The Reforged Trilogy: Book 1 — Crucible of Stars
Chapter 25
Scream
“Even the greatest mountain is made up of pebbles.”
– Hadrian proverb
Coldhand bounded up the stairs, shoving his way past Tiberius to follow Maeve deeper into the ship. Fibersteel mesh clanged under his heavy boots. Maeve had recovered her fallen spear and soared somewhat unsteadily into the air on her injured wings. She landed on the catwalk and raced toward the sound of screams. Coldhand gave chase. He wasn’t finished with her yet. Chest heaving like a smith’s bellows, Tiberius brought up the rear, laboring to keep pace with the younger Prian and light-footed fairy.
Even before Coldhand chased Maeve into the mess, he smelled the metallic tang of blood — much more than had been shed during their battle down in the Blue Phoenix’s hold. The air was tight with violence, pulled as taut as a drumhead. Up ahead, Maeve vanished through a narrow door and her white wings eclipsed his view until Coldhand sprinted after her.
Mess hall would have been too generous a term for the small room. There was barely enough space for a tiny countertop kitchen, to say nothing of the table, assorted chairs and a ratty brown couch crammed inside. And there was even less room now — the table was overturned and shoved back against a wall, with chairs scattered in every direction.
The floor was red and sticky with blood. It clung to Coldhand’s boots and painted Maeve’s bare feet red. Gripper was scrambling away, clutching the limp shape of Duaal in his arms. The young human whimpered and more blood ran from his split lip.
Xia crawled laboriously toward Vyron, who lay crumpled in a spreading pool of blood. Kessa was on her knees beside him, her mouth still open in the scream that had drawn Maeve. Something was missing from the scene, but Coldhand couldn’t immediately identify what it was.
“Vaeli’i la!” Maeve shouted hoarsely.
Coldhand knew what the insult meant: Honorless one. She had said it to him enough, but now she was leaping on a figure in the center of the mess, lunging in with her spear.
Coldhand stopped dead in the door when he saw what she was fighting — a Lyran man robed all in red, his sword flashing in one paw, raised to fend off Maeve’s blow, a gun clenched in the other. The burnt gray fur was different than the olive Mirran stripes, the curved nanosword from a different culture than the gleaming longsword. But there was no mistaking the red robes or the way the Lyran fought: mad, zealous, with no thought of anything but pain and death. Icy sweat ran down Coldhand’s skin. The hunter staggered and clutched at his chest.
“Put away your weapon and stand down!” Reginald shouted.
The cloaked Mirran smiled, a flash of teeth barely visible in the dark Prian night. Logan had never seen such a cold smile before, like a sliver of white ice. The Emberguard laughed and he shuddered at the sound.
“Who do you think you are to deny me?” the Mirran asked in a clear voice. “I am the hand of nothingness itself! I fear no man, for I have been enlightened. I am the last cinder of destruction before the blaze that will be true oblivion. I fear no pain, no death! But you, too, will find peace when I rip the life from you.”
“Take him,” Reginald said.
Logan raised his Talon and aimed. Backup was on the way. They only had to hold him off for a few minutes.
The Mirran shrugged out of his coat and raised his sword. His red robes were like a bloody wound in the very fabric of the night. The Emberguard held his shimmering nanoblade almost casually, waving it in light, lazy circles, a conductor striking up his deadly orchestra.
Reginald braced himself and fired his Talon-5 at the Mirran, the wide bolt momentarily lighting up the alleyway, but his target was already darting toward the two police officers, so fast that he was a blur of scarlet. Logan never knew if Reginald’s laser landed. If it had, the Emberguard showed no sign of slowing down.
“I am the ember that burns in the darkness before the final night,” he cried. “Do not fear the pain! It is a gift to deliver you into blessed nothingness.”
The Emberguard was on Reginald before the cop could squeeze off another shot. The lights of the squad car illuminated the Mirran’s delicate stripes and the excited flush in his cheeks. He gracefully swept his long nanosword in a swift, deadly arc, beheading Reginald in a single blow.
“No!” Logan screamed.
Reginald’s body fell limply to the cracked cement. The young cop’s vision was blurred with angry tears as he opened fire. What kind of monster laughed as he killed? Could any man be that heartless? Logan shot at the Emberguard again and again, but the robed Mirran slapped aside the Talon-9 with the flat of his blade.
“A gift,” he whispered like a secret.
A flick of his wrist brought the nanosword down on Logan’s left arm, shearing through the limb just below the elbow. Blood sprayed and was lost in the dark night. Logan dropped his gun, staring in dumb horror at where his arm used to be and a scream welled up inside his chest.
The Emberguard spun his blade again, flashing in the thin starlight. It looked just like his smile — cold, pale. And then the Mirran thrust his sword into Logan’s chest, running him through the heart. The glistening nanoblade trapped his scream in place, pinned like a brightfly to a card.
Logan fell, dying in silence.
In the bloodstained Blue Phoenix mess, the Lyran Emberguard jammed the barrel of his laser into Maeve’s stomach. Accustomed to a year of fighting against Coldhand, she spun away and his shot burned through empty air.
Tiberius ran into the room after Coldhand, shoving the bounty hunter out of his way. Orphia swooped in after her master.
“Who are you? And what the hells are you doing on my bird?” Tiberius shouted.
The Lyran didn’t say anything, but Maeve gasped an answer as she twisted out of his grasp.
“Nihilists! From the cathedral!”
Nihilists? Coldhand heard the word, but it made no sense. The Church of Nihil was a small-time cult on Stray with narrow power in a handful of cities and perhaps half a dozen patchwork cathedrals scattered over the entire planet. There was no way that this bloody-robed Lyran could be of the same sect as the assassin who had taken Logan’s arm and heart…
His life.
But… the red robes, that wild fighting. Coldhand remembered them all too well from his last night as a whole man.
“What the hells is he doing on my bird?” Tiberius asked.
Kessa’s wail made it hard to hear even the old captain’s booming voice. Maeve said something, but it was lost in the din. Tiberius was still holding his NI pistol.
“Stand down, Nihilist!” Tiberius shouted. “Put up your gun and get off my ship!”
The words eerily echoed Reginald’s. This Emberguard was less interested in talking, though, and answered Tiberius with blood instead of words. He kicked out at Maeve, who recoiled but grabbed a handful of fur and managed to stay close. She slammed a sharp elbow into the Lyran’s chest.
Tiberius waved his gun, but then appeared to think better of firing it in such tight confines. He was just as likely to hit one of his crew as the Emberguard. He dropped the weapon and brought up his fists.
Coldhand couldn’t move. Was this fear? No, it couldn’t be. Fear was a feeling, an emotion like passion or happiness. That required a heart to seize in terror or to race with joy. All he had now was a computerized pump.
Then why was Coldhand still standing in the doorway, staring at the Nihilist and shivering?
Logan opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. He was somewhere white, lying on something soft. The air was sterile and thick with the smell of chemicals. A hospital.
“He’s awake.”
Logan tried to open his eyes again. The silhouette of a man blocked out the bright light. Logan wanted to ask a question, but his lips were dry and stiff.
“Welcome back, Lieutenant Centra,” the doctor-shadow said. Logan squinted, but still saw only blackness haloed by scrubbed, too-clean light. “You had us all worried for a while there, but you pulled through. With a little help, of course.”
The shadow’s gentle laugh hurt his ears, grating on his raw nerves. Logan tried to sit, but only his right arm would obey him as he struggled to push himself upright. The left one was heavy, unresponsive, unfeeling. There was a weight in Logan’s chest, holding him in place.
“What…?” The question was just a whisper on his cracked lips. Logan couldn’t see the expression on the doctor’s backlit face.
“The nearest Ixthian cloning facility is out on Kynfarr. We put in a request for help, but the parts would have taken more than a week to arrive. We just didn’t have that kind of time, so we had to use what we had here.”
“What did you do to me?” Logan asked.
“Both your left arm and heart have been replaced with cybernetic equivalents, Lieutenant Centra,” the shadow answered. “I’m sorry to tell you that though we gave you the best computerized replacements available, they are able to reproduce only twenty percent of your natural nerve sensitivity.”
“Twenty percent… feeling?” Logan asked. “That’s all I have left?”
The darkness nodded. Logan closed his eyes and waited for tears, but none came.
What the hells was wrong with Coldhand…? The traitor was just standing there, unmoving in the door of the mess.
But there wasn’t time to wonder. Tiberius leapt on the Nihilist, grabbing fistfuls of red robes and trying to pull him off of Maeve. The Lyran stumbled and grunted under the added weight, but he was a powerful fighter. He twisted out of Tiberius’ grasp, giving up his hold on Maeve. Tiberius swore, dropped clumps of sooty fur and lunged in again.
There wasn’t room for Orphia to fly in here. The old hawk was perched on the leg of a toppled chair, watching intently and flipping her wings in agitation.
There was something satisfying about it all, about fighting the good fight after years of retirement. Tiberius’ broken ribs creaked in protest, but he didn’t care. Age may have dulled his eyes and slowed his body, but the blood thundering in his ears was just as glorious a song as ever. There were innocents to protect and to avenge. Vyron was dying and Kessa was crying. Tiberius’ clenched fist connected solidly with the Nihilist’s side. Gripper and Xia were bleeding. Tiberius lashed out again, harder. Duaal was hurt. He hammered a punch into the joint of the Nihilist’s arm and the gun tumbled out of his dark paw.
The Lyran whirled on Tiberius, his lips peeled back from long, yellowing teeth in a feral snarl. He patted the human’s hands aside with the hardened pads of his paws and then came in for his own claw swipes. The gun was too far away to recover, but the Nihilist scrambled for his nanosword, seizing the hilt before Tiberius could stop him.
Tiberius circled behind the Lyran and wrapped one of his thick arms around the shorter man’s shoulders, trying to pin him. The Nihilist writhed like a demon, but Tiberius was ready this time and used his superior size to maintain the hold.
Snarling and spitting, the singed Nihilist twisted in his grasp. But the Lyran didn’t seem to be trying to escape anymore. Tiberius tightened his grip to prepare himself for… whatever he was about to do.
Tiberius’ determination very nearly killed him. The Nihilists feared nothing, death least of all. Unable to strike Tiberius behind him with claw or weapon, the zealot in red reversed his hold on the curved nanosword. Without hesitation, he drove the long blade through his own belly until the point sheared through his back and into Tiberius, just above the hip.
The old Prian stumbled and released the Nihilist with a pained shout. He thumped against the kitchen counter and sank to the floor, grunting. A cold pain seeped through his body and Tiberius clutched his stomach. Blood ran from between his fingers.
Coldhand still hadn’t moved. Orphia hopped along the deck, over scarlet puddles and splintered chairs to land on Tiberius’ foot and chirp sharply at him. Her talons bit into his boots.
A stain of deeper red bloomed across the Nihilist’s robes. He was bleeding badly, but he wasn’t on the ground. He would die, but not before killing his enemies.
Maeve let out a furious shriek and rushed in once again. She swept her long wings — one still stained by blood from fighting with Coldhand — around the Lyran, blinding him in a storm of feathers. Her spear was on the floor at Tiberius’ feet, useless and forgotten in the close quarters. Maeve raked at the Nihilist’s with her fingers, but he snapped his sharp teeth and drove the princess back.
Damn it, Maeve was going to lose more than a few fingers if this didn’t end now. Tiberius forced himself up and staggered toward the combatants, but his vision was getting gray at the edges and he toppled to the floor again. Orphia nipped at the back of his hand, keening in worry.
The Lyran threw Maeve off him. She beat her wings as she fell, trying to fly, but there wasn’t enough room and she crashed into the wall with a loud thump.
Robes billowing around him like a crimson cloud, the Nihilist leapt at Maeve, holding his curved nanosword high. His left eye was a mess of viscera and blood, dripping down his muzzle and soaking into his burnt fur. Maeve struggled to rise, but her wounded leg — another gift from her bounty hunter — buckled and wouldn’t hold her weight.
Tiberius slumped in a rapidly growing puddle of blood, trying to make his heavy, cold limbs obey him. Trying and failing.
Maeve lashed out with her wings and fists, but couldn’t keep the powerful Lyran at bay. His one good eye smoldered as he brought the nanosword down on her unprotected head, but Maeve didn’t scream. Her silver eyes were wide and bright as death came for her.
“Smoke!” Gripper shouted from where he stood cradling Duaal, but there was nothing he could do.
Metal rang on metal and the Lyran tried to pull his nanosword back, but Coldhand held the blade fast in illonium fingers.
“Cavainna is mine,” he said.
Coldhand tightened his cybernetic fingers around the sword as he kicked the Lyran in the center of his bleeding chest. The Nihilist staggered, releasing his weapon and Coldhand dropped it to the floor with a clang. A deep groove cut into the hunter’s palm, but the illonium shielding was intact.
Coldhand’s Talon was reholstered at his hip. Not much point in saving Maeve only to accidentally shoot her in the close brawling, Tiberius supposed. Dirty dishwater was dripping down onto his’ shoulder. It was cold and smelled like eggs.
Maeve clambered back onto her feet, limping heavily. She and Coldhand circled the Nihilist together. He retaliated with a swipe of short, bloody claws across Maeve’s injured forearm. The Lyran spun, aiming the same blow at Coldhand, who already had several deep gashes along his right arm from Orphia’s talons. The Lyran’s claws sliced deeply into the torn flesh and a muscle in Coldhand’s jaw twitched, but he took advantage of the proximity to grab one furry wrist. He twisted and yanked the Nihilist’s arm up until the shoulder popped loudly.
Maeve rammed her small foot into the Lyran’s chest, pushing him against Coldhand, but there was no way the pair could keep him restrained. Coldhand alone wasn’t strong enough to hold back the frenzied Lyran. Maeve was a skilled and savvy fighter, but she was too small. She just didn’t have the mass to control the man.
Tiberius groaned. Where was Xia when he needed her? She could have the damnable hole in his hide stitched up in a minute. But the Ixthian was busy elsewhere — she had rolled Vyron over onto his back and now straddled his chest, eyes wide and red. Kessa clutched at her mate’s hand and sobbed as Xia tried to explain something.
Tiberius waved Orphia off and pulled a damp dish towel down off of the counter, stuffing it into the hole in his stomach. It hurt like hells, but it seemed to slow the bleeding.
Good enough. Tiberius forced himself to his feet and jumped into the fray. The Lyran recoiled, but Maeve and Coldhand were too close, blocking off his retreat. Tiberius grabbed the Nihilist’s free arm and yanked it up behind his back the same way that Coldhand had. Tiberius leaned heavily on the interloper, using his bulk to maintain the hold, but more to keep himself upright.
Coldhand shot Tiberius a look that might have been surprised or grateful, but the old captain was concentrating too hard on just standing to worry about it much. Together, they swept the Nihilist’s paws out from under him and pulled him to his knees. The Lyran finally pitched forward onto the floor, both men on top of him.
“What are you doing on my ship?” Tiberius panted.
“I’m executing Lord Gavriel’s will.”
“Who’s Gavriel?” Coldhand asked.
“And why the hells did he send you to my God-damned bird?” Tiberius asked at the same time.
The Lyran grinned wolfishly but said nothing.
“Tell me!” Tiberius demanded.
“I am an Emberguard,” the Nihilist said. “I answer to no one but Lord Gavriel. Not to you, not to your impotent god. I have done as my master commanded and now claim my reward!”
The Emberguard lifted his head up as high as he could in his awkward position and then smashed it down onto the floor. There was a sharp crunch. Tiberius and Coldhand moved quickly to stop him, but the Nihilist raised his head again and slammed it down a second time. The sound was softer, a sickening squelch, but then he lay still.
