The Phoenix Requiem (The Phoenix Conspiracy Series Book 7) (26 page)

He plunged his dagger into the second Polarian, just as the man noticed him; this Dark One he took in the heart, again thrusting his dagger deep, giving it a twist as he did so. Simultaneously, with his free arm, he hurriedly clamped his hand over the Dark One’s mouth to stifle his death cries, which would have warned his friends. His comrades of Darkness.

A third came, and Rez’nac surprised him too, taking him in the throat. As he tore into the Dark One with his blade, blood spurted everywhere and the Dark One seemed to look him in the eyes as he gurgled, as though trying to speak, but then, whatever life had shown in his eyes, quickly vanished. And Rez’nac removed the dagger and allowed his newest victim to collapse to the floor, next to the others.

One True God
, he thought.
Is this truly the best you can do? If so, you are impotent! I could stymie your tide of Darkness in my sleep!

As if in response to his challenge, a whole group of them entered the tunnel together, a stream of Polarian soldiers, all of whom were armed, and all of whom had been seduced by the Darkness. They had come to capture, or kill, the Prelains of the Light, Rez’nac knew. And he was certain that they knew, that, for their evil scheme to work, they must get to the Prelains of Light before true Polarian warriors arrived—the soldiers of the Light.

Those warriors were likely minutes, if not seconds away. Hence the urgency and the haste he could see in the movements and the eyes of these Dark Ones, but, unfortunately for them, Rez’nac was here, standing firm, obstructing their path. Ready to slaughter them all, if necessary, to keep them from reaching their goal. It did not matter that they outnumbered him by so many. Although he was now Fallen, he remained a servant of the Light, and, like the retreat of a shadow in the presence of a torch, no Darkness could exist where Light stood. And here he was. Standing. Unwilling to be moved.

They spoke to him, but he did not listen. He refused to hear their words just as surely as he refused to acknowledge them in any way. He would assign them no value. They were the hands and fingers of the Darkness, unknowing puppets in the evil service of a false, non-existent god. He owed them nothing. And he would give them nothing.

Once it became obvious to them that he would not cooperate in any fashion, the group of them became enraged and charged him, drawing their own blades, throwing aside their rifles in favor of their steel, no doubt because of the close quarters. He welcomed them, standing ready. A state of alertness took control of his mind and guided his movements and reflexes like never before. It felt almost as if ghosts guided his hands as he spilled the enemy’s blood, and spirits thrust him about as he dodged the many knives being thrust and slashed at him.

He sidestepped what would have been a killing blow to his heart and then delivered one of his own, dropping yet another Dark One. More swings and slashes came his way, he parried one and dodged the others, moving with a quickness he did not know he possessed. He slashed the throat of yet another Dark One—and one more corrupted Polarian collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

He cut down another. Then another. Darting and side-stepping, retreating a few paces, then charging, he moved like a cat but fought like a lion. The enemy, further enraged by the death of so many of their comrades, started to become careless. He took advantage of that, slicing and stabbing some more. Killing one after another. Ever vigilant to duck or leap aside as their blades nearly took him, twice now he’d been grazed.

Two more of them he killed. Plunging and thrusting his knife, usually taking his victim in the throat. They continued to come at him, forcing him to retreat several steps, meanwhile he killed another. And then another. All the while, artfully maneuvering, keeping them from getting around him on either side and surrounding him, just as surely as he kept them from striking him with their blades.

It had been only seconds, a minute at most, but already he began to feel himself tire. His thrusts became weaker, his reflexes slower, and his dodging and ducking and darting aside felt labored and difficult. He began to breathe heavily, but could spare no time to pause, not even an instant, for that was the difference between life and death. And so he continued fighting, fighting with all his strength and force of will. All the while feeling his heart pounding in his chest, racing like the beat of a snare drum, it felt almost painful.

He killed another. Then another. Then two more. After each, he retreated a step or two, to keep himself alive as the flurry of blades came at him, seeming to swing in every direction, desperate to strike him.

Sweat formed on his brow, and everywhere else, and poured like a river, down his face and into his eyes. He wiped it away, just in time to see the flash of steel bearing down on him; he side-stepped the blow just before it could land.

The battle continued and he dispatched two more. Still there seemed no end to them. As he went to strike a third, he missed—it was the first time in many strokes that he’d failed to reach his target. As he withdrew his arm to strike again, he felt a pain cut along his arm and spread. He dared a momentary glance and saw that he had been slashed along the top of his right forearm; the wound was long, but not very deep. He ignored it, and the pain, and continued his battle. Killing another of his foes, just as he took another wound, this time the enemy’s blade caught him in the right bicep, tearing deep into the tissues before its owner removed it. The pain seemed overwhelming, and yet he somehow ignored it. He even managed to ignore the river of blood that now poured from his arm. Instead of reacting to the pain, he kept his focus on the battle at hand, and tried to swipe at his attacker the moment he got an opportunity. But, when he tried, he found his right arm would not cooperate. It was so damaged and in so much pain, he could scarcely move it. So he retreated several more steps, leaving a trail of blood as he went, and then took his knife by his left hand and raised it once more.

“I am not yet finished,” he declared, gesturing for the group of enemies, who seemed surprised that he was still standing, to come at him, if they dared.

They charged him. Rez’nac set his stance and, the moment the nearest one reached him, he thrust his knife into the Dark One’s left eye, dodging the other daggers as he did so. He ripped his blade from his latest victim and, continuing the fight with his off-hand, managed to kill two more before taking another wound.

The pain of it, combined with the pain from the other wounds, drowned him in agony from head to toe, but he gritted his teeth and forced the pain to the back of his mind. He’d been slashed on the forearm, stabbed in the bicep, and now stabbed in the gut. He crashed his head against the skull of his attacker before the man could withdraw his blade, and sent him crashing to the floor. There, Rez’nac stomped upon his neck, twice, all while dodging an incoming slash and delivering another thrust of his own.

He killed more of them, fighting with the strength of a man unwilling to die. He unleashed a ferocity upon these enemies, these Dark Ones, that he did not know he possessed. They struck him again. A glancing blow from a fist. He ignored it, and sliced the throat of his assailant.

More pain threatened to overwhelm him as new wounds appeared, slashes on his legs and arms, another knife plunged into him, taking him in the thigh. He did not stop fighting. And in that state, barely aware anymore of where he was or what he was doing, with his legs threatening to buckle, his vision blurry, and every inch of him screaming out in pain, he still did not give in.

He fought through the pain, fought through the whirlwind of knives that came slashing and stabbing his direction. He parried and dodged what he could, meanwhile delivering killing blow after killing blow of his own against his attackers, but some of their blades found him. They cut him, slashed him, a few plunged into him. He felt off-balance, as if the world itself was spinning, a blackness covered his eyes, coming and going, and he felt as though he would collapse at any moment. A part of him begged him to. To simply let go and let it end. The pain was too great, the loss of blood tremendous—he could feel himself bathed in blood, much of it his own—and yet he continued to fight. Swinging, now far less accurately, and thrusting his knife; it had become much harder, and the battle to remain standing seemed even more difficult than the one he fought against the Dark Ones, but still he kept his footing, focused on his task, and kept the fight going. Managing, sluggish as he was, and wounded, to kill another three Dark Ones before he was overcome.

He didn’t remember exactly how it had happened, or when, nor did he remember falling. All he knew was that he was on the floor. His consciousness blinking in and out. He felt himself lying face down against the stone floor, surrounded by a pool of his own blood, covered in more wounds than he could possibly count. Wounds that should have killed him, and yet he’d ignored them and kept fighting. Battling against the Darkness for as long as he could, as fiercely as he could, but now, it seemed, the Darkness had come for him. He saw boots approaching. He tried to get up, but could not move at all. He couldn’t so much as turn his head or wiggle his fingers anymore.

So this is the end
, he thought, feeling a powerful urge to let go of the life he was clinging to and simply succumb to the blackness that awaited him. The nothingness that awaited all creatures not born of the Essences—and who remained true to them, as he had not.

I was of Khalahar,
he thought, trying to remember even a glimmer of the glory he’d once possessed.
I was chosen for greatness
, he told himself as he lay there, slowly dying, apparently ignored and left for dead by the Dark Ones, who continued on their way toward the Prelains of Light.
And yet I failed my Essence and lost my greatness
, his thoughts continued.
Just as surely as I have failed here, again, failed to stop the tide of Darkness that would sweep away the last of the Prelains of Light, the hope of the future. I tried to stop them,
he thought the words in such a tone it was as though he was trying to persuade someone.
I truly tried
.
May my son, Grimka, wherever he be, prove stronger and truer than I was.

With that, he closed his eyes, unable to keep them open any longer, and he felt the embrace of the black empty void. It stripped him of his pain, released him from his burdens, and, in his final moments of coherent thought, gave him the peace of forgiveness he had sought. A peace that had eluded him since that terrible day of the Arahn-Fi when he had surrendered his soul and abandoned his Essence.

It’s going to be all right
, he thought as the blackness took him.
Everything’s going to be all
—

***

“The enemy fleet is nearing attack range,” reported the Ops chief.

“Do they remain in formation?” asked Sir Arkwright, from the command position.

“Yes, sir, they do. Wait, something new,” the Ops chief got a report from one of his junior officers and then doubled checked something on one of the Ops displays.

“What is it?” demanded Sir Arkwright. “Have they come within range of their beam weapons? Because my standing order is that when they do, the entire defense fleet is to charge them from all angles.”

“No, sir, it isn’t that,” said the Ops chief. “Their capital ships, they’ve stopped. They are in a holding pattern, just beyond range of their beam weapons.”

“Is their shield still in place?” asked Sir Arkwright.

“Yes, sir, they remain in phalanx formation, shield pool is active,” said the Ops chief.

“So they’ve halted their attack then?” asked Sir Arkwright.

“Not exactly,” said the Ops chief. “I’m reading thousands of small craft approaching our position, actually tens of thousands, each of them very small. I believe they are the—”

“The fighter drones,” Sir Arkwright finished the Ops chief’s sentence for him. “How long until they can attack us?”

“They will not be able to strike us until they are within the shield radius of any of our capital ships, sir,” said the Defense chief. “Their weapons cannot penetrate our shields.”

“And how close are they to reaching that point?” asked Sir Arkwright.

“Less than a minute away, sir,” said the Ops chief.

All hands were already at General Quarters, so there was no need to sound any further alarm, so Sir Arkwright, when he pressed the ship-wide comm, merely said, “All crew, prepare to engage the enemy immediately.” He then released the switch and said to his Defense chief, “I want every gun available to target any drones that move inside our shield radius.”

“But sir, if we target the drones with all of our guns, we will be vulnerable to missiles. Shouldn’t we hold some in reserve?” asked the Defense chief. He had a point. Or rather, he would have, if the enemy capital ships were within missile range.

“For now, hold no guns in reserve,” said Sir Arkwright, fidgeting in his chair.

“Aye, sir,” said the Defense chief, relaying order to all gun decks.

“Ops,” said Sir Arkwright, alert me the instant those capital ships begin to move. “If they approach us, especially if they get inside missile range, then Mister Adolphus is right, we will have to hold guns in reserve, starboard and port, bow and stern, a number of them on every deck. We cannot risk missile impacts.”

“Understood, sir,” said the Ops chief. He hovered over his displays, examining them vigilantly. Then, a moment later, he said, “Sir, the drones are upon us. Ten seconds until they reach the forward-most ships of the First Fleet.” Sir Arkwright knew that included this ship, the ISS
Victory
, which, along with other dreadnoughts, held the forward center of the defense force, like the tip of a spear.