Atlas is about to leave.
“I saw Darrow,” I say.
Atlas stops and turns. That he did not know.
Rhone takes a half step forward. “You saw Darrow in person?”
I nod. “Diomedes took me to meet him.”
“Go on. Tell us,” Atlas says. It’s the first time I’ve gotten his full attention, and I’m worried I’ve turned on a machine that will gobble me up. Questions come at me with no logical order except to help Atlas form a private mental construct and to shake free information from me that I might not know is useful. It’s like being hit, pulled, and twirled by a wave.
“Was it just the three of you? Who left first, you or him? Did you get the impression he was staying? Was there a green tinge on his lips? Describe the tone of his voice. You said there was mud on his boots, describe it. Did it come from the cave? Was it dust then mud, or mud with dust? More on the heels or the toes? A steep incline then. He came from the east.”
His eyes snap to a Praetorian behind Drusilla. “My men are exhausted. Rhone, do you mind? Gratitude. Marcellus, rabbit to Flavius. Tell him to get Camillus and the Triad down to the surface. Darrow must have accessed the shrine through the granary three point one kilometers east-ish. If he’s there, do not engage. I will lead the team. If he’s not there, take samples of everything. Bring Janus too. Get him on all that grid’s cameras. All I need is a direction or a metal sample. No radios.” He flicks a hand and one more Praetorian is shed.
Five now. No green light. The anxiety is insane.
“They’ve sensed my involvement then?” Atlas asks me.
“They have. Diomedes and Darrow want an alliance with me against Atalantia. They sent me back here to kill you.”
“Lysander, this is very important. What did you say to their offer?”
“I said maybe.”
Rhone frowns. “And they let you leave? They didn’t take you hostage?”
“He did it right. They wouldn’t have believed you if you said yes, Lysander. And if you said no, we wouldn’t have them by the nose. But they are still engaged.” Atlas takes me by the shoulders. “Well done.” He lets me go, smiling. Then, casually, “Do they know about my mission to Orpheus? Do they know about Eidmi?”
“Yes,” I lie, and let him see the lie so he thinks I’m still playing a tricky game, but the game is up. He felt the scarabSkin under my clothes.
No green light. Oh well.
Double down, all the same.
I drop my hips and reach for my razor. In all my life I have never seen someone move as fast as Rhone except for Atlas when he slaps the pulseShield generator on his belt and draws his own blade. Knowing Atlas is easily good enough to parry my first stroke, I choose not to waste it on him. I go after the Grays behind me.
At the same moment, forty meters away and ten off the ground, Cassius pops up from the cockpit of a war titan with no engine and opens fire on Atlas with a heavy pulseRifle.
I activate the aegis on my left forearm as I turn on the Grays. A meter-wide blue shield flares to life, covering my flank. It takes Atlas’s first stroke dead on. That first stroke is all he gets before Cassius’s fire literally slaps him off his feet.
My first stroke takes Markus just under his eyes and passes through his unprotected skull to kill Drusilla beside him in the same manner. The three Praetorians behind them are amongst the best Gray soldiers alive, but the unexpected speed and ferocity of my attack catches them off guard. I spring at them and two precise strokes remove the three remaining Praetorians from the equation. It costs me.
The impact of a rail slug into the back of my left thigh buckles the leg and sends me spinning. Two more hit me in the right leg, just above the kneecap. I sprawl onto the deck and reach for my sidearm. A round from Rhone cuts the weapon almost in half. Only the scarabSkin and the low caliber of the pistol munitions keep the impact of his rounds from cutting my legs in half. Still, the pain is incredible. I’m on the ground a half breath before I push off amongst the ruins of the Praetorians. I glance up to see Atlas stumbling ten meters away, his shield crackling from Cassius’s fusillade.
Seven near-perfect shots slam into Atlas’s shield, wreathing him in a cocoon of blue and green fire. Atlas keeps the shield up even though his skin must be boiling inside it.
Rhone saves Atlas’s life by firing at Cassius’s sniper position with his pistol as he draws his rifle with his off-hand. He switches between the weapons like water flows to lower ground. His dragon helmet slithers up for combat.
“Kill clearance?” Rhone yells.
“Granted,” Atlas calls. “Switch.”
His shield cooling from the reprieve Rhone granted him, Atlas springs after Cassius.
Rhone shifts back to firing at me, this time with ammunition that will shred my scarabSkin. I rush my former Dux from behind my aegis and leap, leaving the crown of my head exposed as bait before shifting my aegis. He snaps two shots at my head. The aegis takes the rifle-fire at point-blank range. But he switches ammunition on the gun and fires a trick shot on the ground that bounces up under the shield and whizzes between my legs.
Rhone switches ammunition again, and a slow-moving slug pounds the left rim of my aegis. Still in the air, I’m spun around in a full revolution, coming out of it just in time to fall back toward him and plunge my razor through his pulseShield, through his armor, to take him in his bent right leg, midway up the thigh. Before I can withdraw it, Rhone deploys a buffer pulse from his armor. I’m smacked by an invisible, giant hand, stunning me and sending me sprawling backward.
I lose hold of my razor but not my aegis. I fend off a hail of gunfire and roll to my feet, dazed, to find Rhone with his leg still impaled by my razor. Instead of dropping his rifle to remove its tip from the floor, he pulls sideways against the blade, taking it through the meat of his thigh. Blood sprays from the wound and vaporizes against his pulseShield.
Crimson fog fills the space between his armor and the shield, obscuring his sight. He becomes a bloody shadow as he fires at me. I duck behind my aegis and take three more shots meant for my head. I try to close again, and launch myself toward my razor—still sticking upright in the deck. Grasping it on the roll, I come up and drive the blade toward his head. He deflects that strike and two more with his rifle.
The deflections must cost him his rifle because he shocks me by closing within my guard. No Gray ever tries to close on a Gold. It’s suicide. Not for Rhone ti Flavinius. I feel a pinch in my right breast and glance down to see a dagger buried to the hilt in my chest. The ribs caught it before it reached my heart. Rhone’s other hand punches toward my throat. I duck my head to take the punch on the chin and take his opposite elbow on the side of my head. At the same time, he tries a kravat move to sweep my legs. Instead of stepping out of the kravat move, I step in to him and drive my knee upward into his stomach armor. An electric thrill from his shield courses through my leg, deadening the limb. Still, the force of the blow lifts Rhone off his feet. He lands like a cat and hurls his broken rifle at me. I bat it aside and narrowly dodge an acid pack he throws to cover his retreat. Acid eats into the deck and hangs in the air in a fine mist between us.
I go around. Breath comes shallow and filled with blood. Fire spreads through my diaphragm. My left lung is punctured.