Joseph Lewis - Halcyon

He shrugged. “Probably.”

She let her gaze drift across the yard, no longer seeing the bodies or the buildings or the trains. They were all just meaningless blurs of color and light. “So, that night, you came to kill him because you wanted to kill him. You wanted another soul for your sword. You wanted his skills. You wanted to steal his strength to make yourself a better killer.”

Aker snorted and tried to straighten up a bit taller, but he winced and put his hand to the burned side of his neck. “Yeah, something like that. It was worth it, too. I could fight like him.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Qhora said. For a moment, the sun-bleached gravel almost looked like the glaring snowfields of Espana, and then like the pale beaches at Cartagena, and then like the bright streets of Cusco.

So many places I’d rather be, so far away, so far from where I am.

And what I am.

And who I am.

She swallowed. “During the war, Enzo fought for his survival, and for his king, and for his fellow soldiers. After the war, Enzo fought to protect the people he cared for, and even to protect people he didn’t know. And as a teacher, Enzo fought for peace and justice. He wanted to end war. All war. He hasn’t…he hadn’t killed anyone for many years. I remember once,” she smiled, “we were attacked in the street and Enzo pretended to kill those men because he didn’t think I’d understand why he left them alive.”

“Oh?” Aker winced. “And you understand now? Now that you’re all civilized and holy?”

“No.” Qhora stared at him blankly. “I’ve tried for years to understand why such a gifted warrior as my Enzo would leave his enemies alive, why he would show mercy to people who wanted him dead, and why he was so humble. He deserved to be proud. He was strong and brave. A soldier, a hero, a teacher. Everyone loved him and respected him. But he clung to his faith, to his three-faced god.” She touched the triquetra medallion on her chest. “Uphold the Father’s justice, defend the Mother’s life, and temper all things with the Son’s mercy and compassion. It is the Espani way. It was Enzo’s way.” She paused to look down at the little golden disk in her hand. “But it isn’t my way.”

Aker grimaced. “What are you going to do with me?” He glanced over his shoulder at the two Mazighs. Taziri was reloading the gun bolted to her arm. The detective had already reloaded his black revolver and was staring flatly at the Aegyptian.

“I’m giving you to the Mazighs. You’ll go back to Marrakesh. You’ll stand trial. You’ll go to prison. Or maybe they’ll execute you. I don’t know. I doubt they’ll torture you. That isn’t their way. But to honor my husband’s love of justice, you will live to stand trial. I swear that.” She tilted her head back to look at the sky. A single faint strand of cloud stretched from east to west, torn and driven by the sea wind. “But that isn’t enough for me.”

She felt her chest drawing in, crushing her ribs around her heart. It hurt just to breathe and a dozen tiny claws seemed to be tearing at her throat, making it harder and harder to speak. The rims of her eyes burned. She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. “You took my husband from me. And you took my son’s father. Forever. So now I will take something of yours. Forever.” She swallowed and steadied her voice, and then screamed, “TURIIIIIII!!!!!!!”

The harpy eagle screamed a wordless scream high overhead, a scream that shredded the sky and pierced the ear, a scream that was more than inhuman, a scream beyond rage or hate. It was a herald’s cry. A god’s cry.

Qhora raised the tip of her knife to point at Aker’s face, and the man glared at her and then up at the sky. Instantly his face was transformed into a mask of wide-eyed terror and the man spun and took three running steps before the enormous vengeful mass of feathers and talons streaked out of the sky and smashed into his head and shoulders. Aker twisted and fell to the ground with the eagle’s claws sunk deep into his face. Turi hunched his shoulders and lifted his wings for balance, screening the man’s upper body from view, but Qhora saw the harpy’s head strike down again and again as the blood trickled over his talons.

Aker jerked and rolled from side to side and wrapped his arms around his face to shield himself from the viciously darting beak. But the more he flailed and kicked and thrashed, the deeper Turi’s talons sank into his flesh. And then the eagle’s head shot down and stayed down, and Aker screamed. “Oh God! Help me! Please, God, somebody help me! Help me! PLEASE! HELP ME! SOMEBODY HELP ME!”

Qhora almost smiled. Instead she cleared her throat and held out her arm. “Turi. To me.”

The harpy lifted his head to look over his shoulder at her with one luminous golden eye, and then he hopped and flapped into the air, glided across the few short yards between them, and perched heavily on her arm. He wrapped his bloody talons gently around her arm, and Qhora watched the blood drip from his beak. “Good boy.”

Aker curled up on his side, his hands pressed to his eyes and painted in blood. He gasped and shuddered and sobbed quietly in the dust. “My eyes…my eyes…God, please…my eyes…”

“He’s all yours now, detective,” Qhora said.

Kenan holstered his gun and sauntered over to inspect his prisoner with a squint and a grimace. “Thanks. I guess.”

Qhora walked past him and paused beside Taziri. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. You?”

“I’m fine.” Qhora glanced back once across the rail yard over the dead men and the crying men, over the burning swords and scorch marks, over Mirari and Salvator and Tycho, and finally over Kenan squatting beside Aker. “I’m ready to go home now, captain.”

Lewis, Joseph Robert

Halcyon (The Complete Trilogy)

The days that followed…

“Are we there yet?” Shifrah smiled across the compartment at Kenan.

The detective glanced over at her, shook his head, and went back to staring out the window. Shifrah sighed and looked at the other bench seat in their little private room of the Eranian passenger car.

Aker lay very still, but his snoring was quite loud. Perhaps he was faking, but Shifrah doubted it. The Aegyptian had whimpered and moaned all through the long hours in the rail yard as Taziri arranged for the Halcyon to be hitched to a west-bound train.

Tycho had strapped his new sword across his back and gone in search of a doctor, and returned with a distinguished Hellan surgeon. The surgeon had clucked his tongue at Aker’s missing eyes and burnt scalp, but pronounced them relatively superficial and that he would be fine, though blind barring some extraordinary advance in Mazigh optical prosthetics.

The surgeon had then bound Qhora’s arm, stitched Shifrah’s arm and reset her shoulder, collected Salvator’s money, and left with a song on his lips.

By mid-afternoon the Halcyon had been coupled to the end of an Eranian train, the aging steam locomotive had rumbled to life, and they had all watched Alexandria clatter past the windows and shrink into the distance behind them. All except the Italian and the dwarf, who had watched the train leave from the platform.

Tycho had waved.

Salvator hadn’t.

Time to see where we stand. Shifrah sighed again. “I suppose I’ll need to get a private detective’s license when we get back. Who do I see about that?”

Kenan looked at her. “So you’re serious? About that? About us?”

She nodded.

“You’re just going to give up your old life, just like that?”

She nodded. “It was just a job, Kenan. People change jobs all the time.”

“Murder isn’t a job.”