Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles (51 page)

“Akane? What’re you doing here?” And he immediately regretted that, because it sounded accusatory. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Captain said I could see you off. I can put out fires anywhere.” She reached up and tapped the helmet. “I would give a kiss for luck, but . . .”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t want you to get your lips ripped off . . . In case you can’t tell, I was smiling when I said that. That was a joke . . . I like your lips just fine.”

“I am aware, Sullivan. You talk more when you are nervous. It is funny talking to a woman makes you more nervous than war.”

The huge armored shoulders could still manage a shrug. “I’m good at war.”

She opened one glove and revealed another delicate paper animal. This one was a duck. “For luck again.” She shoved it into one of the magazine pouches on his chest. “Probably it will not make it. So you better come back so I can make you another.”

“Deal.” He put one gauntlet alongside her bubble helmet, gently as possible. She put her hand on top of his.

“We’re on in sixty seconds!” Schirmer shouted. “Sullivan? How come you aren’t strapped in?”

Sullivan just waved. “I’m taking the quick way down.” After all, that had been the plan before they’d known Faye was alive. He went back to Akane. “You’d best stand back.”

She took up the rope so she wouldn’t trip over it and made her way back to the interior. When she reached one of the pylons next to the machine, she tied another safety line to that with an expert sailor’s knot.

The red lights started blinking. The buzzer sounded. The hydraulics activated.

Sullivan took a deep breath. He turned the skull-faced helmet toward Akane. She was watching him. She seemed a little afraid, maybe excited, but mostly she seemed proud, defiant. “Beat them, Sullivan. Every last one!”

“Every last one.”

The door began opening. The air screamed past.

It was dark as night. The grey and white patch of straight lines so incredibly far below was Shanghai. The Cogs were already wrestling their machine along the tracks and chains toward the opening.

He took one last look at Akane. “Show me a smile on that pretty face.”

She did.

Sullivan stepped off the ramp into space.

Art to come

Sullivan in armor

Chapter 21

In my campaigns I’ve found there are two types of effective soldier, the gazelles and the grunts. The gazelle is capable of incredible bursts of speed but can be flighty, distracted, and useless, but in those moments of brilliance, nothing can catch a gazelle. The grunt, on the other hand, will never blind you with his grace or swiftness, but will simply plug along until the job is finished. Now after watching the Imperium in combat action, I must add a third type. I’d thought I’d seen warrior fanaticism amongst the Moro, but I was unprepared for the total devotion of the Imperium warrior. Say what you will about their methods, but a true believer is not to be trifled with.

—Captain John J. Pershing,

Army Observation Report on the taking of Vladivostok,
1905

Free City of Shanghai

It was a nightmare
wrapped in a poem. It was a dream shrouded in fog.

Toru struggled against the beast rampaging through his very thoughts. He knew how to fight with his hands, but he did not know how to fight on the battlefield of his mind. The creature was there, in the background, whispering, speaking in lies and secrets.

Time passed in incoherent fits and starts. He was in the present. Then in the past. He was back at the Iron Guard academy, a young boy, standing proud while his sensei beat him with sticks to test his resolve. He was in the present, screaming in agony as the pain like a drill bit bore through his eyes. He was in the past, collecting heads in Manchuko. Then he was in a dream, listening to the words of his father, or perhaps that was Hattori’s past. He could not tell. And then the present, except that had to be a hallucination as well, since Hayate had been there.

Hours passed, days maybe. He could not tell. But he relived every single moment of his life against his will as if the invader inside his head were flipping randomly through the pages of a book. Exhausted, he drifted into an unconscious haze.

His Iron Guard brothers came to unchain him, but they were not his brothers. He could see that now. They were wearing the skin of men, but their insides were foul corruption, an extension of the Pathfinder’s malicious will. They had been Iron Guard once, until Dosan Saito had exposed them to the cancerous sludge and it had slowly dissolved them into these mindless shells. That would be Toru’s eventual fate as well, only mercifully his life would end long before that process could be completed.

The kanji of paralysis was roughly scrubbed from his forehead and he could feel life returning to his limbs. The chains were unlocked and he fell to this hands and knees. The Nishimura armor clanged when it hit the floor.

The false Iron Guard were on each side. Toru would die fighting. He reached for one, but nothing happened. He willed his arms to work, but it was as if his spirit was a helpless prisoner inside his own body. He was no longer magically paralyzed, but it did not matter. Hands were placed on his shoulder, and against his will, he rose.
No!
He tried to shout, but his mouth would not work.

The Pathfinder’s puppets did not have to speak in order to communicate with each other. They brought over the Nishimura helmet, and his body obediently bent so it could be placed over his head. Magical kanji began scrolling across the interior glass but Toru couldn’t even steer his eyes to follow.

His feet were moving, one in front of the other. His hands opened and the steel tetsubo was placed into them. He wanted to kill them, to strike them all down with it, but no matter how hard he strained, nothing happened. His body was an obedient slave.

Toru was furious, far angrier than he’d ever been, angrier than he’d ever thought humanly possible. This was offensive. Insulting. He would die as a pawn, used as an example of the imposter’s greatness. This was
unacceptable.
He would have flown into a berserker rage if his damned limbs would just respond.

They stopped and waited at the end of a darkened tunnel. Two hundred yards away, the imposter stood upon a dais, speaking to a proud troop of Imperium warriors. The soldiers were standing in perfect formation, awestruck by the Chairman’s presence. One by one their names were called, and they walked up to stand before him to be presented their medals. Merely being near the Chairman was the greatest moment of any of those soldiers’ lives, and that made Toru even madder. These noble warriors, their entire empire, they were all being lied to.

The ceremony was over.

The puppets let him into bright sunlight. The helmet’s glass automatically darkened to shield his eyes from glare. The Nishimura armor lumbered into view of the crowd, obviously towering over the muscular Iron Guards’ flanking it, and they all turned to gawk. There were thousands of people in the courtyard. Stands had been erected around the parade ground. They began to shout and jeer him. He was heckled, booed, insulted, and mocked by his inferiors.

More Iron Guard came from under the palace, leading a line of prisoners. The captives were chained together, shackled at the wrists and ankles, and the short chains forced them into the indignity of shuffling. Grimnoir knights. Survivors of the raids. Most were from the
Traveler
. A few were from Shanghai. All of them had been severely beaten so badly they could barely stand, and then marked with kanji so they could not call upon their magic.

Ian Wright was in the lead. The proud young man was shoved so that he would kneel. The knight spit in the Iron Guard’s face, so the Iron Guard shattered Wright’s kneecap with a swift kick. Wright fell to the ground, writhing in pain. His chains snapped tight, and that pulled the others to their knees. Dr. Wells was at the end of the line. The alienist seemed mildly amused by all of the activity.

The Iron Guards walked away from the prisoners and left them there. The audience immediately began throwing things at them, garbage, rotting fruit, rocks, bottles. Allowing such items into the presence of the Chairman was inconceivable, so they had more than likely been supplied to the nearest spectators for just this moment. Hard objects bounced harmlessly off of Toru’s armored shell, but the Grimnoir flinched and cringed as they were bashed, cut, and further injured. A scalp was split open by a bottle. Blood flew and the crowd screamed at the traitor and his conspirators to hurry and die.

The imposter appeared in the center of the parade ground.

Toru bowed. He did not wish to. He would never willingly have bowed to this wretched thief, but the Pathfinder was controlling his body. Even as he was still being struck by rocks and insults, the greatest indignity of all was that he was forced to offer respect to the real traitor.

The rocks stopped falling. The crowd grew still, awed by the presence of their leader and hero. They spoke in hushed whispers or not at all. This was a day that none of them would ever forget.

Okubo Tokugawa’s face displayed a stern look. He raised his voice so that all could hear. Magic carried his words to the outer edges of the crowd. “Behold Toru, once of the Iron Guard, who has committed the crime of treason. He has been subverted and led astray. He betrayed many of his brothers so that they could be assassinated by the foul Grimnoir. He has been plotting with the Grimnoir in order to murder the son of heaven and the entire council. They would overthrow your lawful rulers. Their organization is evil, and exists only to plunge the world into chaos . . . What do you have to say for yourself, traitor?”

Toru’s hands moved up to his helmet, opened the seals, and carefully removed it. Of course the imposter would force him to show his face. There could be no doubt of the identity of the man in the armor. Toru wanted to shout the truth, but only lies came out of his mouth. “Your judgment is correct, Lord Tokugawa. The Grimnoir wish to end our civilization. They intend to crush the Imperium. I have been sent by them to murder you.”

“Let it be known by all that Toru is a capable warrior who fought in many righteous conflicts before his fall. He is a Brute, recipient of six war medals, six campaign medals, and fourteen separate commendations for exemplary service. Today he wears the legendary Nishimura armor, granting him even greater strength . . .”

The masses were frightened. They had faith in their Chairman, but Toru’s legend had grown.

“It will not be sufficient.” The Chairman placed one hand on the hilt of his sword. “I, Baron Okubo Tokugawa, Chairman of the Imperial Council, accept your challenge.”

There were hundreds of gasps from the crowd. Truly, the imposter intended to give the masses the display of heroism they’d hoped for. Toru’s hands lifted the helmet back into place. The forces controlling his limbs were careful not to twist his head off, because an accidental beheading would be an underwhelming finale. Kanji flashed before his eyes as the tetsubo was hoisted from the ground.

Toru charged.

He was so angry he could taste it. The charge was clumsy, full of Power and show, but useless. It was an embarrassment to his skills. The blustering fury would look intimidating to the onlookers, though, which was all Dosan Saito cared about. The imposter easily dodged the tetsubo, again and again, then he reached up, channeling Brute strength and slammed Toru across fifty feet of grass.

He hit the earth and dug a divot. Toru willed himself to spring right back up, but his body took its time, making a great display of how terribly hard the Chairman had struck him.
LIES!

They circled. Toru saw half a dozen different angles of attack, but his body would not listen. He attacked wildly, spinning, swinging, with big flashy movements and overhead blows that blasted showers of dirt high into the air.

The Chairman’s face was expressionless, nearly bored as he moved far faster than was humanly possible. He was demonstrating to those harboring doubts that he truly was the greatest wizard of all time.
Behold as I toy with the terrifying Toru.
Then the Brute magic switched to that of a Massive, and the imposter froze in place, willing his body as hard as steel.

The tetsubo impacted with a hit that radiated down the shaft, through the armored gauntlets, and through Toru’s bones. The crowd came to their feet.

But when the dust cleared, the Chairman was still standing there, completely unharmed. He lifted one hand and a gout of fire leapt from his hands, engulfing Toru. The Nishimura suit sounded an alarm. Toru wanted to fight through it, but his body flailed back wildly instead. He was struck with ice, then lightning. Gravity changed, and Toru was falling into the sky.

The imposter leapt, intercepted Toru in mid-air, and slammed a golden, glowing fistful of magical energy into his chest. Toru hit the ground so hard that everything went black.

* * *

If he hadn’t been a master of gravity, density, and mass, Sullivan was pretty darn sure he would’ve passed out seconds after jumping off the
Traveler
.

Jake Sullivan had done some dangerous shit in his life, but surely this took the cake.

He began spinning, harder and harder. Blood rushed through his system. Sullivan just concentrated and willed himself dense.
Blood goes where I tell it to go.
It was a good thing he was so analytical under pressure . . .
I’m going clockwise.
He adjusted gravity’s direction slightly, pulling himself gradually out of the spin.
That’s better.

He could’ve made himself light as a feather and slowed himself down, but spending extra time in a place with no warmth or atmosphere wasn’t a particularly inviting idea. The runes Browning had carved into the Spiker armor were glowing, keeping him from freezing, but he didn’t have a whole lot of faith in the fragile oxygen tank.
What the hell? Let’s see what this thing can do.
He tucked his arms into his sides, put his feet together, pointed his helmet at Shanghai, and
increased
gravity’s pull.

It was like being launched from a cannon.