James Axler - Dragon City

DeFore spoke up then, her voice sounding rather loud in the confined area. “We need to operate,” she announced. “Whatever this thing in Edwards’s head is, we need to see what it’s doing and how. That could provide a valuable insight into how Ullikummis is spreading his influence.”

Dr. Kazuko nodded in assent. “Loath as I am to open a man up like this, it seems the only option left open to us,” he agreed. “And if, as you say, it’s some kind of stone that’s in there, then not doing anything will be far more dangerous than operating. This man’s brain is calcifying as the growth spreads. Left unchecked, he could lose his power of speech, his rational will—he would be left as a vegetable.”

Lakesh’s brow furrowed as he considered what the two doctors were proposing. “Do we have the facilities here to operate?” he asked Kazuko.

The Tigers of Heaven doctor nodded. “I can call for everything we require,” he said. “We could likely operate as soon as tomorrow, if you’re agreeable, Dr. Singh.”

With weary reluctance, Lakesh slowly nodded. “Whatever it all means, it’s time we got to the root of the problem.”

* * *

WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF two Tigers of Heaven guards, Grant escorted Edwards back on a gurney to a windowless room that was located just belowground level in the vast complex of Shizuka’s winter palace. Edwards was strapped down, hand and foot, to the gurney. However, despite being sedated, he still had some fight in him, and he glared at Grant as the larger man escorted him to his cell.

“I don’t like doing this much, either,” Grant assured Edwards as he saw the rage burning in the man’s eyes.

Under Grant’s instruction, the Tigers of Heaven prepared to move Edwards from the gurney to the single futonlike mattress that lay against one wall. The guards untied the straps that held Edwards’s feet down, but his ankles remained bound to one another so that he had no hope of escape. Then they moved up to his wrists, untying the tight straps and freeing his hands, a guard standing on either side of the gurney.

Grant watched warily from the end of the cot, his face emotionless as Edwards was untied from the gurney. Like everything in the winter palace, the room was pleasantly decorated, the peach wallpaper featuring a flock of white doves soaring over its sunset colors. Despite the austerity of the single mattress, featuring as it did four horizontal straps that could buckle the occupant in place, it still looked typically artistic, the dark swirl of pattern there mixed with gold thread that caught the soft side lighting of the room. A low occasional table had been placed against one wall, a vase of dried flowers in its center to add color to the room. This hidden room had likely been used as servants’ quarters once upon a time, and in other circumstances it could seem quite delightful, Grant was sure. As was, however, it had been pressed into service as a jail cell, its lack of windows ideal to prevent any chance of escape. Edwards was sedated and kept restrained, but even so, he was an ex-Magistrate, one of the class of highly trained enforcers in the towering villes that dotted the country. Any enemy underestimated him at their own folly.

But as the Tigers of Heaven guard unstrapped Edwards’s bound right wrist, the ex-Mag moved, lashing out with his fist and knocking the warrior backward. Already unstrapped, Edwards’s left hand snatched at the other guard’s arm, yanking him with such force that the man flipped over the gurney and crashed headfirst to the floor.

“Dammit,” Grant cursed as he came at Edwards from the foot of the gurney.

Although they were still bound together, Edwards kicked out with both feet, striking Grant high in the chest.

Grant staggered backward, his breath bursting out of his mouth with a great “whomph.” He had righted himself in an instant, and he turned once more to Edwards, his hands forming into fists.

Behind the gurney, Grant saw the twin Tigers of Heaven recovering. Both men were well trained in the arts of ninjitsu, and while Edwards’s attack had come as a surprise it had not been enough to render either man inoperative. They circled the gurney, warily approaching Edwards from above and behind his head.

“Kill you!” Edwards spit, mouth foaming, his hate-filled eyes fixed on Grant.

“Not this time, bucko,” Grant assured him as he grabbed Edwards’s kicking legs, fixing them a moment later in a two-handed grip.

“Kill you!” Edwards snarled again as he writhed in place, batting at the Tigers of Heaven as they tried to restrain him.

“Let’s get more sedation,” Grant instructed as he held on to those kicking legs. “Quickly now, I’ve got him.”

One of the warriors reached into the cloth bag he wore at his hip on a crosswise strap, producing a hypodermic syringe. In a half minute he had prepped it with sedative, flicking it to pop any bubbles that remained in the clear mixture. Grant continued to hold Edwards’s legs as the man kicked back and forth, his body tossing on the gurney like a struggling fish on a hook. The remaining guard tried to hold Edwards’s hands above his head and found himself almost knocked aside by several attempts by the ex-Mag.

Then the other guard approached Edwards with the hypo, and Edwards watched it with angry eyes.

“Just be a moment,” the Tigers of Heaven warrior promised, his voice calm despite how fraught the situation was.

“Fuck you,” Edwards growled, pulling both arms across his body and tossing the other guard across his chest as he hung on there. The guard tumbled over the gurney and slammed into his companion, head smashing against head with the brutal thump of bone on bone.

Grant watched as the two guards slumped to the floor, both of them dazed by the impact as the syringe rolled out of reach. Faster than thought, Edwards folded his body at the waist, aiming his forehead at Grant’s. Grant reared back, releasing his grip on Edwards’s legs.

“Utopia is upon you,” Edwards hissed, the madness burning behind his eyes as he flipped himself on the gurney.

“Yeah,” Grant snarled, taking a step toward the rocking gurney, his fist drawn back. “Well, let’s not get too excited about it just yet.”

With those words, Grant snapped out a solid punch at Edwards’s jaw. Grant’s fist connected with a crack, and Edwards shook on the gurney as he struggled to defend himself.

“Hate to do it, man,” Grant explained as he pulled his fist back for a second blow. But as he did so, Edwards’s own struggles proved the man’s downfall. The rocking gurney suddenly upended, and Edwards was thrown to the hard floor in a tumble of limbs. With his ankles still tied, the ex-Mag lay struggling there as the gurney crashed down beside him.

Grant watched as the gurney slammed against Edwards’s side, and the already sedated man slapped against the floor.

“You still got any fight left in you?” Grant asked as he stood over Edwards’s fallen form.

“Kill…” Edwards muttered, blood on his lips.

“Yeah,” Grant said as he picked up the hypodermic syringe, “that’s what I thought.”

A moment later Grant had pressed the needle into Edwards’s vein as the man struggled woozily from the blow he’d taken. Thirty seconds later, Edwards lay restrained on the futon, happily snoring as he drifted off to sleep.

Grant checked on the two guards who had accompanied him to house Edwards. Apart from a little wounded pride, they both seemed pretty much okay. “You need to watch this guy,” Grant reminded them both. “Used to be a Magistrate—he’s trained to turn impossible odds against you.”

The Tigers of Heaven genuflected appreciatively as Grant left the cell.

Chapter 2

For Grant, Edwards’s condition was something personal. He made his way through the Cerberus operations center, a temporary arrangement consisting of four laptop computers attached to a powerful server hub that hummed in one corner of the room. The room itself was originally a simple communal area, a sparsely decorated living room with several low tables and a wide mat covering the floor. The mat had been rolled back to allow for the wiring to trail across the room. Donald Bry, the ginger-haired assistant to Lakesh, was busily linking two of the laptop units together. He lay on his back with a screwdriver in one hand and a pen between his teeth, his mop of copper-colored curls in its usual disarray.