Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (34 page)

A shout drew Robinson and Chimosh to a southern window. They saw two figures emerging from the trees. It only took Robinson a second to recognize Friday.

Arga’Zul’s Flayers rose as he returned. They were hungry for the battle.

“There are no finer killers in the world than my Flayers,” he began. “And no greater prey than the vermin we are about to exterminate. Let us rid the world of their false prowess and prove once and for all that we are the greatest warriors to ever walk the earth!”

The Flayers roared. Bloodlust infused the air. The powerful drums beat so loudly they shook the earth.

Arga’Zul swelled with pride as he looked over his ranks. And then he saw movement at the end of the field.

“The girl!” he howled. “Stop her!”

Five Flayers broke away in pursuit of Friday and Jaras, their war cries filling the air as they ran.

Jaras felt his bladder release when he saw the savages behind him. All he could think to do was grab Tessa by the arm and pull her toward the terminal. She rasped and struggled with each step. Jaras was certain they were about to die when a figure ran out of the building in front of him. Jaras blinked. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The figure looked like Robinson, but he’d been told his old friend was dead. Was he hallucinating?

Robinson’s legs kicked up the moist earth as he sprinted toward the trees. When he saw the Flayers closing in on Friday, he reached for his axe and pistol. For the first time, he felt comfortable with both in his hands.

Chimosh watched from the terminal with the others. He had held them back, knowing he needed every warrior for the battle to come. If this frail figure approaching was indeed the princess, she would have to make it on her own. It was three against five. The odds were against Crusoe. And yet Chimosh had seen the boy fight firsthand. It gave him hope.

Each time Friday stumbled, a wash of black spots clouded her vision. But just when she thought she might pass out, she saw a form running toward her. Despite her wishes in the grave, the image was disconcerting because she had been told Crusoe was dead. She’d seen the cart pinning him tear away from its moorings to be swallowed by the raging river. Arga’Zul’s men had scoured the riverbanks to ensure he did not survive. But this moment felt like more than
déjà vu
. Despite the Flayers and the drums, a kernel of hope began to blossom in her heart. But for her, confirmation did not come via his presence or the familiar weapons in his hands. It came when she saw his eyes. For they were not focused on her but the opposition behind her. Only then did she accept that he was truly alive.

Miles away, Boss knew she had made the proper choice. And yet, none of her men would look her in the eyes. That was the worst part. She’d saved their hides once again, and somehow, they’d turned it around on her.

“It was the right decision,” she said defiantly to Mr. Dandy.

“No one said otherwise, dear,” Mr. Dandy replied.

“Then why all the glum faces?”

“They know you liked the lad. I suspect some of them liked him as well.”

“What’s to like? He was reckless, brash, and pig-headed.”

Mr. Dandy smiled, but said softly, “Reminds me of someone else I know.”

The Flayer grunted as he released the spear. On instinct, Jaras tackled Friday to the ground. This gave Robinson the window he needed. He didn’t have time to thumb the laser sighting. He was moving too fast to use it effectively anyway. He aimed for the center mass as Boss had taught him and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the lead Flayer, and he folded in two.

The smoky discharge burned Robinson’s eyes, but he retargeted and fired twice more. The first shot missed, but the second shot struck the closest Flayer in the face when he was only five paces away.

The remaining savages cut the distance in a second, forcing Robinson to dip under a curving blade and strike his axe into the second man’s knee. The strike reverberated up Robinson’s arm as the Flayer’s leg cleaved in two.

Before he could rise, a spear bit into Robinson’s shoulder, throwing him off balance. But as he stumbled, he brought up the gun and fired it for the fourth time. The report hurt his ears, but he watched his target fall, kicking up dust.

The last Flayer charged with a cry, his cudgel arcing up over his head. Robinson pulled the trigger a fifth time, but heard only a dull
click
. Misfire.

The Flayer stalled, but only for a moment. He swung his cudgel at Robinson’s head, which proved to be a mistake. Had he aimed for any part of the body, he wouldn’t have missed. But Robinson threw himself forward, feeling the blade cutting overhead before burying his axe into the man’s foot.

The Flayer screamed, stunned by the sight of his foot ripped in two. Before he knew it, the boy was already on his feet. He saw the axe wheeling around. Saw the muscles in the boy’s arm stretch. Watched as the axe swung up to hit him under the chin. He felt the give of bone and tasted blood before the lights went out for good.

Friday fought back a smile when Robinson turned toward her. He had become a beautiful, deadly thing to watch, so far removed from the boy she first met. And yet, part of her had loved that boy too. His innocence. His idealism. He had become a warrior she was proud of.

The thought disappeared when Friday saw Robinson’s grip tighten around the axe as he stepped toward Jaras. He was setting his feet for a killing blow when Friday threw up her hands.

“No!” she yelled.

Robinson’s blade froze in the air.

“He saved me,” she gasped.

Robinson looked confused, as if she had been speaking another language. But then he lowered his axe, and she knew the message had gotten through.

Robinson grabbed Friday by the arm and pulled her toward the terminal. He glanced back at Jaras and said, “Follow me.”

On the opposite side of the field, Arga’Zul shook his head in disbelief. The boy should be dead a hundred times over, but he kept coming back. He had believed the boy was lucky and that, eventually, fate would catch up with him. But there, on the battlefield, he wondered if someone or something was indeed watching over him. And then he quickly dismissed the notion. It was replaced with a venomous hate. The boy would be made to pay, and he prayed it would be by his hands. If Arga’Zul survived, he swore he would feast on the boy’s flesh.

But first, there was one thing to do.

Arga’Zul held up his mighty blade and howled. The drumbeat fell silent, as his army of Flayers grew tense and leaned forward. Whatever fatigue they’d felt from their long march from Atlanta was gone. War was their business. The battlefield was their home. It was the only place they belonged.

With his army in thrall, Arga’Zul glanced up to the tracks, where his brother watched from the safety of high ground. Baras’Oot expected him to fail, but Arga’Zul had been defying the odds all his life. He had been born for battle. He had never met his equal. This one he would win on his own.

Arga’Zul closed his eyes and took in one last inhalation. Brisk air mixed with sweat and soil and, soon, blood.

He opened his eyes and gave the order to charge.

The drums pounded anew.

The Flayers screamed as they sprinted across the field.

The battle of their lifetime had commenced.

Chimosh waited until the Flayers were halfway across the field before he gave the order to fire. The first release of ancient weapon fire was terrifying and yet beautiful too.

Through the smoke, he saw many enemies fall, only to see another wave of warriors quickly take their place.

Inside the structure, the gunfire was deafening. Chimosh had barely registered Robinson’s return with the princess and the stranger. The princess collapsed on the floor. And yet, despite her pale, sickly appearance, he saw the ferocity of the Aserra in her. She was beautiful.

The ancient weapons had been evenly dispersed, and even now, older Aserra rushed to deliver new magazines to the users. These weapons were a boon, but they were not of the Goddess. They would do until the battle was even, and then they would be cast aside in favor of real fighting.

Arga’Zul’s forces marshaled forward against the onslaught of bullets. As his ranks fell, he understood why his brother had coveted these weapons so fiercely. But he had fought tougher forces before. He gave the order for his ranks to split. The first half sought shelter behind a levy where their archers provided cover fire.

The second group took up position on the opposite side of the field, behind a wall of shields. As the Aserra atop the terminal were struck down, his column moved up quickly. Once they reached the building, the day would be his.

Baras’Oot watched the battle unfold and felt a pang of jealousy that often accompanies those who witness greatness but do not participate in it. At the same time, he reminded himself that he was not a member of this orchestra of death, but its conductor. His brother might survive the first movement, but he would not survive the last. Baras’Oot knew this to be true because he had brought more than just an army to fight the battle. He had brought his own weapon of the ancients—one ten thousand rifles could not stop.

A sudden scuffle on the ground drew his eyes away from the fight. The stranger, Saah, was screaming at him, held back by Baras’Oot’s guards.

“My son!” Saah shouted. “He’s in that building! You have to call your troops back!”

“It’s too late,” Baras’Oot scoffed. His irritation with this man had reached the breaking point. “The battle has begun.”

“But Jaras will die in there!” Vardan Saah screamed.

“He fled with the girl on his own accord. This end is on him.”

Saah saw he would make no more headway, so he ran for the field.

Inside the terminal, the Aserra were itching to get to real combat. The ancient weapons had worked to even the numbers, but now they were starting to fail. from misfires and exhausted ammunition. It was time to take up the field before the Flayer king unleashed the larger portion of his army.

“My Aserra brethren!” Chimosh shouted. “The Goddess has blessed us this day by bringing our enemies to our door! Let us honor her and all who have fallen in her name by cleansing the earth of them once and for all! For the people of the mountain!”

The Aserra roared and charged for the doors.

Robinson moved to join them until he saw Friday struggling to her feet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“I will fight,” she said.

“You can’t even stand. Stay here with Jaras.” She shook her head. “Dammit, Friday, for once in your life would you listen to someone else? You can’t fight. And the Flayers still outnumber us two to one. They need me out there, but I can’t go unless I know you’re safe. Please.”

Friday looked into his eyes and felt their crushing weight. And then her stomach spasmed again, and she agreed.

Robinson’s relief was evident.

“I’ll be back as soon as it’s over.”

He kissed her and left.

Arga’Zul saw the Aserra break from the building.

So be it
, the war chieftain thought.
We will meet you in the middle.

The sun had just risen above the trees when Arga’Zul gave the order for a full charge. He and his army raced for the heart of the impeding forces.

The roar of their confluence was deafening. Metal clashed on metal. Wood shields shattered. Crimson blood sprayed the air as arrows sang overhead. Grunts of exertion were punctuated with cries of pain and exhilaration. Man’s oldest symphony played on.

The Flayers were ferocious warriors who relied on brute strength and force. The Aserra had technique and agility. Power against speed. Numbers against skill. It was an even match.

In the center of the field, Arga’Zul held count against several Aserra, but none could parry the force of his attack. He splintered staves and crushed shields while defeating every foe who stood before him.

Chimosh made a similar path, staining the ground red with the blood of his enemies as he and the Flayer chieftain moved toward each other in a date with destiny.

Baras’Oot recognized the moment the battle had turned against his brother. No matter how much training the Bone Flayers had, the Aserra would always be better. He could have sent his own army to join the battle, but that would only have cost more lives. Instead, he gave the signal, and his men climbed to the top of the train car to uncover his special prize.

Robinson looked up from the body of another vanquished foe just in time to see the king’s men whip the tarp away from a metal contraption. He realized immediately what it was: a cannon removed from a tank carcass at the City of the Pyramid. It was turning in their direction.

The first blast struck where the fighting was heaviest. Blood and guts flew across the field. Those nearest the carnage were startled, but they never considered abandoning the fight.

More shells rang in, killing warriors, regardless of affiliation.

Arga’Zul had heard the shells and understood his brother’s decision. Had the situation been reversed, he might have made the same. All he could do now was take out as many enemies as possible, starting with the boy, whom he’d finally sighted.