Joseph Lewis - Halcyon

The bounty hunter snapped his pistol shut and looked at her. Taziri blinked.

They’re both standing awfully close to the Halcyon. Maybe close enough.

“Bastet!” Taziri kept her eyes locked on the pistol rising to point at her heart. “Pull the big lever!”

“But you said-”

“Pull it now!”

A sharp clang echoed inside the locomotive and the outer wall of the Halcyon clicked and hissed and slammed outward on its hinges, right down onto the two bounty hunters. The unfolding wing smashed both of them in the heads and shoulders, sending them sprawling to the ground. They moaned and rolled over, crawled out from under the wing, and scrambled away across the rail yard.

Taziri blew out the breath she was holding. “Thank you! All clear. You can push the lever back into place now.”

As the Halcyon ’s wings slowly retracted to restore its train-like camouflage, Kenan jumped down from the hatch and walked over to her. He nudged the gray puddle on the ground with the toe of his boot, and the entire puddle shifted as a solid mass. “Already cold,” he said. “What does that mean?”

“It means the souls are all free,” Taziri said. She looked up, half expecting to see faces or heavenly lights all around them, but there was nothing but the freight cars and the clear blue sky. “Don Lorenzo is free.”

“If you say so.” Kenan paced over to the man in green and kicked him in the leg. “Hey you. Get up. You’re under arrest for the murder of Lorenzo Quesada.”

A deep thud shuddered through the earth and Taziri turned to see a tall slender man with jet black skin standing by the Halcyon ’s nose. He wore a simple white tunic belted with gold, shining gold arm-bands, gold rings, gold hair-beads, and a small golden heart on a cord around his neck. His face was hidden behind a black mask sculpted like the face of a dog or jackal. The straight black staff in his hand rested on the ground. “I see you have all arrived safely,” he said. “My task is complete.”

“Anubis!” Bastet leapt from the hatch. “You idiot! You brought the wrong ones!”

But the young man thumped his staff on the earth and his entire body burst apart into a cloud of aether that vanished on the hot wind.

“Oh no you don’t!” Bastet glanced over her shoulder as she pulled her cat mask down over her face. “Good bye, captain! It was nice to meet you!” And she rippled apart into a sparkling white mist.

Taziri waved to the girl who was no longer there, but a cry of pain drew her attention back to the yard. She jogged to the end of the freight cars and looked out at the station. The Bantu and the Songhai were still trading punches, but had left a trail of bodies across the platform. Behind and around the station office she could still see the crowd of gawkers watching the morning’s entertainment.

Then a shout went up among the onlookers. They all turned to the east end of the street, some pointing, but most shuffling in the opposite direction. Then more and more of them began backing away from the east end of the street, moving faster and faster out of sight.

Taziri squinted where they were pointing and called over her shoulder. “Hey Kenan! You might want to reload your gun.” She pulled a screwdriver from her pocket and started fiddling with her brace-gun to unjam the trigger mechanism.

“Why?”

“It looks like your prisoner has some more friends.”

They hurried along the edge of the street, trailing Khai and his column of green-robed swordsmen. The Aegyptians broke into a sprint shortly after leaving the library, and now they all raced across the city, crashing through the early morning press of people and animals.

“My lady,” Mirari said, “should I run ahead to warn the captain? She may be in danger.”

“No. These men might follow you, or they might hear you once you arrive.” Qhora grimaced at the thought of Taziri alone in the rail yard, unprotected and unsuspecting. “If the captain sits still and remains quiet locked inside the Halcyon, she probably has a better chance of remaining hidden.”

I hope.

“And what exactly are we going to do when we arrive at the yard and find a company of Osirians, and the Bantu, and the Songhai, and God knows who else between us and the train?” Salvator asked. “There are only four of us.”

A high-pitched cry drew Qhora’s gaze up to the pale blue sky and she squinted at the tiny black shape wheeling high overhead. “Five.”

“We need a plan,” the Italian insisted.

“You’re welcome to make one,” Qhora said. “But we’re going to save the captain, one way or another. She and I are both going home to our children.”

They ran on, and Qhora found herself dashing through markets and past fountains that she had no memory of. On the night they arrived in the city, Salvator had led them to the docks to hire his thugs and to await the steamer from Carthage, and she had been in no mood for sight-seeing. But now she had no idea how far they were from their destination, nor what landmarks would announce their arrival.

In the distance a noise was growing. It was the noise of countless voices raised in wordless emotion. Fear. Anger. Hate. Excitement. Men and women shouted, stone clinked, steel clanged, and boots crackled as they slid across the dusty ground. Qhora gripped her lone stiletto as Salvator and Mirari drew their longer blades. The Osirians slowed their pace as they turned the last corner, and then they drew their swords. A dozen seireikens, some burning dark orange and others burning bright gold, hissed and sizzled in the dusty air.

Across the street a lone woman screamed, and then others screamed, and then the mass of pedestrians began to run, scrambling and clawing and running away from the fiery swords. Some men fell and were trampled by their panicking neighbors, but the streets were wide enough and the crowds were thin enough that most of the people escaped quickly, and the stragglers were able to rise and limp away as well.

Beyond the men in green Qhora could see an angry line of dirty, bloody brawlers. Some looked to be the darker men of the Bantu kingdoms and she recognized the others as the brown-clad soldiers of Songhai. Some of them still had their hands around each others’ throats and their knives dripping with each others’ blood. But when the Sons of Osiris drew their bright swords, the battle slowed and came to a full stop as every eye turned to look at the green men.

With equal slowness and care, the Bantu and Songhai men pulled apart, releasing each other from their death grips to stand in a ragged line, all bruised and bloodied, staring at the newcomers. Qhora put out her arms, motioning her comrades to stay back with her in the shadows behind the Sons of Osiris to wait and watch.

Khai stood in the center of his men with his searing white sword in his hand. He flicked the tip of his seireiken at the battered fighters across the street in front of the train station. “Kill them all. And bring me Aker.”

The Sons of Osiris dashed forward with grace and power, driving in straight lunges and whirling in fiery arcs to cut down their enemies. A few of the Bantu raised their pistols only to be hacked to pieces. The Songhai raised their rifles, but the seireiken blades sliced through the barrels and stocks as though the iron and wood were soft cheese and bread, leaving blacked stumps and smoldering embers in their wake. Common gray blades shattered like kindling before the aetherium swords.

After a mere ten seconds of brave yelling and charging, the Bantu and Songhai turned in a white-eyed frenzy and fled the street, leaving more than twenty of their brothers-in-arms lying dead in the dust. Cauterized limbs and stumps dotted the ground, but not a single drop of blood fell to the earth. The wounds smoked and the men’s clothing flickered with tiny tongues of fire.