Bloodless Revolution (The Graeme Stone Saga Book 5) Page 7

  Yet the prisoner could not be allowed to speak.

  The spirits of air, lending him Falcon Sight, the speed of the wind. He walked at a hundred miles per hour into the cell, towards the prisoner, frozen in mid-hysterics. A single, well-aimed knockout punch to the jaw. The prisoner would be telling no-one his secret, not till he was long-handed over to the British and in no position to tell anyone who might care.

  A nod of satisfaction, then Pol ran from the room, down the corridor and past the statuesque Foresters who could never even notice his passage.

  All the same, he made sure to give the Woodsman a wide berth as he went…

  Chapter Six:

  The girl. It was her, the same girl. Evans couldn’t believe it. Standing there on the dockside, bold as brass. He climbed out of the car, a new Jaguar, sans the impromptu sunroof of the first, and gingerly tested his weight on his ankle. The brace helped and he emitted just the barest hiss of pain through gritted teeth as he limped forwards.

  From the other side of the car, Jones got out. He shut the door and strolled forwards till he was standing in front of the bonnet, alongside Evans.

  “Bell, bell, bell,” he called out, his nose swollen beneath a fresh plaster, the skin about both eyes a curious mixture of purple and yellow hues. “If it ibn’t Mibb Daylor…”

  The girl stood her ground, but the Agents could see that she was nervous. And well she should be. She was alone, it seemed, whereas no fewer than fifteen MI5 agents surrounded the area, hidden away atop shipping containers and nearby buildings. A dozen fingers were wrapped tightly about triggers, ready to unleash a fusillade of tranquiliser darts at Evans’ command. Closer at hand, two more black Jaguars pulled up, disgorging further suits who came to stand by the two lead agents.

  Evans grinned as he addressed her.

  “So, Miss Taylor. It seems I was right after all. You were holding out on us all along. You’re in league with the Shadows.”

  “Agent Evans,” she retorted, determined to stare him down despite the weakness in her legs, the tremble in her hands. “You might want to change that condescending tone. It’s well known that you lose the moral high ground when you start kidnapping people and injecting them with drugs.”

  The MI5 man’s smile vanished to be replaced by a stern look.

  “Where’s the bomber? The phone call said you’d have him. That you’d hand him over to our custody.” He spread his arms wide, a look of mock confusion on his face. “And yet we find you all alone…”

  A momentary flash, bright enough to cause every agent to cover their face with their arms, followed immediately by a rumble of thunder that hurt the ears. When Evans opened his eyes and blinked away the purple after-images, he frowned. A familiar figure had joined the girl, seemingly out of nowhere. A man, standing tall and strong, clad in blue jeans, brown boots and a dark green leather jacket.

  Upon his back, a leather scabbard, from within which could just be seen glinting the sharp silver head of an axe.

  The man stared about, fixing each agent in turn with eyes so intense that they each had to look away, unable to hold his gaze. Finally, those eyes rested on Evans and, despite himself, he shivered.

  “But she’s not alone,” the man told them. “She’s with me.”

  Evans sniffed. His ankle all of a sudden began to throb with more urgency and he knew why.

  “You’re the guy that wrecked our car,” he spat. “What’s your name?”

  The man with the axe smiled, though there was little joy there.

  “Alann.”

  ***

  Nikki breathed a sigh of relief at the appearance of the Woodsman. She was no longer alone. She didn’t know what the holdup was, up on Draconis, but she’d been getting more and more uncomfortable. The prisoner should be down here by now.

  But it didn’t matter; Alann was here and he would know what to do. She hoped.

  She glanced at him and he gave her a reassuring wink. Was that… was that a butterfly in her tummy? Christ, she picked some funny times to go soft. The Woodsman was handsome, that was true. Not in the ethereal and statuesque way that Stone was, sure. But Alann was more… ‘real.’ More relatable. Aboard Draconis she had found herself surrounded by people with mystical powers, or else carrying humming cannons of strange and exotic design.

  But Alann? He was just a man with an axe. There was nothing strange about him. He was tough, no-nonsense, sure. But he was open, honest and when he listened he really listened. You could tell that he was taking everything in, not just nodding and saying uh-huh, as most people did, simply waiting for their own chance to talk. He listened like a man who knew first-hand the brevity of life. She’d sat there, in the Common Room aboard the dragon, a cup of tea to hand, and before she’d known it she’d poured out her entire life story to him.

  He had that effect on people. Disarming.

  Despite all this, however, she knew that he was a warrior. He might not flaunt his strength, like the others. But it was there, beneath the surface. Gazing about at the agents that surrounded them in a fanned out semi-circle, she could only hope that whatever strength he did possess was enough. Against such numbers, she doubted it.

  Tall suit, Evans, called out across the concrete, his voice rising above the low moan of the dockside wind.

  “So, Alann. There’s now two of you. Yet I still fail to see any sign of our fugitive bomber. Care to elaborate.”

  If the Woodsman felt any irritation at the Agent’s tone, he didn’t show it.

  “There was an incident. He will be with us shortly, have no fear.”

  The Agent laughed.

  “Oh, I have no fear. It’s you that should be afraid. Assaulting government officers in the line of duty. Stealing a suspect. Damaging our property. These things are treason, my friend.”

  “Perhaps that would be the case,” Alann smiled, “if I were British. But I’m not.”

  “Oh?” The MI5 man raised an eyebrow. “And pray tell, where do you hail from?”

  “Somewhere far from your jurisdiction.”

  Evans went to press further, but the air changed, becoming greasy and awash with static. A second flash, then a boom, similar to when Alann had appeared, announcing the arrival of new figures on the dockside.

  The bomber, Jenkins, his arm once-broken, now whole, healed and restored. By his sides, two Foresters, clad in similar casual yet hard-wearing attire to that of their leader. The bomber didn’t run, instead standing there, swaying as though drunk and looking blearily about at the agents that surrounded him.

  Evans nodded.

  “Excellent. Now everyone’s accounted for, you’re all coming with us. We have questions to ask.”

  Nikki glanced up at the Woodsman in alarm. He shook his head.

  “That wasn’t the deal, Agent Evans. The deal was that you take this man as a symbol of our trust, a trust that we hoped would be returned. Don’t go back on that agreement. Do the right thing.”

  The Agent’s face twisted in anger. Overhead, the once-clear sky had begun to grow dark and heavy with clouds.

  “A terrorist attack that kills British Citizens. Then we find that there are people living amongst us using advanced technology unknown to even our military top brass. Teleportation? Strength enhancing drugs? Bullet-proof armour? You’re an unknown quantity, you and all of your ‘Shadows.’ The ‘right thing’ to do is to take you all in and get to the bottom of this.”

  “You complete twat,” Nikki spat. “Can you not see that these people are here to help? Don’t you think that if they meant any harm then you’d know about it by now?”

  “We know nothing about them,” he retorted. “For all we know, you, him and everyone in his organisation are allied to this bomber. This could all be part of some great, fat plot. And I won’t stand for it. You’re all coming with me.”

  At a gesture from their leader, Agents moved forwards, pistols held level. Immediately, the two Foresters by the sides of the bomber reached for the bows at their backs. A si
ngle glance from Alann stopped them.

  “We mean you no harm,” he said, though his voice carried with it a tone of menace that stopped the approaching agents in their tracks. “And you can have this bomber as we agreed. But you’re not taking my men. Nor this lady.” He narrowed his eyes. “Nor me.”

  The agents, paused, looked over to Evans and Jones. The taller suit nodded.

  “Go get them.”

  As the men in suits rushed forwards once more, the Woodsman shook his head, raising his finger to his ear.

  “Alann to Draconis. Take us-.”

  He never got to finish that sentence.

  ***

  That sound. Could none of them hear it? Michael looked around at the advancing Agents, at the man known as the Woodsman, making to speak into the device in his ear. How could they not hear it?

  He stood there, rubbing the miraculously healed arm by his side, his jaw still throbbing from where that youth had knocked him out, and he listened. He wasn’t imagining it, he was sure; a whispering, low, insistent and rising all the time. It was like a room packed with people, all murmuring and whispering to each other in hushed tones; dozens of overlaid voices, seeming to say the same thing, albeit in different and sometimes contradictory ways.

  The agents drew near, pistols held level. The two men by his side backed away, listening to the hiss of instructions from their earpieces. Then a voice seemingly from nowhere whispered right into Michael’s ear, causing him to stop and shiver in fear.

  Be ready, our servant.

  Before the MI5 men could take but a single step further forwards, the smell of brimstone, ash and fire assailed the nostrils. Then, from the shadows twixt the hulking cargo containers that lay like sleeping cattle upon the dockside… death came forth.

  ***

  A keening, high-pitched cry that pierced the air, then the agent nearest Nikki was swept from his feet by a comet-tail of black smoke, the gun clattering harmlessly to the floor. His shout of surprise trailed off into a blood-choked gurgle as he disappeared into the shadows between the containers.

  Nikki screamed.

  Backing away, she gazed about in horror as chaos descended upon the docks. Everywhere she looked, agents turned, firing off into the shadows to no avail as the heavens above turned ever darker and more overcast. Even as she watched, a container burst open, another roiling, rushing cloud of smoke launching from the darkness towards an agent. He spotted it, fired, one, two, three bullets, but an instant later the shadow rushed past him, then away.

  For an almost comical few seconds, the man stood there, scarce believing that he was still alive. But then a trickle of blood began to thread its way across his neck. With a dull thump, his head fell to the floor, eyes still staring in horror. A moment later, his body fell the other way, the severed stump of a neck spouting a geyser of blood that splattered and spread across the concrete floor.

  Nikki jumped in terror as she bumped into something behind her, a firm hand on her shoulder, but it was Alann, his face grim, eyes wary but resolute.

  “What is it?” she breathed. “What’s happening?”

  The Woodsman wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  “Khrdas…” He looked about. Every second, a new government agent would fall, the foul clouds of infernal smoke rushing without warning to strike them down, leaving severed limbs and screaming men that bled out upon the floor or else tried in vain to hold entrails that spilled forth from disembowelled torsos. His two Foresters, guarding the prisoner, had backed away from their charge, their own weapons raised to defend themselves. The prisoner, however, merely looked about in wonder. Alann growled. “They’re here for him.” Turning to the bewildered duo of suits that led the MI5 force, he shouted across the din of battle. “Leave! Back off! The enemy are here for the bomber! Let them take him and we will all survive this!”

  If they heard, they gave no sign. Instead, frantic gestures from the tall suit, Evans, sent agents scurrying forth to try to grab the bomber, to try to hustle him towards one of the cars. Before they were even halfway there, Khrdas, cloaked in smoke and black as night, rushed forth to butcher them like children.

  “Alann…” It was Nikki, staring up at him with moist and fear-filled eyes.

  He nodded.

  “We cannot help. Not against this foe.” He raised his finger once more to his ear. “Draconis, we need immediate translocation. We are under attack!”

  Even as he spoke, his two Foresters came running towards them, but a Khrda came from the shadows in a blur and raced to the attack. One of the men, Rodrique, turned, sword raised but to no avail. The Khrda came past, leaving only the tiniest of nicks upon his bare skin, but it was enough. Foul, dark venoms coursed their way through his body in an instant, Rodrique’s face turning grey as his knees gave way and he crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.

  “Rodrique!” Alann’s shout startled Nikki with its urgency, the Woodsman racing over to the fallen Forester, kneeling down with an almost fatherly look of grief upon his face. The stricken soldier gazed up at his master with glazed eyes that could no longer focus.

  “My Lord…” he croaked with his last, pained breath.

  “Alann, watch out!”

  At Nikki’s cry of warning, Alann’s look of sorrow twisted into a mask of rage, rising from his crouch, one hand reaching up to grasp the haft of the axe upon his back. He turned, the Khrda coming back in a great loop of twisting smoke, murder on its nightmare mind.

  As it rushed in, Alann raised his axe, the haft shuddering but holding as envenomed daggers bit and held fast. The Woodsman kicked out, foot disappearing into the cloud of smoke, to be rewarded by a hiss of pain, then he wrenched his axe free and thrust forwards with it, to be further rewarded by the sound of wood upon bone.

  The dark cloud of sulphurous smoke began to dissipate, to reveal a reeling figure, lean, hunched, insect-like and clad in dark, form-fitting leather. Nikki gasped in horror. Perhaps this creature might once have been human. No longer; from a mouth lined with razor teeth, it shrieked its rage at the Woodsman.

  His silver axe-head whistled down in a great arc. Black-spiked vambraces were raised to ward off the blow, but the vengeance of the Woodsman would not be denied. The axe-head powered through, cleaving steel, leather and forearm, before meeting that hideous and hissing skull and continuing, splitting the creature in twain from head to groin.

  An explosion of dark flame and noxious smoke. When it cleared, the creature was no more.

  The air about them all began to grow thick and heavy, tingling with the static build-up of approaching translocation. But before the flash, before the thunder, enraged Khrdas came flying from the shadows, their shrieks of bloodlust filling the air and causing Nikki to clasp at her ears in an effort to block out the noise.

  As one, like starlings flocking together, or locusts in a swarm, the Khrdas launched themselves towards the Woodsman. Even knowing that his death was surely upon him, he stood his ground, axe held before him to ward off the first blow, to strike down the first assailant. His eyes narrowed.

  The roiling smoke engulfed him, the momentum of his foes carrying him clean from the dockside to land with a splash in the murky waters of the Thames. Upon the concrete floor, an earpiece fell with a quiet clatter, bouncing to a halt.

  “Alann!”

  Both Nikki and the sole remaining Forester ran towards the river, but before they could move more than a few steps, a blinding flash, a rumble of thunder that shook the heavens.

  And they were gone.

  ***

  Agent Jones stared about in confusion. Where had they all gone? Those shrieking things, the creatures of smoke that had attacked with hideous speed; all of them had launched themselves at that man named Alann, hurling him into the river and following him down into the murky waters.

  The woman, Taylor, and the other Shadow, they’d vanished, teleported away in a flash.

  He rose, shakily, holding himself upright against the Jaguar. All about him, the smell of
blood, of wholesale slaughter. Looking about, fully half of their men were dead. There were no cries from the wounded; there were no wounded. Even the slightest touch from those creatures was death, it seemed. All about, corpses lay, lifeless and still, faces still contorted in agony.

  There was no sound. Save the rippling waters of the Thames lapping against the docks. The cawing of distant gulls.

  And laughter.

  Eyes wide with glistening rage, he looked up to spy the bomber still standing there in the clearing where the battle had taken place. Alone and untouched. Laughing as he took in the scene all about him.

  With a snarl, Jones spat upon the ground and marched forwards.

  “Phil, wait!”

  The agent ignored Evan’s protestations, intent only on avenging this insult to his comrades’ memories. He strode across the concrete, the bomber’s laughter only redoubling as he approached. Jones swung his fist, the balled knuckles smacking the terrorist firmly in the chin and sending him to the floor with a grunt.

  Incredibly, after wiping the blood from his lip, the man looked up. And continued to laugh.

  “I wouldn’t have done that if I were you,” the man admonished the MI5 agent, with a wry grin.

  “Bhy?” he sneered nasally through his broken nose. “Bhat you gonna bo aboud it?”

  The smile broadened.

  “Nothing. But he is.”

  “Phil!”

  At Evan’s cry of alarm, Agent Jones turned. There behind him, as if out of nowhere, a figure stood, clad in dark, form-fitting leather. His hair, white as bone. Eyes grey, cold and utterly without mercy.

  A sharp pain, a burning fire in Jones’ stomach and he looked down to spy a dagger, black as night, buried deep in his flesh. In horror, he looked up at his killer, his mouth unable to frame any words as fiery poisons worked their way through his system, shutting down his organs one by one. With nary a grunt of effort, the stranger casually tossed him aside to land in a crumpled heap, before walking forwards and placing a hand upon the bomber’s shoulder.