The Destiny (Blood and Destiny Book 4) (10 page)

“Does it matter?”

Kerrigan’s fingers
twitched towards his belt until he remembered that he’d given both blades to
Holt and Larissa. He felt an odd smile tug on his lips in the dark. It had been
a long while since he’d had the opportunity to truly fight someone. He’d missed
out on the majority of the battle in the field. He followed the voices as they
moved towards the cab car until he was just a few steps behind the nearest man,
taking care to judge his height from the distance of his voice and trying to
pick out his build from the heaviness in his steps.

“I’ll still screw her
if she’s dead,” the man said.

Kerrigan reached
forward, wrapped his arm around the man’s neck, and twisted as fast as
possible. An audible crack seemed to echo throughout the tunnel, and he dropped
the body to the ground, followed by a thud.

“What the—”

Kerrigan launched
forwards, grabbing the next man by whatever chunk of flesh his hand came into
contact with and plunging his fist into where he expected to find a face. The
hit was perfect, a satisfying crunch of a nose disintegrating beneath his
knuckles. He kept his fists moving, striking at flesh, a leg wrapping around
his opponent’s knee and sending him crashing into the gravelly dirt. Something
solid connected with his shoulder and pitched him forwards. He dug his heels in
and braced his body, managing to stay upright despite the weight of a body
clinging to his back, trying to bring him down. The tunnel was still bathed in
darkness, and as someone in front of him landed a punch to his gut, he realized
he had no idea how many people he faced. He doubled over fast, both accepting
the force of the blow and throwing the man off his back at the same time. A
hand grabbed his leg, another struck his chin, and he fell to the ground,
disorientated and stunned.

He rolled, curling his
arms into his body, and bumped into something solid. More bodies fell on top of
him, weight crushing his ribs, an elbow smashing into his cheek, pain splitting
across his face. In the chaos, a male voice nearby called for blood and death,
and in that moment, he was struck with an unfamiliar sense of fear.

“Fuck, there’s
another,” someone else yelled.

Kerrigan couldn’t
process the meaning of the sentence as he tried in vain to fight back at the
bodies pinning him to the ground and alternately punching and kicking him.

The sound of gunshot
cracked and echoed through the tunnel; a new pain erupted in his shoulder.
Finally, some of the weight above shifted. A knee that had been pinning his
chest down disappeared, and he took full advantage of the moment, grabbing the
nearest leg and yanking it out, sending the man crashing to the ground. His
fists reawakened, and he whacked, kicked, bit, grabbed, and twisted at any
piece of flesh unfortunate enough to come into his path until the grunting and
shouting subsided and the attack ended.

“Larissa, light.”
Holt’s voice came from nearby. A moment later, a thin stream of light illuminated
the scene. Kerrigan was on his knees in the dirt, a collection of bodies strewn
around him—some dead, others out cold but still alive. He counted seven of
them. Holt stood at the opposite side of the tunnel, his own collection of
bodies at his feet, though his kills were far more gruesome. Pools of blood
dripped from the necks of his victims.

Kerrigan and Holt
stared at one another for a moment. He did his best not to count Holt’s
collection of bodies, but curiosity got the better of him. His heart sank a
little when he realized Holt had taken down eight of the grimy bastards. It
seemed equally unfair, considering he’d only had his fists to rely on when Holt
had possessed a knife. He wouldn’t have risked shooting the pistol in the dark.

“Gods, are you both okay?”
Larissa came from the cab and headed straight toward Holt, pawing over him
frantically. She had downed at least one man from her defensive position;
someone had obviously broken away from the pack.

He felt amazed once
again at her bravado. Kerrigan sighed and stood, instantly regretting it. Pain
shot through his body. He could feel the warmth of his own blood erupting from
cuts on his face and dribbling down his jaw. A new collection of bruises dotted
around the place, adding to the already aching collection he’d sustained during
the ship crash. Most of all, he was aware of the fresh hole in his shoulder.
His hand instinctively moved over the wound, blood seeping through his clothing
and coating his fingers, and he turned away from the pair of lovers staring at
him.

“Are you all right,
Colonel?” Larissa asked once she’d checked Holt over.

A voice at the back of
his head answered her honestly.
I’m shot
, it said.
I’m bleeding. I
need assistance. I need help
.

“I’m fine.” He nodded
and turned to walk the last few meters of the tunnel to the platform up ahead,
taking every last ounce of his strength to cover the limp he’d developed. He
kept his hand on the wound, applying pressure, already planning how to deal
with the injury. If they could get somewhere safe, somewhere with a fire, he
could jab a poker in the flame, wait until it glowed red, then seal it shut
with the heat. It would hurt, no doubt, and there was a risk of infection from
leaving the bullet in place, but every time he considered telling the others,
his damned pride stopped the words from emerging.

“Holt, what are you
doing?” Larissa’s strained voice came from somewhere behind.

“Finishing the job.”

Kerrigan glanced
behind, another bolt of pain shooting through his shoulder as he turned. Holt
systematically slashed his blade across the necks of the men whom Kerrigan had
taken down. Kerrigan gritted his teeth. He would have done the same if he’d
still had the blade. He probably would have fared far better in the whole fight
with a knife in his hands instead of a pistol, and he would have no doubt ended
up with a bigger pile of bodies on his side of the tunnel.

“Colonel.” Larissa
raced to catch up to him.

He turned away and
carried on ignoring the pain in his shoulder and the frustration of the whole
situation. He didn’t want to speak to her, afraid he would give away his injury
the moment he stopped biting down on his teeth. “How much farther?” he asked
her as curtly as possible.

“This is it,” she said,
climbing up onto the station platform and peering at the sign.

He clambered up onto
the platform ungracefully and stumbled towards the stairwell.

“I hope that’s the last
of them,” Larissa said, hurrying to catch up to him.

“So do I.”

“Unlikely,” Holt said
as he joined them, wiping fresh blood from the blade onto his shirt sleeve.

“Oh?” Larissa asked.

“They knew we were
coming. There may be more.”

“Give me back your
blade,” Kerrigan said to Larissa, passing her the gun. He would have preferred
to keep both weapons in hand but didn’t want to leave her completely defenseless.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

She smiled as she
passed the weapon back to him, and he gave her the gun. Holt immediately took
it from her hands and put his dagger in its place, giving Kerrigan a grim glare
as the three of them ascended the steps leading upward.

The smell of a cigar brought Cid around
from a fitful slumber. He rolled over and stretched his legs out, only to smack
his toes against something sharp. With a grunt, he sat up, a hazy ache wobbling
around his brain as his eyes adjusted to the dim, early-morning light. The protruding
hook from the window seemed to be the source of the pain in his toe.

“Bloody thing,” he
muttered as he kicked it. His back ached from sleeping across a train seat.

“Didn’t mean to wake
you,” Saunders said quietly from somewhere behind. Cid turned to see the
Lieutenant hunched over his knees, a cigar in his hand, long lines of blue
smoke curling up from the orange burning tip. He turned the cigar over and over
in his fingers, not actually smoking it, small flecks of ash falling from the
tip with each roll.

“Who’s on watch?” Cid
asked.

“The Friar.”

“Gods help us.”

“We don’t have a lot of
choice. He said he’ll bang a stick on a metal strut for noise if he can’t run
back to warn us of an impending attack.”

“Do we have weapons?”

Saunders sighed and
lifted his head, nodding towards the bundle on the seat opposite, which Cid
hadn’t noticed. There were a few pistols and one long rifle, a handful of
bullets strewn about the place, and what looked like a heavy walking cane.

“The cane?”

“If we run out of
bullets, it might do to beat someone to death. It’s pretty hard wood.”

“That’s both
resourceful and disturbing.”

“I haven’t had a chance
to sort through it all yet. Didn’t want to wake the two of you,” he said,
pointing at the pair of feet sticking out from a seat farther down the carriage.
Cid presumed they belonged to Sandy.

He nodded, then a flat
silence fell in the space between them. He didn’t want to think about the
harrowing things Saunders must have seen going through those dead bodies in the
station to retrieve the weapons, but his mind subjected him to the imagery
anyway. No wonder the poor man looked about fit to pass out. He wanted to say
something comforting or supportive, but neither came to mind.

“You can work on the
engine when it’s light. I removed the bodies,” Saunders said as he moved the
cigar to his lips then changed his mind, returning to just rolling it around.

“You going to actually
smoke that?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I
quit… I promised my girlfriend I wouldn’t smoke again.”

“Ah. Maybe you
shouldn’t, then.”

“I’m not even sure I
have a girlfriend anymore. If they’ve told her I’m dead…” Saunders growled to
himself quietly and ran his fingers through his hair, then flicked another pile
of ash onto the floor.

Cid searched his mind
again for something supportive, or helpful, or meaningful. Even a basic
coherent sentence might help. When nothing of use came to mind, he gave up and
sat tapping his fingers on his leg. “Did it look damaged?” he asked eventually
when his mind managed to think of the train engine without a pair of dead
bodies hanging around in there.

“What?”

“The engine? The
train?”

“Oh. I didn’t really
see. Sorry.”

“Well, if I can make an
airship fly with an engine, a basic steam train shouldn’t prove too much of a
bother. And if you can go through half the crazy stuff we’ve survived through
and come out alive, then getting your girlfriend back should be a walk in the
park.” Cid stood and picked a pistol out of the pile, hooking it into his belt.
Saunders stubbed the cigar out on the floor and lay back on the seat, closing
his eyes. If he didn’t know better, Cid could have sworn he saw a smile on the
Lieutenant’s lips.

Outside, the sky was
beginning to lighten. A cool breeze blew the smell of the still smouldering
airship across from the field, mildly masking the unpleasant stench of dead
bodies wafting up the platform from the station. Cid found Friar Narry sitting
on a step leading down to the main road. The elderly man appeared to be rocking
back and forth on his hefty rump and muttering incantations.

“Friar?”

Cid frowned when Narry
didn’t respond, and after a minute of waiting politely, he gave up. It didn’t
seem like a wise thing to interrupt a priest during meditation. As he headed to
the train engine, he made a mental note to tell Saunders that putting Narry on
watch wasn’t such a great idea.

The driver’s cab was
indeed empty. The inside was painted dark green and dotted with shining silver
rivets. He did his best to ignore the dark red splotches and stains on the
floor, walls, and across the machinery, but it sent a flutter through his
stomach every time his eye roved over a bloody patch.

He turned his attention
to the controls. Various valves and switches sat in a closed position. Several
of the pistons appeared bent out of shape. Whether by accident or by some form
of sabotage, he didn’t know, and while not impossible to fix, it would
certainly take some time and effort. Not to mention tools and materials he
doubted were in good supply anywhere nearby. He leaned against a wheel and
rested his forehead against his arm.

“How is she?” Narry’s
voice made him jump.

“Huh?”

“The engine. Is she
well? Will she run?”

“I’ll bloody make her
run if it’s our only option to get out of this Godsforsaken place.”

“Good. I have faith in
you. Anything you need?”

“Tools. Metal. A forge.
A soldering iron. Breakfast, coffee, a bath, fresh clothes. A week off with a
comfy bed.”

Narry chuckled, the
smile hidden beneath his big, bushy beard. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you manage even
half of that, I’ll never doubt my faith again,” Cid said. He turned his
attention back to the train. The firebox was cold, as he had expected, and
devoid of coal. He stuck his head out the window and glanced back at the
uncovered coal bunker. “Bugger,” he said when he couldn’t see a pile of coal
sticking out the top. “Bugger,” he said again once he’d climbed up and found
only a small pile of coal lining the bottom of the bunker. “Fucking scavengers.”

He looked around for
Narry, hoping to ask the man to forget the long list he’d just spouted at him
and pray to the Gods for it to rain coal, but the Friar had disappeared from
the platform.

“Bugger.” Cid thumped
his forehead against the side of the train, and a satisfying clunk echoed. He
headed back along the platform, his feet dragging with every step, shoulders
hunched over. He had no idea how they were going to get out of Sallarium City,
but they weren’t going to travel far without any fuel to power the engine. As a
ridiculous thought entered his mind, he laughed into the side of the engine,
his hot breath steaming up the dark green paintwork. He jogged down the
platform, all the way to the end of the train, and looked out across the
brightening horizon.

Beyond the train track,
the fields had become an airship graveyard. The hull of the
Eagle
still
smouldered, a line of black smoke rising into the atmosphere. He had no idea
where the Admiral and his Marines had gone, if another ship had picked them up
already and taken them back towards the coast. He wasn’t even sure it mattered.
He looked over the crashed messes of wood and metal laying strewn about. It was
difficult to tell from this distance which of the wreckages belonged to their
former pirate airship—the one which had carried them home from Eptora. He
wasn’t even entirely sure the ship had still been following them when the
battle began.

After scanning the
nearest wreckages and giving the
Eagle
a thorough glance over, his eye
roamed towards a small lump far behind the
Eagle
. A growl of frustration
rumbled in the back of his throat; it was typical that what he wanted would be
the farthest away. Nevertheless, he was as sure as he could be that it was the
ship he wanted, the lack of a distinct canopy laying above or beside the ship
the only thing differentiating it from the other piles of mess out there.

“Bugger,” he said
again, knowing he couldn’t make it all the way over there and carry the engine
back all by himself. He doubted he could convince Saunders to make such a trip
when it wasn’t in the orders given by Kerrigan. The Friar would no doubt offer
help, but Cid didn’t want to drag him all the way over there, not when the
chances of the engine having survived the crash seemed slim.

He cast one last long
look across Sallarium City. The Hub could no longer be seen, and the center of
the city was a long way off, hidden from view by lines of buildings. Larissa
would have arrived there by now—at least, he hoped—and when she was done doing
whatever she was doing, she would return, her heart full of hope that she could
just climb aboard the locomotive and set off to their next destination without
a hitch. She was counting on him, as ever. He sighed and turned back to the
train, resolving to at least try talking with the Lieutenant.