Ariel (37 page)

I kept glancing backward into the stairwell, waiting for reinforcements to arrive any second now—
their
reinforcements. "Malachi," I began, "where's Mac? Shouldn't he  .  .  .?" I stopped. Through the shattered remains of the glass door I saw Mac.

Malachi looked at me without expression.

Hank joined us. "Any sign of Drew?"

"He didn't make it," said Walt. "He panicked and stalled. I saw it just before I came in. Last I saw of him, he was cartwheeling down the side of the building."

Tom, Malachi, and Hank merely nodded.
Now we are five
, I thought.

"One floor down," said Malachi. I stared beyond him at the red-soaked figure neatly framed by the glass door, as if he were posing for a picture and would wipe off the fake red and get up, laughing, once it was taken.

"We'd better hurry," said Hank.

They turned and began descending slowly and quietly down the steps. I trailed after them, after taking one more look through the block of light that narrowed as I closed the door.

The shaft was dim, but there was still enough light to see by. I'd taken no more than a half dozen steps when the other four came running back up.

"What's going on?" I asked. "What happened?"

"Ran into two people coming up," said Tom. "They saw us and ran back down to eighty-five. Hank got a shot off, but we don't think he hit either one of them. Doesn't matter—they know we're coming."

"That door'll be guarded like a harem," added Hank.

"There're two stairwells in the building," I said. "Starting on the eighty-fifth floor. One in each corner. We could go down a few floors, take our chances getting to the opposite stairwell, and come back out on eighty-five."

"No," said Malachi. "By then they'll have both doors guarded too well." Suddenly a six-inch-wide stripe illuminated his face. I whirled around—I was the closest to the door that had just opened. A silhouette was framed by the doorway. He took a half-step in and jumped back when he saw us. "Shit," he said.

I jumped out after him, Fred readied. He held a long black spear and fumbled to gain distance and bring the point up level with my chest. He waited until I was four feet from him, and the point darted forward. I almost impaled myself, just managing to twist out of the way in time. I was off balance and realized there was no way I'd regain my footing before he ran me through, so I went with the motion and rolled on the floor, holding Fred at arm's length above my head so I wouldn't complete his job for him. He jabbed again, but I was already out of range. He jumped forward and tried once more. I was in the midst of getting back on my feet and used my momentum for a rising block that deflected his spear over my head. I stepped in and slashed at his ribs, missing by a foot. His spear gave him too much range. I danced out of the way and we squared off.

He twitched the spear at me, trying to make me react and then check myself. It would freeze me just long enough to be shish-kebabbed. Instead I stood my ground, ready to block and try to create another opening.

A black arrowhead and six inches of shaft sprang from his chest like an ineptly rigged knife-throwing act at a circus. He didn't seem conscious of it and twitched his spear at me one more time. Then his breath caught and the spear clattered from his hands. He closed both hands around the bright yellow shaft and tugged half-heartedly. He stared at me, eyes widening.

"Pete." Hank, from the stairwell door, target bow lowered. He'd fitted another arrow. "Pete, we need a hand taking the door off. We're going to try something." Reluctantly I took my gaze from the dying man. Hank's face was impassive as ever. He'd just saved my life and I should have felt grateful.

The man pitched forward onto his face, gurgling. I walked past him.

* * *

I saw nothing but the door Walt and I held before us. It was a heavy, metal-lined fire door; we'd removed it from its hinges and toted it downstairs to the eighty-fifth floor. I held onto my side of it with both hands. It pressed heavily against my right shoulder. Walt held the other side. We had it angled just enough to let us through. Though I couldn't see it, I knew Tom's hand was on the bar of the door ahead of us. "Now!" he hissed, and pulled it open. Walt and I chop-stepped through, using the door as a shield. Arrows thumped against it, a lead-rain sound I felt in my hands. They'd been waiting, all right. Oh, had they.

I had no idea how many of them were in front of us, and was given little time to worry about it—there was one near me, swinging an axe as we cleared the doorway. I shrugged in and it glanced off the door. He pulled back to try again. I decided he didn't deserve a second chance and dropped my end of the door. It thudded onto the floor and fell forward, given an added boost by Walt. No time to draw Fred before the axe came down. I rushed him and took the impact of the handle on the shoulder. It wasn't too painful, as it caught me just above where his right hand held it, where the power in the swing was least. I grabbed his arm so he couldn't choke up on the axe and kill me, then pulled Fred straight out. The metal-capped handle caught him in the side. I hit him again, in the same spot, and ribs cracked. Once more and he bellowed and tried to club straight down with his axe handle. I kneed him in the crotch, stepped back quickly, and drew Fred, slicing his carotid artery in the same motion. I'd meant to take off his head.

I turned. An archer had managed to get enough distance to draw again and sight; his bow was leveling at Hank. He saw me running at him and tried to shift aim. He was too late. I jabbed with Fred and jerked right, severing his bowstring. I pulled both hands in and thrust.

I glanced at Hank as the archer fell.
Debt paid.

A low, soft breath as Malachi made a final slash, and all was quiet. They had been ten. We were still five. Walt had a bad cut along one biceps. Hank pressed his palm over it while Tom used his sword to cut a strip from a dead man's shirt to make a bandage.

"Just a graze," Tom said. "You'll live."

Walt winced, teeth gritting as Tom secured the bandage.

Footsteps heading up the stairwell. A lot of them.

I looked at Malachi. Stand and fight?

They were getting close. No time to deliberate. Angry voices, pounding footsteps, and clanking metal echoed in the stairwell.

I turned when Malachi did, facing the open door. The floor was slick. The sprawled bodies would be easy to trip over. The door we'd removed lay on the floor at an angle, a dead archer beneath.

Malachi glanced through the doorway. He jumped back. "Too many—run."

We ran. I ran down the corridor to the right. They ran down the corridor to the left. I stopped and looked back. Thirty feet away, our opposition had reached the stairwell door. Malachi, Tom, Hank, and Walt had turned a corner and were out of sight. I couldn't double back, and I had to get out of there
now
.

I ran.

They were going the wrong direction, dammit! The necromancer was this way, the way I was headed—but who'd had a chance to get his bearings?

I turned left at the first opportunity, hoping I wasn't being followed. Running down the corridor with Fred clenched in my left hand, I had a chance to wonder why we weren't running into more opposition than we'd had. Were they spread that thin?

No time to think—find Ariel.

I came around a corner and almost ran into three feet of swinging steel. I ducked at the last possible instant and the blade rang as it hit the edge of the wall two inches above my head. Reflexively I brought Fred up in a diagonal upward slash, but my assailant had regained his balance and sprung out of range.

Fast!
The impression washed over me in a cold wave. I stepped back to gain time and brought swordpoint level with his throat.

He grinned past the unwavering point of his own katana and my knees gelatined as I recognized him: muscular, black-bearded—

The one who'd wanted my sword, beneath the overpass in Richmond. The one who'd equaled Malachi's skill after the fight that had killed Faust.

He recognized me, too. He relaxed, but the blade never wavered. "Well, well, well. You. Ever name that blade I touched?"

I didn't want to talk to him; conversation during a fight is just another strategy, another way of getting mind-fucked. But I couldn't hold my tongue. "It was named well before that. And you'll regret ever touching it." I was glad my voice stayed even.

His voice rose. "You'd better hope your technique's as quick as your mouth,
boy.
"

I had decided to clam up after my last words. He decided to rush me after his. I stepped back, barely stopping his overhead strike with a rising block. My body jolted with the force of it, wrists threatening to bend so far that I would no longer be able to control my blade. His speed was only a touch greater than mine, really, but he was far more powerful.

I tried a quick inside cut to the arm but he'd anticipated it and deflected my blade with the slightest turn of his wrist, as though he were brushing away butterflies. He countered immediately, and the bright tip arrowed for my throat. I hit overdrive and everything slowed down. My arms were almost at full extension; I didn't have time to bring them back for an effective block. Options snapped into my head so incredibly fast I didn't know they had been there until later. I could try to block anyhow and sacrifice an arm to save my neck, literally; I could dodge, leaving me off balance and an easy kill; or I could duck, which might get me in the clear. It would also restrict my movement so that a slight change in his direction of thrust would finish me.

I chose the latter and ducked anyhow—

—and kicked him on the kneecap as his sword brushed over my head.
Close.

He leapt back with amazing agility. The knee I'd kicked buckled as he stopped, and I jumped in with an all-out lunge.

I tried too hard. Every nerve in my body screamed for me to kill him. My muscles tightened with the effort and with anticipation. As a result the thrust was slow and poorly timed, and he blocked it easily, off balance as he was.

I made an animal sound when our blades met, a snarling, mindless noise.

(Malachi Lee's voice hissed in my head:
"Control!"
)

We stood three feet apart, blades and eyes locked, muscling each other with subtle motions, playing mind games. Who goes first? Who thinks he's faster? Both of us knew that, from this position, the initiator would have to leave some area of his body open no matter what the sword position. We stood in "closed" stance: right foot near right foot, blades crossed and leveled at each other's throat.

The razor tip of his blade wasn't six inches from my Adam's apple. Mine was the same distance from his.

He tried to spit on my face. Stupid—his mouth worked, his throat muscles tensed, and as his head went forward to spit I turned my right wrist inward to parry his blade. It was like trying to move an iron pillar. He stopped in the act of spitting, expecting my counterstrike. I leaned forward slightly and twitched my blade toward his head. His sword flashed across to block the slash that never came; instead I leapt backward and slashed down.

I opened up the top of his right foot.

He looked surprised. His eyes were on me intently, and I knew he was waiting for me to look down to see what damage I'd done him. I kept my eyes on his, drew in a long breath, deepened my stance, and dropped Fred into low guard position.

He responded in kind: a deep breath to clear the mind, then setting his stance. He set most of his weight on his back leg, bending that knee, and drew his blade back in a guard I had never seen before, a sort of awkward batting stance with the blade held vertically. His left elbow pointed away from me, right arm reaching across his body to grasp the hilt firmly just beneath the guard. The fingers of his right hand straightened, then wrapped around the twined handle slowly, almost caressingly. The muscles bunched in his right arm. As he exhaled his eyes seemed to unfocus, as if he could see through me. Malachi Lee's eyes had done that.

I took advantage of the chance to flick my gaze down to his foot; if I had hit him well enough, I'd be able to wait him out while he bled to death. But it was only a nick: blood seeped from a cut on top of his boot, not nearly fast enough.

I took in a long breath to bide for time—both to play his mind game along with him and in the hope that the blood welling from his foot might make him slip on the floor—and found to my surprise that things actually did become clearer in my mind. The pieces fell into place. My grip relaxed against the twine. The swordpoint steadied, leveled at his throat. My katana had become an extension of my arms. Without actually looking at him, because it was more than just looking, I noticed that his stance left his entire right side completely open—which was probably what he wanted me to think. Yeah. And his stance, though defensive, would also afford him a hell of a lot of momentum when he did swing. You had to be fast to use it—and apparently he thought he was.

All right, then. Fake left, draw his guard, and go for the open right side. I was about to try it when something stopped me.

Behind him was an open door, and through it I saw Ariel. Pure white, shimmering mane, silver hooves, head high  .  .  .  . She couldn't see me from where she stood; she faced someone hidden beyond the doorframe.

My hands worked by themselves; what I did I felt as a puppet master feels through his marionette. I swung for his right side, not even trying to hit it, just waiting for his power block—and power block it was. Edge caught edge; unhesitatingly I turned my wrist, pushed his blade away, stepped in, brought Fred back, and slashed—block, parry, and slash.

He opened his mouth, not yet knowing he was dead. His knees gave, his body fell, and his head followed, both gushing blood. I hardly noticed.

Ariel.

She was speaking to someone. Her voice broke over me in silver waves. "No one," she breathed, "no one commands me!"

I stopped short, eyes filling as she drew in a proud breastful of air. Her voice gained strength. "I am a unicorn! I am of those named by Adam before all others were named. We didn't need your puny Ark; we don't need you to know what we are. I am the theme of all Nature; her Truth and her Light.
No one shall take what is mine!"
Her head lowered until the gleaming spire of her horn rested at human throat level. "You aren't fit to touch me." The last was spoken with a feral intensity I wouldn't have thought her capable of.

The necromancer
. You won't take her horn. I tightened my grip on Fred and stepped forward.

"Pete, no!"

The shout brought me around, sword poised.

Malachi Lee. Red covered the length of his sword. His navy blue warm-up was torn and cut. A cut below his right eye had bled down to his chin and dried. Both his hands were bloody, but I don't think it was his own. I took it all in in a quick, grateful glance. "I've found her—come on!" I turned away, reassured that he would be behind me.

"Pete, don't go in there."

The very calmness of his voice, the sureness, stopped me. I wanted with all my being to go to Ariel, to face whoever she spoke to, but a doubt formed about Malachi, a lump of suspicion that was just enough to keep me from turning my back on him and his sword.

I looked at him. Waiting. Very much aware of the feel of the rough handle of my sword, of the front-heavy weight of the blade. Of the body of the swordsman I'd just killed, lying in a red pool between him and me. "Why not?" I asked, matching his calmness. I heard the threat in my tone.

He heard it, too, and was careful not to move. "Pete, I wouldn't keep you from her. You know that. Just listen to me. Back away from the door and listen to me. It's a trap."

I tried to interrupt but he shook his head and went on without pause. "A trap," he repeated. "Think.
Think,
you goddamned idiot, and get away from that door."

I stayed where I was.

"Think about the last time you saw her. What did she look like? She's been a captive more than
two weeks
now, Pete—what would she look like?"

I remembered the last time I'd seen her. Limp mane, dulled coat, the red-brown and dried blood staining her spiral horn. Pained eyes, slow reactions. And after over two weeks of captivity, what then?"

I stepped away from the door and joined Malachi Lee. We watched the proud white image of Ariel waver uncertainly and then melt into the floor.

A lithe man stepped into the doorway, gloating.

Malachi's hand went beneath the waistband of his warmup jacket and snapped out in a blur. A whirring sound descended rapidly as something sped toward the necromancer. He caught it in his hands. A small, flat, metal star with six points. A
shuriken.

He spoke an ugly word and the six steel blades wilted in his palm. He wiped away a few drops of blood where the tips had scratched him. He dropped it to the floor. Ting ting! He smiled coldly.

Malachi returned the smile. "We'll see how strong you are now," he said. "I smeared garlic on the edges of the star; you have garlic poisoning in your bloodstream. There's no cure, and it takes a long time."