The Vitalis Chronicles: Steps of Krakador (38 page)

“
Slowly!” Keaton hissed as Grimes grabbed the second handle to speed things up. “The last thing we need is for them to notice this thing moving.”

“
They can't hardly see it from there,” Grimes scoffed.

“
They can see it enough, Grimes. Lay off.” Keaton kept at it from there, though as slowly as he dared. There wasn't much time; who knew how long Merodach would stay in one place? But he was sure to move if he noticed a giant cannon aligning itself with his head.

“
Just a few more inches.” Grimes had his cheek against the barrel now, looking down the rudimentary sights that ran along the upper-left portion. “Keep comin'... keep comin'... coat's still there.”

“
Of course it's still there,” Saltman jabbed. “Phelts isn't stupid enough to go back for it now, regardless of where Merodach is. But I can see him I think. He's standing right near the window now with some guy in uniform.”

“
Poor sucker,” Grimes said as the sights came into alignment. “Stop sir, you've got it. Just angle it a notch higher.”

It clanked one notch higher with the twist of another knob, far too loudly for Keaton's nerves.

“
It's loaded, right?” Saltman asked as he grabbed the chain linked to the firing pin. “I mean, this thing isn't going to backfire on us is it?”

“
It's loaded,” Grimes said. “And you can pray about the backfire.”

“
Shut up and shoot,” Keaton said as he covered his ears.

“
Aye sir,” Saltman grinned as he yanked on the chain.

They heard a few rattles and the spring release an instant before the gun made a deafening boom, rocking back in its trough and spouting the most acrid fog Keaton had ever smelled. Sulfur laced the air as a crack returned across the way and signaled the strike.

“
It hit!” Saltman started shouting. “Dead aim, sir! Dead aim!”

Keaton allowed himself a grin as he walked forward to the broad window that encircled the entire bastion. “We got you, you son of a bitch.”

The men behind him were still whooping and hollering as he turned to look at them. They had done it; they had finally done it. His smile suddenly rested heavy on his face, the weight he realized was forming in his stomach, pulling him back down from the euphoria of a successful mission. They had just committed the greatest treason imaginable, and they were celebrating it. Justified or not, the concept suddenly made him feel disgusted with himself.

He called for silence, but it took a moment to be heeded. “Gather your gear,” he said over the last few to cheer. “We can't be sure of a warm welcome when we get back, but we can't stay here. We need to get down and back to shore and hope that no one realizes what's happened before we can disappear.”

As he said it, the realization struck him for what it was. He had been operating as if this was the end game, as if Phelts would be able to pardon them on the spot, but there were soldiers on the other side of the swim ahead of them. Soldiers who had let their Mayor die. There was most likely a fight waiting for them on shore, and no plan of extraction to get them out. He had let his bullheaded focus rob him of foresight.
Oh god...

“
Get your gear!” He shouted again. “We need to move, now!”

“
Sir!”

“
I said get your gear, soldier!” He turned on a masked Hunter who was begging his attention. He couldn't make out who it was.

“
Sir, you have to come see this.”

“
Get your gear.” They had to move.

“
Sir!” The soldier grabbed his arm, fear and urgency pumping through him all at once. “You need to see this, sir.”

Keaton almost objected, but let himself be led to the other side of the bastion where he had been daydreaming only an hour before.

“
Be quick about it,” he said as they navigated the large gears and troughs throughout the structure. “What is it?”

“
Look sir.” The Hunter simply made for the window as he pointed. “Look!”

Keaton covered his eyes against the intrusion of sunlight, his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the artillery bunker. He lowered his arm slowly as the horizon came into focus. “Sails...”

“
Black sails sir.” The Hunter turned to Keaton with panic vibrating in his voice. “Black sails...”

There were hundreds, possibly thousands.
This isn't possible...
Keaton swallowed back panic of his own.
Not now... not now.

“
Saltman!” His voice cracked when he shouted. “Saltman, get your ass over here
RIGHT NOW
!”

“
Sir?”

“
Now, Saltman!” Keaton couldn't believe this was happening.

“
SIR
!” Saltman wasn't coming.

“
Saltman, I said now!”

“
Anders, get over here!” Saltman was almost as urgent as the other Hunter. “Anders, I'm serious! Please sir, now!”

Keaton growled to himself and rushed back through the guns and gears to where Saltman and the rest were frantically strapping their slender packs on over their shoulders.

“
I need you on the other side, Saltman!”

“
Sir!” Saltman stopped to point out the window to the north. “Sir...”

All of his haste and resolution faded in that moment, and as Keaton turned he realized why. One of the larger cannons in the bunker to their northeast had just finished taking aim.

“
It was good serving with you sir,” Saltman said as he dropped his pack.

“
Get your gear!” Keaton wasn't having it. “We're getting the hell out of he–”

But Anders Keaton never finished his sentence as the shell ripped through the central column supporting the bastion's ceiling. Rock and metal shards whizzed in every direction. The world was suddenly a ringing, blinding pain to Anders Keaton. He was bleeding from everywhere, he was certain of it. Shrapnel had riddled him with the first blast.

He tried to yell, tried to tell his men to get out, but his voice had left him once again. He raised his hands to his throat, the warm flow of blood over his fingers unmistakable to his seasoned senses. The entire structure began to collapse on top of his men as they tried to get to their feet. Their cries of pain and terror were reaching him now through the infernal ringing that beset his ears.

Anders Keaton's heart broke as he watched yet more of his men die. He took a step forward, nearly falling from wounded legs as he did so, trying to reach them, trying to help them up. He tried again to yell for them to run, but all that came out was a disgusting gurgle. The second shot from the shore-side cannon ensured that his silent orders were never heeded.

Phelts' heart dared to hope in the moment that he saw Pompidus Merodach explode in the central harbor. He hadn't known what was coming, nor had he known with certainty how he would deal with the aftermath once it was over, but everything came together for him with blistering certainty in the very instant that the Mayor died.

“
You!” He yelled at one of the dumbfounded engineers who stood gaping at the carnage only a few hundred yards away.

“
S-sir?” The kid turned to face him, white as the broad stripes on his coveralls.

“
Your name's Tom, right? Is this gun functional yet?”

“
Yes sir... it just needs the firing pin and a round.”

“
Then finish it!” He turned to his guide. “Aim it.”

“
Sir.” The boy backed away half a step. “I'm just an engineer. I don't shoot these things.”

“
I didn't say shoot it.” Phelts resumed his calm. “I said aim it. So aim it.”

He turned to another engineer, some girl with her hair tied and hanging from behind her head. “Grab a round and put it in.” At least she didn't argue, but got right to it.

He walked over to the window, his heart racing harder as each second passed. He needed to end this, and quickly. There could be no loose ends, nothing tying him back to this or to the Hunters at large.
I wish there was another way...
He had to make certain Anders Keaton never again walked the streets of Elandir.

“
Sir!” Tom the engineer was at his elbow. “It's done, sir.”

“
Good.” He turned and found his guide cranking the levers to aim it. The kids had done a good job of restoring the gun, the freshly greased gears swinging it silently into place in seconds. His throat tightened as butterflies fought to escape his stomach. “Is it loaded?”

The girl glanced at him, her nerves breaking through the straight face she put on. “Sir.”

“
Grab another round.” He stepped over the trough to stand behind and to the side of the gun, grabbing the chain that hung from the side. “This'll fire it, right?”

Tom nodded as he took a step back and covered his ears. Phelts took the cue and covered one of his own with his free hand.
Good god, Anders... I'm so sorry.

“
May traitors never live to see the fruits of their betrayals,” he said. Then he yanked the chain.

The top of the bastion burst into a cloud of dust and shrapnel. It took Phelts a moment to see it as he reeled from the impact of the gun's discharge. He felt sick to his stomach, but he couldn't stop now. He turned immediately to the girl behind him.

“
Load it!”

She didn't hesitate, unlatching the end with deft skill and discharging the spent shell before shoving a fresh one inside. She closed the gun with a clang, spinning the lever to seal it, then stepped back and covered her ears again.

The flat top of the bastion was teetering slightly, like an imbalanced mushroom on the verge of collapse. Quinn Phelts paused for a moment, his hesitation spawned by the thought of the carnage that he had just unleashed on the most loyal men that had ever served and sacrificed for Elandir. Men who had saved the Black City, had stopped a war... had saved his life.

“
I'm sorry, Anders...” he said under his breath, then he pulled the chain and blew the entire structure to hell.

Phelts ran for the bunker where Merodach had died. Where he hoped and prayed that Merodach had died. There was a lightness in his step that served as the only signal that he wasn't truly distressed by his Mayor's assassination. To everyone he passed, he looked on the verge of hysteria.

The final tunnel into the bunker was blocked by rubble.
That's a good sign.
He backed up and dashed up the stairs from the dust-filled bunker he was in to the brilliant sunlight outside. Dozens of soldiers were working on the caved-in bunker, trying to dig through the collapsed stone and reach the men they hoped were still alive within.

Stones had been thrown in every direction, but the majority had collapsed down and in and now rested well below the ground on which Phelts stood. He threw himself into the pit with the soldiers, doing his part to seek out their Mayor. He pulled one stone after the other until his fingers felt raw, and still he dug deeper.

“
Sir,” a hand rested on his shoulder to calm him, but he ignored it. “Sir!”

The hand turned him, the tears on his cheeks the result of the combination of pain and the tumultuous set of emotions swirling inside him.

“
The Mayor is dead, sir.” The soldier pointed to where they were dragging Merodach's mangled corpse out of the wreckage. “I'm sorry.”

“
No.” Phelts got up and stumbled through the mess of stone towards the body.
Yes. I'm free! I've done it! Elandir is safe... I'm safe!
“
Good god... just look at him.”

Merodach's body was mangled, but recognizable. Thankfully it was disgusting, because it was all Phelts could do to keep from bursting into laughter. The elation of his freedom and the success of the mission were threatening to undo him. He had to leave, to celebrate his victory in some rundown pub in Liscentia where everyone would think he was drowning his sorrows.

Or did he? How much of an act did he need to put on? Everyone hated Merodach. He needed to take control, starting with this detachment, before anyone questioned his authority. The thought brought back his calm, restored his clarity as he breathed deeply and composed himself.

He stood, not taking his eyes off of the body before asking after Cram.

“
He's dead too, sir. Bled out just as we pulled him from the bunker.”

That's unfortunate
, Phelts thought as he remembered how Cram had stood up to Merodach.
No matter; we'll need to restructure the military in any case.

The soldier held up a bent piece of gold in his hand. “I think you should have this sir, shouldn't you?”

Merodach's brooch...
The medallion of the Mayor of Elandir was similar to a military pin, except gold and somewhat larger. The long star in the curved blade of a scythe had blood spattered on it still, and was bent slightly on one end. Phelts had never actually seen the Mayor wear it outside of ceremonies.
I didn't even know he ever carried this.