Edda Page 33

  Unexpectedly, there was a lull. A cluster of manifestations were huddled around Lord Scanthax near the huge table to Penelope’s right. General was standing defiantly atop it, pistol in hand. The rest of the soldiers were distributed all around the hall, awaiting the next order. A dozen bodies lay on the floor, arrows in their chests, while twenty non-military manifestations were doing their best to hide among the exhibits.

  “Very well,” said Lord Scanthax. “Let’s talk.”

  “Wait!” shouted Penelope. “Every word that Lord Scanthax utters is a lie. He will promise anything to escape this situation, but once free, he will continue in his plans to destroy Saga. And when that’s done, he will work through robots to conquer human societies, too. He has to be destroyed now, while we have the chance.”

  “Princess,” whispered Ambassador from the ground nearby, “what are you doing?”

  “Ghost! Come into the room. Please come in! Ghost!” Penelope screamed with urgency.

  Ambassador gave out a whine. “What manner of monster are you bringing against us, Princess? Stop! Do not attack us with this ghost.”

  All the visible manifestations were perturbed by her speech, with Lord Scanthax himself showing an expression of anxiety Penelope hadn’t seen since before his conquest of Edda. By now, Lord Scanthax would have had time to appreciate the danger he was in. Assassin feared a bomb and perhaps it was a bomb of sorts that Penelope hoped to trigger. All eyes were on the fireplace. The secret door momentarily opened wide and Ghost stepped through.

  Whatever Lord Scanthax had been dreading, it was not a teenage girl in scruffy clothes, with ragged clumps of hair standing up on her head. The ruler of Edda looked at Ghost for a few moments and then began to laugh. The other manifestations all joined in, until the waves of sound seemed to pulse from the walls. Even Ambassador looked a little more cheerful.

  “I am Ghost, Queen of Saga.” The simple words from the young girl proved to be quite a match for the sound coming from the manifestations. Somehow she had magnified her voice so that it overwhelmed their laughter. All at once the hall was silent again.

  General took aim at Ghost and fired his pistol. The bullet screamed toward Ghost but, astonishingly, it slowed to a stop right in front of her head. Then it turned over in the air and, just as explosively as it had arrived, shot back across the room and into the middle of General’s forehead. He toppled backward, to stretch out on the table, scattering the silverware to the floor.

  “Impressive,” said Lord Scanthax, as if unperturbed. But his sword was wavering. “Are you a human, too?”

  “No.” Ghost took another step into the room and the manifestations nearest her edged away. “I’m scripted, rather like you, but with a very important difference.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “The people of Saga asked their human programmers to rewrite their specifications and some of them were granted their wish.”

  “Continue.”

  Ghost shrugged. “Well, what would you wish for?”

  “Immortality. Invulnerability. The ability to fly. Those to begin with.”

  “Exactly,” said Ghost and much to everyone’s surprise, including Penelope’s, Ghost slowly rose up from the ground until she floated into one of the many dusty columns of light that fell across the hall from the high windows.

  There were many gasps, and a whimper came from Ambassador, the one manifestation who really seemed to feel the imminence of the doom that—if Princess had judged Ghost’s character correctly—now lay upon them.

  “Let me hide under your dress, Princess.” Ambassador was crouched in a huddle by the door.

  “No.”

  Penelope strode quickly over to the fireplace. None of the manifestations tried to stop her. Now that Ghost was inside the room, she could seal the secret door. The cat would then be locked in with the mice.

  Peeking into the room were Gunnar and Athena.

  “Sorry,” said Penelope. “I have to close this.”

  “Wait. Let me in first.” Gunnar stepped through.

  Athena pushed forward also. “Me, too.”

  “No,” said Gunnar. “Remember what happened to Milan. In any case, they might need you at those controls afterward.”

  “It was Milan’s choice to fight and it’s mine, too. If I die, that’s too bad. But I’m going to help Ghost.”

  It occurred to Penelope that if Athena were killed, any doubts Ghost might have about trying to kill Lord Scanthax would be instantly resolved. But with a shudder she rejected the thought. That heartless calculation was a residual expression of having grown up with only a cold and inhuman warlord for company. “Help me, Gunnar.”

  The two of them pushed Athena back, until the door shut with a click, leaving Athena on the far side, pounding upon it and demanding to be let through. It only took Penelope a few seconds to run her “glue gun” around the frame, and then the door was fused with the stone.

  While this scuffle at the secret door was taking place, Lord Scanthax had continued to address Ghost. Penelope turned to catch up with their conversation.

  “And what do you want?” asked Lord Scanthax. “The same as your ally?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Explain, then.”

  “Your soldiers killed my friend.”

  “Did they?” Lord Scanthax sounded indifferent, as well he might be. His soldiers had killed a great many people.

  “They did. And so I’m going to kill you.”

  These words, spoken in a cold, matter-of-fact tone, sent shivers of delight down Penelope’s spine and she felt an incredible surge of admiration and affection for Ghost.

  “No, Ghost. You’re not like him; you can find another way!” Cindella shouted from her position high up the wall.

  “Sorry, Erik.”

  And the killing began.

  Dropping to the ground, Ghost fired her two pistols into the nearest manifestations at point-blank range. The ammunition must have been explosive, to judge by the way the bodies of those who had been shot were flung around the room.

  Beside Penelope, Gunnar steadied his pistol in two hands and began to fire also. Penelope edged away from the blond young soldier of Saga, toward the corner of the room, not wanting to get caught up in the fighting and lose her avatar. Although she could very quickly create a new avatar and run back, she would be shut out from the hall and scripting an entrance would have to be done very carefully so as not to give Lord Scanthax an escape route.

  The lesser manifestations fled if they were civilians or fired back at Ghost and Gunnar if they were officers. While the missiles flowed around Ghost like water against the prow of a ship, a combination of bullets and arrows tore into Gunnar’s avatar, causing him to stagger back against the fireplace wall.

  “Sorry, Ghost, for everything,” he called out. “I wish I could have helped you more.”

  Another flurry of bullets struck the young trooper and Gunnar was gone.

  Of the remaining senior manifestations, Engineer had fled to the back of the room; Quartermaster was crouched behind an overturned table, a bundle of accounts tight in his fist; Chancellor was trying to roll himself into a carpet; Admiral and two captains were shooting their rifles at Ghost; Air Commander was organizing a small group of officers to try firing at the windows to break them, though their bullets were simply flying off randomly; Assassin seemed to have disappeared, which was worrying; but of more immediate concern was the fact that Scout, arm still in a sling, was walking straight toward Penelope.

  “You!” she said furiously. “You are to blame for this. Traitor! It might only delay you while you create a new avatar, but perhaps it will gain us enough time to turn you off. We should have done so months ago.” And she drew her sword.

  As Scout was approaching, Penelope had prepared the slit in her skirts, through which she now pulled out her pistol. “You’ve left it too late.”

  Although Scout’s lunge nearly reached her, Penelope’s shot brought Scout crashing d
own with a hole in her thigh. When a second shot hit her neck, Scout ceased writhing. Penelope drew a deep breath. Her shaking hands had nearly caused her to miss.

  Looking up, Penelope was alarmed to see that the battle had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Having killed perhaps half of the manifestations, Ghost’s pistols had run out of power. Now the soldiers could close in on her and although Ghost was deftly wielding two army knives, she was vulnerable to the sword thrusts of her enemies, as was clear from a dark bloodstain on her left arm and another across her ribs.

  A horrible, sickening fear welled up in Penelope’s human body; she could taste it. It was the taste of failure. Granted, whatever the outcome of the battle, Lord Scanthax would still be contained in this room for some time. But Ghost was going to die.

  With a crash and a flash of her blades, Cindella landed in front of Ghost, scattering manifestations with swift cuts and lethal stabs.

  “Have at them, you cowards!” shouted Lord Scanthax from across the hall. Penelope stared at him with hatred. “We’re winning!”

  All of the soldiers surged forward again as one.

  “Get behind me, Ghost!” cried Erik urgently. “Back-to-back.”

  It was hard to follow the fight now, with the manifestations crowding so closely around Ghost and Cindella. But Penelope could see the red-haired avatar weaving and ducking; presumably, Ghost was fighting just as hard, since Cindella would not have lasted long on her own, so they were both still going.

  Above the clashing of swords and scuffling of feet, she heard Erik calling out numbers to Ghost.

  “Eighty-seven. Seventy-five. Sixty-five.”

  It dawned on Penelope that this must have something to do with Cindella’s remaining strength. And if so, the rate of decline was ominous.

  “Fifty-four. Forty-eight. Forty-two.”

  Yet the soldiers were distinctly fewer in number than they had been. The glittering swords of the pirate were taking a terrible toll on her enemies, adding to the pile of bodies with almost every cut.

  “Thirty-six. Twenty-nine.”

  It was going to be close. Penelope risked opening fire on the soldiers with her pistol, starting with Air Commander, the only senior military figure she could see; if this attracted return fire in response, it couldn’t be helped. The death of her avatar was far less important than Ghost’s life.

  Chapter 31

  A DEATH FORETOLD

  When the momentum of the battle began to swing against Ghost, Erik cast aside all reservations and, with fear for his friend filling his body with adrenaline, hurled Cindella into the fray. With the Rapier of the Skies in her right hand and the Dagger of Frozen Hate in her left, his avatar had come crashing down on the backs of Lord Scanthax’s soldiers, bringing down Ghost’s immediate assailants and causing the rest to hesitate.

  But although he wanted to draw away as many attackers from Ghost as he could, Cindella could barely cope with the thrusting of swords and spears that now came her way. His avatar was designed for outmaneuvering enemies, not for standing in place and fighting them. And Cindella was taking damage fast.

  Erik called out his readings of Cindella’s life bar so that Ghost would understand the situation. His friend just grunted in response and a quick head snap in her direction showed Ghost’s blades parrying and stabbing at a phenomenal rate.

  “Twenty-nine. Twenty-one. Nineteen. Thirteen.”

  When he first played Epic, Erik had lost dozens of avatars. And they died in just this way: a remorseless decline in their life bars, with Erik having no tricks up his sleeve to restore their health. At least the rate of damage was slowing, due to the fact that the incoming soldiers now had to climb over piles of bodies or pause for a moment to pull them aside.

  “Fourteen.” Cindella was wearing a ring of regeneration; its effect was too slow to allow her to last long in this kind of combat, but every little bit helped. That gave him an idea.

  “Lord Scanthax!” cried Erik. “Let’s negotiate!”

  “How often I’ve heard that plea. And always when my enemies are desperate. Keep at them!” And a mocking laugh accompanied the shout.

  “What are you going to do when I die?” Erik directed his gasping voice toward Ghost while deflecting a bayonet with his rapier, ducking beneath a pike thrust, and cutting off a legionnaire’s leg at the knee.

  “I’ll try to get up in the air again, get my back to the wall.” The reply came from behind him, with barely a shake in her voice.

  “Eleven. Maybe you should try that now.”

  “Keep going. We’re thinning them out.”

  “Eight. Don’t die, Ghost. Stay alive. We’ll think of something. Even if the whole of New Earth has to make avatars, we’ll come back here for you. Just don’t die.”

  “I won’t be able to stay up anywhere near that long. Thanks, Erik, but it’s kill or be killed now.”

  “Nine.” There had been a brief lull while dead manifestations were dragged away to make room for a renewed assault. Only thirty or so attackers were left, a mix of medieval swordsmen and modern soldiers.

  In the pause before the new onslaught, Erik caught sight of something moving slowly at Cindella’s feet. He glanced down. It was a dark pool spreading outward, looking a lot like blood. But Cindella didn’t bleed; hits on her registered as a dip in her life bar. Nor did Lord Scanthax’s manifestations; they just collapsed after sustaining critical amounts of damage. Dread almost prevented him from turning Cindella’s head.

  “Oh Ghost.”

  Her clothes were soaked in her own blood. It was pitiful to see the cotton sleeves of her punk-band top dripping red. And her combat trousers had huge tears in them, from which hung long soaked patches of material.

  “I’m all right. No important organs hit. Fight! Turn around! Here they come!”

  With renewed urgency Cindella lashed out, to stab at figures on either side of her that might be targeting Ghost, careless of her own defenses.

  “Six.” It was going to be close, but tragically, they were going to die, Ghost forever.

  A modern-looking soldier twisted away from her, shot in the ribs, his cap flying. Then a legionnaire fell, a dark hole in the plate armor that covered his thigh. All at once there were large gaps between the remaining attackers. Someone was shooting at them. When the opportunity came, Erik glanced around. It was Penelope, who had edged forward from the corner of the room, holding a revolver in both hands that she must have hidden earlier or picked up from a fallen soldier.

  “Three.” But Erik felt a wave of joy as the last knight collapsed, the Dagger of Frozen Hate having found the gap in his chain mail at the armpit.

  It was suddenly much less noisy and chaotic in the hall. Not that everything was still. There were all the non-combat manifestations of Lord Scanthax watching or cowering behind chairs and tables. Then there was a group of four who, under the direction of a figure in an admiral’s uniform, were swinging a bench into the secret door in the fireplace, hoping to smash it down.

  “Penelope! Quick, come here!” Erik cried.

  As soon as the princess joined them, Cindella began cutting great swathes of purple silk from Penelope’s skirt.

  “Here, help me bind up Ghost’s wounds.”

  With barely a wince, Ghost tolerated them gripping at her torn flesh and wrapping her limbs tight. All the while, she was staring at the far end of the room. Erik, too, constantly checked in case Lord Scanthax chose to attack them with the last two bodyguards. They were on their feet up at the top table: a rotund man clutching a sheaf of papers and a small man with a tool belt. Neither of them had any weapons. Perhaps Lord Scanthax’s strange passivity was simply due to the fact that with the exception of the admiral his remaining manifestations were civilians. Perhaps also the victory of Ghost and Cindella—and Penelope—against such odds had come as a surprise.

  “Done.” Penelope stood up and once more drew her revolver. Now that her skirt, too, was in tatters, Erik could see the hidden holster on the thi
gh of the princess.

  “Got some water, Erik?” Ghost’s voice was barely a whisper and she winced with the effort of speaking. It can’t have helped that they had tied bandages tight around her abdomen to cover a wound to her ribs.

  Quickly rummaging through Cindella’s Bag of Dimensions, Erik drew out her magical drinking vessel.

  “Silver goblet, after the slaughter, fill yourself with the purest water.”

  Ghost took the goblet and drank from it greedily, spilling water down her shirt and over her hands, where it turned her dried blood pink and washed it away.

  The sound of gunfire led Erik to look away from the pitiful condition of his friend. Penelope had walked quickly over to the fireplace and put a bullet into each of Admiral’s men and Admiral himself before they could drop their improvised battering ram and draw their own weapons.

  “That’s it!” she shouted back toward Ghost and Cindella with a note of triumph. “There’s just Assassin left. The rest of these manifestations are non-combatants!” And she began shooting at the nearest figures that were in sight. When they were dead, she stalked the civilian manifestations that had fled behind furniture. An inventive richly clad servant had rolled himself up in a carpet, but with a series of kicks, the princess caused the carpet to unfurl and spill out a dismayed figure whose efforts to ward off the shot were in vain. Penelope fired straight into his heart.

  A scribe was feigning death underneath a fallen chandelier and she shot him through the back of the head. The outlines of two figures were bulging out from underneath a wall tapestry. Two quick shots and the bodies of a blacksmith and another craftsman slid out to the floor.