Sir, an incoming message from Deacon, Saladin said inside Letho’s mind. Saladin routed the video feed directly into his brain, and Letho’s stomach curdled at the sight of the new Jolly Roger. He saw Bayorn, Maka, and a bunch of humans and hammerheads taking cover from the fire, saw the mutants hot on their tails.
It’ll set off a pretty spectacular chain reaction, all the way down the line, down the middle of Main Street and right up Alastor’s ass.
The detonator. He really didn’t have any idea where the gas lines were; for all he knew they could be right under his friends now, and flipping the switch on Johnny’s detonator could immolate friend and enemy alike. But doing nothing wasn’t an option either: there were just too many of the mutants—not to mention the Jolly Roger and his twin chain-guns. His friends needed help.
Letho made a choice. Before anyone could react, he reached into his boot and removed Johnny’s detonator. He flicked off the oh-shit guard and activated the device. Then he waited to see what it would do.
Outside, a rumble of hellfire rose in the distance, followed by the sound of a rolling explosion. No, a series of explosions. The chain reaction Johnny had promised. The floor shook and listed beneath them, and the walls began to tilt and crack. Letho could hear the sound of marble ceilings meeting marble floors. Chaos erupted around them; the entire building shook, throwing people and furniture around alike, but it did not fall.
Johnny Zip’s surprise had worked to perfection.
Taking advantage of the sudden chaos, Letho blurred across the expanse between himself and Abraxas. He grabbed the sword from the floor with one hand and grabbed Abraxas by the neck with the other. Then, pulling Abraxas’s face close to his own, he plunged the sword deep into Abraxas’s chest.
Letho gazed into the creature’s ageless eyes, their noses almost touching. He snarled as he continued to push the blade home, forcing it upward and inward. And then Thresha was behind him, blurring in a speed that rivaled Letho’s own, sinking a dagger deep into Abraxas’s neck and severing his spinal cord.
Letho spun as he withdrew the sword from Abraxas’s chest, painting the walls with the spray of a god’s blood.
Even as his body went limp and ichor gushed from his chest and neck, Abraxas’s mind pushed outward with one final thrust, a mental explosion of godly proportions. To Letho, it felt like an invisible fist had slammed into him, flinging him across the room.
His back smashed against the wall, the panels behind him cracking from the impact, and he found himself pinned there. As he felt the constriction of Abraxas’s hideous power wrapping around his neck, choking him, he was dimly aware that Thresha was pinned as well and struggled beside him.
Alastor, however, was unaffected. As Letho and Thresha fought to extract themselves from the grip of an invisible hand, Alastor scooped up Abraxas’s limp body from the ground.
Alastor turned to Saul, his eyes wide. “You must kill him, or die in the attempt. Return to me triumphant or do not return at all! The fate of Haven hangs in the balance!” Then he threw the body of his master over his shoulder, rivers of ichor further darkening the obsidian leather of his cloak, and disappeared through a doorway behind Abraxas’s ornate chair.
Immediately, the force pinning Letho and Thresha in place dissipated, and they rushed forward, their blades bloodied and ready to spill more.
Everything was moving quickly now. One of the Mendraga guards snapped out of his stupor and began to fire at Thresha, who spun to face him and his cohorts, unleashing a series of sharp kicks that brought them to their knees. She grabbed one of the soldiers by his head, lifted him into the air, and swung his body; his neck snapped. Then she sent him bowling into the other Mendraga with enough force to shatter their ribs and spines.
“I’m going to kill you with your own gun, you bastard,” Letho spat at Saul.
Letho couldn’t read Saul’s expression. Was it confusion, or relief?
“We’ll see,” Saul said in a detached voice.
Thresha moved to engage Saul, but Letho waved her off.
The two men circled one another, each of them reluctant to strike. At last, Saul drew his pistols and began to fire. Bullets went spang! as Saladin spun, shielding his master. The bullets flew in all directions, sparking off steel and splintering oak.
Do not kill. Incapacitate, he told Saladin.
Letho’s eyes rattled in his skull as Saladin’s display overtook his vision.
Avert left. Target has five bullets remaining.
Determining appropriate velocity and trajectory. Disable target’s left arm.
Okay. Avert right. Disable target’s right arm.
Target is incapacitated. Good work, Letho.
Letho felt no joy in his heart as he stood over Saul. He watched from somewhere near the ceiling as someone else wrenched one of the Black Bear .50 calibers from Saul’s severed hand, and then the other. This person, who looked a lot like Letho, pulled the slide back on his weapon, checking for a chambered round.
Letho stared at Saul for a moment, and an understanding passed between them.
“Take care of my people for me, Letho,” Saul gasped as his lifeblood spurted from the arm-stumps that had once held hands. “I would ask you to tell them I died a noble death, though it is something I have not earned.”
Letho said nothing. He clutched the pistol hard in both hands, like Zedock Wartimer had instructed him to so long ago. The other sat in the holster in which it belonged. Saul leaned forward and placed his forehead against the Black Bear’s muzzle, and closed his eyes.
Letho fired.
Saul collapsed to the floor, his soul exiting through the canal Letho had opened in his skull.
****
Alastor carried his master down dark corridors, the remainder of Abraxas’s personal guard trailing behind him. The hitch in his master’s breath troubled him.
Just get him to the ship and everything will be all right, his mind repeated.
Within moments they had reached the hangar bay. Alarms pealed forth, heralding the coming insurgents and reminding Alastor of the crumbling ground beneath his feet. All that his master had worked for, all that they had built together, was like sand slipping between his fingers.
The old fool. He squandered everything.
Alastor broke into a run, feeling the limp body of his master flop like a child’s doll, listless limbs striking his back with every footfall. Alastor no longer felt the master’s blood running down his back and chest. He did not know if the wound had healed or if Abraxas was bleeding out.
When he reached the medical bay of their ancient Tarsi ship, he placed his master onto a bed and dropped to his knees at his side. He took Abraxas’s cold claw in his hand, attempted to revive him. The master’s eyes fluttered open.
“My son,” Abraxas sputtered.
“Yes, my Lord. I am here.” Agitation rose in Alastor, and a flash of something long forgotten fluttered through his mind. A kind man. A young boy sitting on his knee. A father. His father.
“My time draws to a close, my son. I cannot heal this grievous wound. I must feed from you if I am to survive. You will be weakened, but you will survive. Together, we will survive.”
Alastor’s body began to fill with anger. This creature had dominated his life, and he had willingly done his bidding at every step of the way. Yet never had Abraxas truly shown any sort of appreciation for him. Alastor thought again of the glorious empire they had created, and how this foolish creature in his arrogance had allowed it to crumble and slip between his fingers.