Legion Lost (21 page)

The
ferocious figure of Malcolm Stryker is headed straight for me.

“We’re
surrounded!” I shout, my arms burning as I try to keep a hold of Goddie’s
failing form. “Stirling! What do we do?”

“Keep
going,” he replies, and Apryl obeys him at once.

With
Goddie now between us, I’m facing the forest, and facing the Highlander whose
silver hair glimmers like wolf-hide in the dusk light. Stryker’s cold blue eyes
are everywhere at once, glancing down every few seconds toward the painted
lines beneath his thundering feet. Stirling said he didn’t paint those lines.
Is it possible that Stryker and his warriors did?

We’re
closer to the forest than we are to the Legion, but Goddie’s weight has slowed
us down considerably. As much as Stryker and his men set my insides shaking
with terror, the wild shouts of the Legion behind me are more than enough to
spur me forward. Whoever the Highlanders are, they are not the System. What
lies ahead of me now is uncertain, but all that turning back would earn me is
an unthinkable level of punishment from Briggs. I have made my decision in this
moment of terror and hesitation. I gather my strength, tightening my grip on
Goddie, and push forward to catch up with Apryl.

Too
late.

It’s
all too late as a massive hand grabs my upper arm, yanking me back so sharply
that I let Goddie go out of sheer surprise. The smell of burning catches in my
throat, choking me as I’m pulled close to the seared black flesh of Briggs’s
neck. He rips the gun from around my neck and digs it deep under my ribs. My
pained cry startles the others, who freeze on the spot, looking back with
horror at the position I’m in. Briggs just laughs.

“I
figure you care about this hostage a little more than I care about mine,” he
chuckles.

Stirling
looks livid, but before he can make a move, the whole minefield is bathed in
light. Spotlights shine out from the forest, half-concealed by trees, and their
bright white glow makes all the mine-markings disappear. Everyone on the
wasteland freezes, a deadly silence landing on us all. It is broken only by a
few light footsteps as a lithe figure pushes past Stirling and Sheila to come
into view.

“Augustus
Briggs,” says Malcolm Stryker. “My, my. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You’re
ageing really badly, you know.”

Briggs
is heaving out his breaths like a caged bull, but Stryker’s words and movements
flow with a cocky kind of grace. The Highlander offers Briggs a beckoning hand.

“Give
that boy to us, and we’ll put the lights out for your recruits to return to the
Legion safely.”

“What,
this
?” Briggs says, squeezing hard on my arm and shaking me to my core.
“You didn’t come here for this scrawny little thing, Stryker.”

The
Highlander spares me a fleeting look.

“No,”
he admits, “but I dread to think what’s going to happen if I let
you
keep him. Hand him over, now.”

Briggs
laughs at Stryker’s harsh tone. “Or what?”

The
Highland rebel grins, showing his long teeth.

“Or
I’ll ask you really,
really
nicely,” he replies.

It
doesn’t sound like much of a threat, but there’s a hint of a cutting malice in
the way Stryker rasps out the simple words. Though he veils himself in humour,
when the Highlander stands eye to eye with Briggs, I know exactly who I’m
rooting for to come out on top. Briggs is twice the breadth of the lithe man
before him, but I can still feel him bristling as he jabs the gun harder into
my side.

“You
try anything, and this kid gets sprayed all over the minefield,” he warns.

My
heart beats all the way up to my throat as Stryker gives out another of his nonchalant
grins.

“I
told you,” he says calmly. “I’m going to ask you nicely.”

He
opens his arms wide in a defenceless, unarmed gesture.

“Hand
the boy over—”

The
head butt is so swift that I’d have missed it in a blink. I hear a horrible
cracking sound, and suddenly Briggs is on the ground.

“—
please
,”
Stryker completes, looking thoroughly amused with himself.

The
Highlander fishes my gun out of Briggs’s limp hands and throws it back to me.
When he meets my eye, he looks like less of a beast and more of a man than I’ve
ever seen him.

“Get
back to your friends,” he tells me, “and take the injured boy to my medic. Make
it fast. He’s losing too much blood.”

He
gives orders as though I’m just another one of his men, but he’s saying exactly
what I need to hear right now. He’s willing to help Goddie, so I nod and rush
to Apryl to help her drag our fellow reject the rest of the way across the
floodlit plain. At this close proximity to the woods, we can pass through the
clear spot where Lucrece set off numerous mines without the need for the
markers. I thank my absent friend silently, hoping that she’s out there somewhere,
knowing that she’s still helping us even now.

“This
is a warning,” Malcolm Stryker proclaims, his harsh accent carrying over the
minefield to the many trapped legionnaires.

“We’re
taking your commander as a hostage. Any attempt to recover him will result in
execution: his
and
yours. I will negotiate his release with Governor
Prudell, and no one else. These are my terms. Accept them, and retreat, or my
men open fire and blow you to pieces right now.”

The
floodlight goes out, bathing us all in the moon’s glow once again. At the
forest’s edge, I look back at the Legion’s soldiers. With their ruthless
commander fallen, I see them for what they really are—a mass of frightened
children who are now carefully retreating through the glowing markers.
Stryker’s sharp features are silhouetted against the scene as one of his feet
rises to rest on Briggs’s massive chest.

*

The
Highlanders have a small camp, which is set up only a little way into the tree line.
Two large men take over carrying Goddie, who has long since passed out from the
blood still seeping from his massive wound. Stirling, Apryl, and I lag behind
them, marching wearily through the trees with our eyes fixed on our unconscious
ally. Soon, a tall green tent comes into view directly ahead, marked with a black
cross that I presume stands for medical aid.

Outside
the tent, there stands the strangest woman I have ever seen. Her face is
covered almost totally, enshrouded by a striped mask of silver and black. There
is a single opening on the left side of her face, where a narrow black eye
observes our approach. Though her small shoulders give the impression of a
petite frame, she is covered from head to toe in an oversized smock, which is
made of thick, black material, cinched in at her waist by the holster and belt
that hold her gun. Her hands and arms poke out at either side of the smock, but
they are gloved all the way up to where her sleeves begin. Aside from her
single watchful eye, the only shred of humanity visible in this woman is her
straight, dark hair, which hangs at her shoulders to frame the mask.

“You’ll
have to wait whilst we treat him,” she says as Goddie is carried into the tent.
“It could be quite some time. Come this way.”

Behind
the medical tent, there is a smaller construction in the same leafy green shade
of fabric. Even I have to crouch to pass under its little doorway, but inside
it, I can stand up straight again. There are two wide bunks lining the tent’s
back wall, plus a long rectangular table with four folding chairs. The woman
with the covered face crouches in the tent’s doorway, resting her hand on her
chest as she speaks.

“I’m
Delilah, by the way. You’d be wise to get some rest. I don’t expect we’ll be
settled here much longer, now that we’re holding that commander of yours
prisoner.”

Delilah
motions to leave, but Stirling follows her quickly, and she pauses at the sound
of his movements.

“Can
I see Malcolm?” he asks.

Delilah
surveys him with her single eye, and it seems like an age passes before she
blinks.

“Come
along then,” she answers.

“Stirling,
wait,” I interject. “Should we come with you?”

I
look to Apryl, grateful to see that she, for once, is as lost as I am in the
situation. Stirling paces back to me, resting his hands on my shoulders for a
moment. The solidity of his touch grounds me as he gives me a comforting smile.

“Everything’s
all right now,” he assures me. “Just stay here and rest. I’ll be back.”

When
he and Delilah have departed, I’m suddenly glad that Stirling made me fill my
pockets with supplies. Apryl and I scoff down the snacks I’d stashed, no matter
how crushed they have become during the escape. We try to talk about things
that don’t involve the possible horror of the situation we’re now in, but every
conversation keeps coming back to Goddie’s recovery, and what’s going to happen
next. The urge to talk swiftly leaves us, and once my stomach’s full, I find
the soft, wide bunk too inviting to resist. Apryl and I take a bunk each, both
promising that we’ll just rest, but not actually fall asleep. We can’t afford
to be unconscious right now—there’s far too much to worry about. I have to stay
awake, even if I can hear Apryl starting to snore a little, and even if my own
eyes are fluttering closed against my control.

*

“Hey
now, dem soldiers are sleeping on de job! Fifty laps for bad behaviour!”

Goddie’s
booming voice shocks me awake, and I immediately curse myself for falling
asleep. Apryl rises groggily from her bunk, and the total darkness outside the
tent’s archway tells me that we’ve been out for a couple of hours at least.
Goddie is being wheeled into the tent through the arch, his bright eyes
wandering to admire the two strapping men that are guiding his wheelchair
forward.

“I
feel like de Queen of Sheba,” he says with a grin.

“Your
friend’s all patched up,” says a voice from the doorway. I refocus to find
Delilah’s striped mask peering in at us. “We’ve put him on some pretty strong
painkillers, so my apologies if his behaviour’s a little strange for a while.”

Goddie
wiggles his eyebrows at Apryl and I suggestively.

“Thanks,”
Apryl jibes, “but I doubt if we’ll notice the difference.”

Though
her mask remains perfectly still, Delilah laughs behind it. Her laugh is warm
and genuine, and her one good eye crinkles as she makes the merry sound. I feel
my face stretching into the first proper smile that it has worn for days, my
muscles losing their tension as I recline on my bunk.

I
should really have learned by now that this kind of happy, relaxed feeling
doesn’t last long. Before Goddie can even crack another joke, Delilah recedes
from the doorway and a lithe, grey-haired figure steps past her. Malcolm
Stryker is easily as tall as Stirling, who stands beside him as they reach
Goddie’s chair. Stirling puts one hand on the boy’s forearm, and Goddie gives
him a friendly punch, which comes out with all the force of a newborn kitten.
The smiles they exchange are brief, and Goddie keeps one eye on Stryker the
whole time. The rebel leader is inspecting Goddie’s leg, which is jutting out
in front of him on a horizontal platform and enveloped by a thin layer of
plaster cast.

“Let
me check this wound of yours,” the Highland leader states. Nobody dares to
speak against the idea, so Stryker reaches out and pokes the bare, bruised skin
just above Goddie’s left knee. “You feel that?” he asks.

Goddie
nods. Stryker repeats the process, moving down to the boy’s plaster-coated
shin, until Goddie stops nodding. Then, quite unexpectedly, Stryker balls his
pale hand into a fist and brings it crashing down on Goddie’s leg. I wince,
expecting my friend to give a wild cry of pain, but all I hear is a metallic,
reverberating clang. Goddie doesn’t even flinch at the impact, and Stryker
gives him a satisfied little nod.

“Titanium
underskin,” he explains with clear pride. “This leg’ll be the strongest part of
you, as soon as the bone at the core heals.”

Goddie
looks down at himself with a wonderstruck grin.

“I
guess I should take up football or something,” he remarks.

“I
wouldn’t bet against you if you did,” Stryker replies.

The
Highlander brings himself level with Goddie’s face, his icy blue eyes observing
the boy with interest.

“You’ll
get used to the feeling of metal in your skin,” he tells him, “but it takes a
while.”

Stryker
knocks his fist against his own forehead, and the same metallic clang echoes in
the small space.

“I
fractured my skull on a mission a couple of years back,” he recalls, “and now
the headbutt is my weapon of choice.”

“No
wonder Briggs went out cold,” I add.

I
hadn’t really meant to speak out loud, and I regret it as soon as Stryker turns
his gaze on me. He looks vaguely amused by my remark, but there’s something
inquisitive in his look that makes me squirm. He crosses his arms, surveying me
side-on, like a bird of prey would.