a quiet clunking noise from somewhere else in the building, followed by sounds of hurried movement confirmed my worst fears. They were already in the house.
What to do? If Stefan detected the intrusion, he would come to get me, so I should stay put. If not, however, staying here would leave me a sitting duck. The dilemma was resolved when the sharp bark of a Makarov 9mm suddenly split the night, quickly followed by several rapid clacking noises. The Makarov spoke several more times, paused, then fired once more and went silent. I listened intently, but those sounds of movement continued. Stefan was down. I had to get out of there. I thought of the window, but it was too dangerous a drop. Carefully I eased the door further open, then moved into the hallway, staying low and close to one wall.
I moved forward through the inky blackness, all my training quickly coming back to me. My foot carefully swept forward, feeling for obstructions, then came gently down, outer edge first then the rest of the foot rolling flat to the floor, silently, followed by the next. Several steps, then listen, breathing through the mouth, eyes scanning continuously to preserve visual purple, using peripheral vision to detect movement.
Nothing. Several steps more. Nothing but my pounding heart. Several more, listen. Someone was coming. Avoid? Not possible; they had the only way out of the hallway blocked. I began to back up, following the wall back to my room, where I pushed the door nearly closed.
Damn. My eyes swept the room, searching for weapons and finding precious little. I went quickly to the window and opened it, wincing at the noise the under-maintained window frame made as it moved. Outside in the hallway they must have heard it as well, for footsteps quickly approached the room. Seconds later a black-clad man carrying some sort of weapon came bursting in. He quickly scanned the room, then spied the open window and hurried to it, looking out and down, his weapon's stubby muzzle questing for a target. He didn't see me emerge from the room's walk-in closet, nor the coat-hanger in my hands.
I whipped the expanded loop down over the intruder's head then yanked hard, burying the stiff steel wire deep in his throat. Instantly the man's hands snapped up to claw at it, his weapon dangling forgotten from its strap as he frantically threw himself backwards, but I already had a knee firmly planted in his back and was rowing back with all my strength, my hands giving the hanger a vicious twist to lock it tightly behind the man's neck.
A few more seconds of deadly struggle, then he collapsed, the heels of his combat boots beating a ghastly tattoo upon the floor as he died. Even before he stopped moving I was going through his equipment. Stuff looked like old Soviet-issue; Spetznaz, perhaps. Mercs? A lot of KGB goon-squads decided to go independent when their paymaster went under. . . . No night-vision gear, thank God, else I'd already be cold meat. Strange weapon, though. A second cylinder lay atop the short barrel, and what looked like a compressed-air cylinder bulged from the side of the skeletal stock. A curiously flat magazine stuck out of the receiver at an odd angle. I pulled it out, and blinked at what looked like tiny hypodermic syringes with a bit of fuzz at the back end. A dart gun of some sort? I smiled grimly. Then they wanted me alive, which gave me an edge.
I patted down the now-inert corpse for more clips, found one, then moved back to the door, listening intently. Movement, but nothing close by. I eased out and once again began to slink down the hallway, trying to get to the stairs. Almost made it, too. I hurried my steps as I neared the landing, and as a result almost collided with another goon as he exited a side room.
The man hissed something in a language I did not understand as his weapon came up but I was inside his guard, my free hand yanking the muzzle down and away from me, my knee slamming into his gut and encountering body armor. He grunted, twisted, and something hard smashed into the side of my jaw. For an instant everything went away in a blaze of white light. When things came back I found myself on my back with my adversary lunging for me. Somehow I'd kept my grip on my weapon, though, and yanked it up to bear on the charging silhouette. I pulled the trigger, there was a quiet clattering noise, and the man convulsed as several needle-tipped projectiles punched into his groin.
The air went out of him in a rush as he bent over, his bulging eyes so round and white they made an excellent target in the dim light as I rolled to my feet, flipping my weapon around to smash the stock up into his jaw just as hard as I could. He almost somersaulted over backward from the impact and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, dead or unconscious, I didn't care as long as he was out of my face.
The trip down the staircase was hellish. There was no way that whoever else was in the house hadn't heard all the noise we'd made upstairs, and any moment I expected to hear a quiet clatter from down below and feel those little darts slamming into me. If there was anybody down there they were playing it canny, though, and I made it all the way down, to almost trip on several bodies lying about the floor.
Oh, Ancestors. . . .With a feeling of dread I carefully rolled over the sole form not wearing combat fatigues, and in the faint light of a distant window stared down at Stefan's still face. A full dozen darts decorated his torso. I felt for signs of life, and found precious little. Ancestors, what was in these damnable projectiles, that could drop a dragon? Cursing silently, I frantically plucked all the darts I could find out of him, then with a silent prayer for the ex-agent, began searching for his weapon. I couldn't find it, though; one of the invaders must have confiscated it. Damn. It looked like I'd have to rely upon the dart gun.
There probably were several ways out of Dithra's place, but the only one I knew of was back through her huge living room. I gave Stefan's inert form a last guilty glance then crept towards that exit, stopping and taking cover to listen every handful of steps.
Whatever strength my rest had gained me was beginning to fade by the time I reached the chamber, now lit only by the glowing coals of the dying fire. I panted quietly as I moved through the dim, satanic light, threading my way through the ancient dragon's display cases as I headed for the door on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps not quietly enough, though. Abruptly another black-garbed man stepped from behind a case and directly into my path, his weapon clattering as it sent a cloud of darts right at me.
I flung myself to the floor and rolled behind a case, but not before several of the blasted darts had snagged my clothing, one piercing my skin slightly. I ripped it out instantly, but not before my head swam sickeningly. I rolled again, making sure my attacker heard it, then rolled once more, quietly, back the way I'd come. Then I lay there in wait. Hopefully he wouldn't know yet that I had a weapon, and that might make him careless. He wasn't, though, and long moments dragged by before I heard something moving up ahead. Silence. More sound, then a glimmer as I spied a reflection in the glass face of a display case. I quickly calculated the angle and let off a burst, to be rewarded by a grunt and a groan as I heard the intruder slump to the floor.
I tapped a finger against the side of the air-gun's clip, then removed it and replaced it with my spare. I then waited for the time to count slowly to thirty, then levered myself back up to my feet. I steadied myself against a case for a moment, then limped forward, my weapon probing the air before me. I hoped that was the last of them, but I was still going to get the hell out of here, just in case. . . .
Suddenly a black-gloved hand shot out of the gloom, grabbing the muzzle of my weapon and yanking it to one side as the man I thought I'd nailed suddenly loomed before me, his own weapon coming up for the kill. He was too close, though, and I managed to block him as well. We grappled, and I felt rather than saw the knee spearing for my groin and frantically twisted aside. Naturally it was at that moment my traitorous left leg decided to once again buckle beneath me and I toppled, but not before getting a grip on my attacker and pulling him down as well.
We fell across a display case and it collapsed beneath our weight, glittering shards and priceless objects raining down about us as we fell. I felt several blades of broken glass stab deep into my back like icy daggers as we hit the floor and I shuddered, my grip weakening enough for my adversary to rip his arm free and slam a fist across my already well-abused jaw. Once again bright sparks erupted behind my eyelids, and my right hand scrabbled for my weapon as my opponent pulled his arm back to hit me again.
What I found wasn't what I was looking for, but more than sufficient. My fingers closed about the corded grip, then whipped it up and across, the black-lacquered wooden sheath catching the man across the side of his head with a resounding CRACK. He fell to the side, clutching at his face as I scrambled to my feet, a strange icy strength seeming to flow into me as I grabbed the dark weapon's sheath with my free hand and ripped it free, exposing the long, curving ribbon of glittering steel.
My opponent was rolling to his feet as well, once again bringing his weapon to bear. I stepped into him, the katana swinging up from below and across, slashing. There was a sound like an axe biting into soft pine, and my opponent goggled as his weapon went tumbling away, part of his arm going with it. I didn't stop, though, as I followed my swing through into a deadly pirouette, bringing the red-slinging blade around full-circle with all my strength and momentum.
An arm was raised to fend off the blow, but the ancient steel passed through it without slowing, chopping down upon the juncture of neck and left shoulder, slicing through muscle, bone, and modern body armor with contemptuous ease, to finally come to rest against the sternum.
I kicked the dying man off my blade and quickly scanned the gloom for additional targets. The room empty for the moment, I allowed myself the dangerous luxury of doubling over and gasping for breath as the strength seemed to run out of me in a rush, black blobs that had nothing to do with the dimness of the room floating before my eyes. No, no, don't pass out, don't pass out. Got a long way to go yet. Don't pass out. . . .
I blinked. At first I thought it was a hallucination, what I saw as I stared down at the ancient weapon I gripped. But then I felt a wave of revulsion and dread as I realized what I was seeing was real; the blood coating the blade was vanishing, rapidly being absorbed into the glittering steel like. . .I shuddered. . .like a cat eagerly lapping up spilled milk.
The sound of a boot quietly scuffing hardwood floor snapped me out of my reverie, and I yanked my head up to see yet another of the black-clad commandos standing in the doorway from whence I had come, dart weapon in hand, staring at me. No, not me; staring at the sodden mess at my feet.
This frozen tableau lasted for several long seconds, then at last the man's eyes rose to meet mine, his own glittering with rage. With an incomprehensible curse he released his dart gun and reached into a side-pocket of his black fatigues, his hand emerging holding an all-too familiar shape.
Too damned far. I felt a hysterical giggle struggle to break free of my breast at the bitter irony of it as I began my hopeless charge, that cold strength once again flooding into me as my bloodstained weapon whipped up and back for one final slash even as the Makarov swung upwards to center on my charging form.
The 9mm bore held on me for a moment, and I could feel rather than see a black-gloved finger tightening on the trigger. Then the weapon jerked upwards as the man holding it suddenly found himself seized from behind, the fingers of his free hand scrabbling frantically at the superhuman grip around his neck as a white-faced Stefan began to slowly lift him free of the floor.
A rolling eye swung back to me, widened even further in alarm, and the automatic began to come back around, but too late. The closing of Stefan's fingers coincided with the arrival of hand-forged steel, and the sound of crushing vertebrae melded with that of sword cleaving ribs and viscera.
That eternal moment passed, and Stefan flung the corpse to the floor, a look of rage and disgust marring his normally impassive features. He then sagged back against the wall while I set the point of the dark sword on the floor and leaned on it heavily, striving to push back the blackness beginning to rim my vision. "You. . .okay?" I panted.
"I am. . .unwell, my Lord," Stefan replied gravely, a hand rising to rub at his forehead "but recovering." He glanced at the messy heap at his feet. "I think that is the last of them, but I will sweep the grounds to make sure." Still gazing at the floor, the ex-agent paused, then grimaced. "My Lord, I am so very sorry," he looked back to me "I have failed in. . .I. . . .MY LORD!"
And that, dear reader, was the last thing I heard before Lady Dithra's cold, hard, blood-spattered floor flipped up and hit me in the face.