Knight of Novus Page 8

  He turned to stare out the window, his heart beating unevenly. He tried to regulate his breathing, relax his back. It did not work.

  At long last, they slowed to a halt, still within the shelter of the creepy trees. The Scarlet turned off the car and switched off the lights. John climbed out of the vehicle.

  A contrary, cool breeze gusted through his coat and moaned softly through the bare branches above. He glanced warily around, then turned to the road ahead. Behind him, he heard the others get out of the cars and step toward him.

  "Let's go," the Scarlet whispered, and together they all strode silently onward.

  They had no illumination to guide them except the slivers of moonlight. None but Thomas paid heed to the depth of the darkness.

  They reached a bend in the road and stopped a moment, waiting. A rustle came from within the trees, and then two Knights stepped out: James and Mill. They inclined their heads in greeting.

  "Are you ready?" the Scarlet asked.

  "Yes, ma'am," James replied deeply. "We managed to stall the production of chips, which should buy us some time. We also set mines along the road to the plant, and got away without being discovered."

  "All right, then," the Scarlet drew herself up. "We have about half a mile to walk, and by the time we get to where Cannon's children are, His Majesty’s Men will already know we're coming. So look sharp." She glanced crisply over at John. "Cannon—walk with me."

  Wordlessly, John fell into stride next to her as the others silently followed. The Knights that trailed after left gaps, to leave room for maneuverability in case of attack.

  John listened to the sounds of the forest around them, the minute tapping of their footsteps against the old cement road, and the occasional flap of the Scarlet's coat.

  "So, Cannon," the Scarlet lifted her head but spoke quietly. "Did you tell her?"

  John glanced at her, startled.

  "Tell who? What?"

  She shot a look at him.

  "Miriam."

  John swallowed, jerked his chin upward, then stared straight ahead of him.

  "How did you know?"

  "Thomas told me you were visiting a lady—the lady who gave you the courage to challenge The King."

  John did not respond. He just watched his feet for a moment.

  "Well?"

  "Well what?" John growled.

  "Did you tell her you love her?"

  His head came up. He stared at her. His knees went weak and he slowed, but the Scarlet kept walking, not looking back. John struggled for a moment, then caught up to her strides.

  "Why would I tell her that?"

  April arched an eyebrow at him.

  "Because it's the truth?"

  John's jaw muscle twitched. He shook his head once.

  "No. I can't."

  "Why?"

  John said nothing for a long moment. Then he swallowed again.

  "Because she doesn't love me," he said roughly.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes," he whispered, blinking to clear his vision.

  "Well, that hardly ever matters. Especially under these circumstances," April stated, stepping around a large pothole in the road. "She deserves to know."

  "It's too late now," he said flatly, though a shiver ran up his back. April's voice quieted.

  "I hope not."

  John's chest tightened, and he focused hard on the road ahead of them.

  "And what about your squire?" she pressed.

  "What about him?"

  "Have you spoken to him yet?"

  John stepped over a fallen tree limb. His shoulders felt heavy.

  "No."

  April didn’t say anything for several minutes, but finally she drew in a breath.

  "If there are only two things I've learned since the Awakening, Sir John, it's you shouldn't get this close to the edge of your grave without telling someone that you care about them."

  John clenched his teeth. Her voice lowered.

  "And in order to receive forgiveness, you must be willing to give it."

  He met her eyes, a cold realization settling into the pit of his stomach.

  "Is that an order?"

  She gave him a small smile.

  "It would be wise, Sir John. Think about it. But think quickly." She assessed the road in front of them. "We don't have much time."

  Slowing his steps, John fell back, watching Mill and James pass him in the gloom. Angel and Thomas brought up the rear.

  "Angel," John called quietly. "I'll have a word with my squire, if you don't mind."

  Angel nodded without saying anything and trotted to keep up with James and Mill.

  John felt Thomas' eyes on him, but began walking so that Thomas had to keep in stride. John still didn’t look at him.

  They walked silently together for a long time, Thomas' steps quick and uncertain, John's strides long and unyielding. John glanced over. He slowed a bit. Thomas raised an eyebrow slightly, then extended his steps. Gradually, they each compensated, until they once more walked naturally in step. Together they straightened their shoulders, and John spoke.

  "How's your arm?"

  "How's your dog?" Thomas asked at the exact same moment.

  They glanced at each other. Seeing as he was the junior, it was incumbent upon Thomas to speak.

  "It feels good. I'll have a scar, but it doesn't bother me."

  John nodded.

  "My dog is...going to live. He had surgery and is recovering."

  "Good."

  They continued on in quiet for a few more minutes, an owl hooting somewhere in the hidden distance.

  "So," John lifted his eyes. It was difficult to speak. "Are we..." His voice was thick, and his brow twitched. He let out a rushed breath and looked helplessly over at the younger man.

  Thomas gazed at him a moment, his eyes penetrating, then nodded.

  "Yes, Sir John."

  John swallowed.

  "They're all right," Thomas assured him. His gaze was firm. "We’ll find them."

  They kept following the others, and never broke stride.

  The Knights stood in a line, side by side, a hundred meters in front of the first set of gates of The King's Majesty Men's headquarters. Beyond the first wall was a broad, abandoned yard of dirt and overgrown shrubbery. Beyond the next wall stood a vast house—almost a castle—with a broad front lawn littered with broken statues, and then three flights of stairs leading up to the front door. A long, straight walkway led one from the first gate to the next gate, then up to the entrance. Scarlet Weston glanced over at Thomas.

  "Stay outside the perimeter of this wall," she instructed him. "If more than two of us go down, call Restoration Base immediately and tell them to accelerate the plan."

  He and John exchanged a glance. John gave him a small reassuring nod.

  "I will enter first," the Scarlet continued, staring ahead. "Then James, Angel, Mill and Cannon. I don't have to tell you to mind your training. We don't want anything as embarrassing as friendly fire."

  Angel chuckled.

  "Cannon," the Scarlet met his eyes directly. "You know what to do."

  John only gave her a nod.

  "Very well." Weston strode forward. The others fell in behind her. After just a moment's hesitation, Thomas faded into the forest on the right.

  Raising both her guns, the Scarlet pulled the weighty triggers.

  The shots blared through the night, shocking the silence and stillness.

  She broke into a run. The other Knights instantly followed.

  Weston leaped into the air and pummeled the lock with her heel. The metal gate bashed open, withering under the strength of her blow.

  She landed in a cat-like stance.

  A sea of cloaked Storms stood to either side of the path. They exploded with shouts and threats, whipping their long weapons around to bear on her. They were not going to talk. They would kill her first.

  Weston settled the heavy, cold, smooth weight of her revolvers in her palms.


  She grinned.

  Raising up and walking forward, she crossed her arms over her chest and fired to either side. She dropped to her knees and rolled. Leaping into the air, she did a front flip, evading two bullets. She landed, easily knelt and shot to her front and right. Every movement was swift, crisp and potent, her jaw set like iron. The other Knights followed her in this deadly dance, even paces behind her, spinning, aiming, firing. The night around them lit up like freakish day. The yard rattled with thunder. The Scarlet's scarlet coat swept like a trail of blood over the path.

  The Storms dropped like victims of a plague. Shots sputtered into the air as they fell, clutching their triggers in their death throes. Weston reached the middle of the yard, never having deviated from the walkway, and tasted victory.

  And then a shot pinged against the cement next to her foot. She glanced upward.

  Knights were sniping them from the roof.

  Cannon's guns rested securely within his bare palms. After he had hurried off to the left during the initial chaos, he concealed himself within the natural maze of shrubbery and vanished from sight. Now, he walked silently around the perimeter of the interior wall, clenching his jaw as screams and shots echoed and mixed ghoulishly far behind him. He hoped they were all right.

  He swept his trained eyes back and forth, watching for any trace of movement in the shadows. He saw nothing.

  He glanced up. He had made it just to the side of the great mansion, where the wall curved and stood close to the house.

  John slipped his guns back up into his sleeves, made certain no one was behind him, then leaped up and grabbed the top of the wall.

  He gritted his teeth as the rough edge scraped his fingers, pulled himself up and laid flat on his stomach on the top of the stones. He shot a look over toward the distant gate.

  It looked like lightning danced across the ground—firepower flew in chaotic torrents every which way. He could not distinguish the Knights from the Storms, but he occasionally caught a flash of crimson.

  He eased his feet underneath him and rose to his feet on the wall. He then ran across the top of it, his feet tapping quietly, until he reached the point where the wall stood only five feet from the building.

  He stopped and faced the mansion.

  Up about three feet, stood a glass window with a small ledge. He took a short breath. Alarms would go off. He would have to risk it.

  He briefly gathered himself, then leaped. He flew through the air—his hands caught the ledge, and the rest of his body banged against the stones. Wasting no time, he yanked straight downward, feeling his shoulder muscles strain, and propelled himself directly up. His knees landed on the ledge, and he threw his shoulder into the window.

  Glass shattered all around him, raining down around his face. He leaped inside and rolled, careful to protect his skin as much as possible.

  He landed on the marble floor of a long corridor. He sprang to his feet, his guns snapping into his hands, feeling one trail of blood run down the side of his head.

  Red lights all around him began to flash. A siren wailed.

  John settled his stance and calmed his face as the running footsteps of Storms began pounding down the hall toward him.

  No sooner had April noticed the snipers when she heard one of her own get hit.

  She whirled around, downing two Storms as she went, to see Mill strike the ground, shining blood running down the front of his ebony uniform.

  "Angel! James!" April roared, ducking down and yanking back on her triggers, firing a devastating automatic barrage across the foremost ranks. The big black man charged back toward his fallen comrade. Angel whirled forward, dancelike and efficient, spinning around April and providing cover for her as she leaped to Mill's side.

  "We can't congregate like this," April shouted as she stood directly over Mill, her weapons firing ceaselessly. James bent down to see how he was, under her cover. April felt Angel press his back against hers. She faintly heard Mill hissing through his teeth. April knew they would be dead in moments if they did not move.

  "Go!" She needed not say more. James hauled Mill to his feet and dragged him back to the gate at full speed. The Scarlet and Angel whirled away from each other, drawing all the fire. They then turned, faced the great house, and side by side, leveled out into a sprint, her guns pointed one straight ahead and one to her left, his pointing ahead and to his right. They mowed through the Storms, then leaped into the air the moment their pattern became predictable. They ducked and rolled, then hopped up to face the last ten Storms that guarded the second gate.

  In five blasting seconds they all lay dead.

  Eerie, heated silence fell, and April felt the warmth from her guns wafting up against the skin of her hands.

  Her shoulders twitched, and Angel jerked—a voice emitted from a hidden speaker.

  "Well done," it acknowledged, though the tone was flat. "It has been educational to watch you."

  "Who is speaking?" April demanded.

  "We are The King's Majesty Men, the faithful Knights of the Kingdom."

  "What is your name?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "I am Scarlet April Weston, and this is Sir

  Matthew—"

  "We know who you are," the voice cut in. "We've watched you coming for at least an hour."

  April raised an eyebrow.

  "Indeed? Impressive security."

  "The best."

  "So...why are you talking to us instead of burning us alive with H-13 or sniping us?" the Scarlet inquired. She felt Angel step closer to her, almost touching her shoulder.

  "We are not murderers."

  "Oh, no?" Angel snapped. "What do you call these fifty-odd Storms?"

  "We knew you would have no trouble," came the easy answer. "We wanted to see your skills for ourselves-and give you the opportunity to join us."

  "Really?" April canted her head. "And why would we want to do that?"

  "We were hoping you would have seen our point by now—that emotion is dangerous, volatile, disorganized, and brings disarray and confusion and disorder to the whole of society."

  April's eyes narrowed.

  "Is that what you think?"

  "Of course."

  April shook her head.

  "Emotion doesn't bring disarray and confusion and disorder."

  "Then what is the cause of this chaos, Scarlet?" the voice snapped.

  Her face softened.

  "Being alive. Being human. And living in a world where bad things happen." She took a breath, attuning her senses to her surroundings. "And you know that, don't you? You finally know what it's like to be human." Her tone darkened. "But somehow, Herald has persuaded some of the finest fighters in the country to turn into cowards, and bow mindlessly to his control."

  "This form of communication is tiring, Scarlet," came the bored reply. "Won't you come in?"

  Angel smirked over at her.

  "No," April answered loudly. "We have nothing to negotiate with you. In fact, we are only here to deliver a warning." She spread her stance and addressed the broad front window of the mansion, through which the speaker was certainly looking. "We have discovered your Regulator plant, and this location is known to Restoration Base. If you do not come out right now and surrender yourselves, we will destroy this mansion and the plant."

  "Considering that one of your number just entered this building, I highly doubt that," the voice replied. "However, we still wish to deal personally with you. So we will all come out now and kill you ourselves."

  Chapter Eight

  John lowered his head, letting his deep breath out slowly, his eyes fluttering closed. He focused all his senses forward, gauging the width of the hallway, and the rate at which the guards approached.

  Their clattering footsteps grew loud. He heard their quickened breathing. He recognized the clicking of their weapons against their vests.

  "There he is!" The filtered exclamation rang through the corridor. Heat rushed through him
. His eyes snapped open.

  Five cloaked and helmeted guards.

  He saw their fear-their eyes widened and their strides hesitated. He did not let them recover.

  They brought their automatic weapons up.

  His muscles fired. He ran directly at them, full tilt.

  "Watch out!"

  They pulled their triggers. Bullets skidded past his feet. Others slammed into the wall behind him, sending clouds of dust shooting into the air. He ducked and rolled. He sprang up, only five meters in front of them, and spread his arms like wings, firing all the while.

  The first three guards collapsed, screaming.

  He whirled, ducking low, pulling his trigger and catching the left-hand guard in the shoulder. John rose, fell into a backstance and finished the last man with a shot directly to his head.

  Silence fell as the echoes of the gunshots faded, along with the clatter of smoking shells against the hard floor. John stared down at their blank, startled faces, and felt cold all over. His jaw tightened.

  They had taken his children.

  Stepping over a body, he quietly made his way to the end of the corridor, discovered a staircase, and headed upward.

  Thomas leaned against the cold hood of the car, straining his ears. The wind moaned and twigs rattled softly. Shadows moved silently in the depths of the woods. Shafts of moonlight shifted against the lifeless ground.

  Then he heard it.

  Rapid, uneven, labored footsteps against the hard road. Gasping. Groaning. Murmured words.

  Thomas straightened, his hand tightening on his revolver.

  Then, two figures stumbled into view: a tall, bald-headed man bearing the weight of another, who was injured. Thomas' heart stopped.

  "James!" he cried. "Who do you have?"

  "Mill," came the grunted reply.

  Thomas gasped shakily, guilty relief darting through him before he burst into action. He swung around and flung open the car door so James could hustle a moaning Mill into the back seat.