Salvator and Mirari stepped out from the station office to stand beside the dwarf. The green men in the yard had stopped short when the first shot was fired and now they stood all over the space between their dead master and Aker exchanging confused and angry looks.
Qhora looked at the Hellan and then she looked out at the Sons of Osiris. “All of you, listen to me! Go now and we’ll let you live. Go home!”
The swordsmen formed ranks, six facing the platform and five facing Aker and the locomotive behind him.
Qhora eyed the nearest orange seireiken as she called out, “Captain! Look out! They’re coming for you!”
Taziri Ohana stepped out from behind the freight cars. She had her left arm raised with a silvery revolver mounted on her silvery brace. Beside her was the Mazigh detective with the black revolver. They leveled their guns at the green men.
“This is your last chance to leave!” Qhora shouted. “Go now!”
The six warriors facing the platform charged forward. Salvator whipped his rapier about in flashing circles and fell back as two of the fiery blades came at him. Mirari whirled away with her long knife and hatchet in hand as a third man came at her.
Qhora raised her stiletto to hurl at the fourth man in front of her, but then a gunshot rang out and the man dropped to the ground. Tycho fired again and again, killing the two closest to him, and then he turned and shot the man chasing Mirari across the street.
“You’re a very good shot,” Qhora said.
“I have good eyes,” the Hellan said with a weary little smile. He pointed his revolver at the last two men near Salvator.
Click. Click.
Tycho’s eyes went wide. The two swordsmen stopped, turned, and charged back toward the dwarf. The one on the left held his seireiken high in both hands as though ready to chop the Hellan in half from brain to bowels. The one on the right held his blade low and to the side, preparing to slice his target across the waist.
In that moment, Qhora saw the useless gun shake in Tycho’s hand, and she saw the gun fall to the ground. It thudded on the planks of the platform with a hollow wooden thump.
Qhora leapt forward, reaching out toward Tycho, reaching toward his shoulder to dig both hands into his shirt and haul him bodily away from the two men, but she missed.
Tycho wasn’t there anymore. He was running toward the two men, and he was clutching the white-hot seireiken in both hands. The first attacker sliced straight down and the Hellan hurled himself aside to let the orange blade crunch into the platform boards. At the same moment, the second man sliced across and clanged his sword against the one lodged in the platform floor. Tycho swung the white sword in a level arc and it smashed through both of the fiery blades and blazed through both men’s knees. The men fell to the ground, silent and still and pale. Their broken swords lay in pieces on the platform, gray and cold.
Before she could speak, a chorus of gunfire drew Qhora’s gaze out to the rail yard. The other five green men all lay on the ground, all of them groaning and writhing as they clutched their shattered knees and bloody legs. Their swords lay bright in the dust, illuminating the haze with their hellish glow.
“There! Do you see that?” the detective shouted at the men on the ground. “That’s what happens when you bring magic swords to a gun fight!”
And the captain muttered back something that sounded like, “You do know it’s not really magic, right?”
Qhora looked around the platform and the street and the yard. Everyone was gone, or dead, or whimpering. No one was running. No one was shooting. A soft, warm breeze gently brushed the dust away to better reveal the stillness of the train station. Taziri put her fingers to her forehead in a little salute.
Qhora waved back. Then she hopped down from the platform and walked slowly and quietly across the gravel yard, stepping carefully over the train tracks and bodies, and looked up at the last man in green still standing.
“Aker El Deeb.” She said it calmly and softly. “You killed my husband. You stole his soul. Where is your sword?”
The man glanced back over his shoulder.
“It’s here.” Taziri pointed to the ground. “I destroyed it. Melted it down. All the souls are free. Lorenzo is free, Qhora. It’s over.”
He’s free. He’s at peace. It’s over.
Qhora cleared her throat and looked at the bloody, haggard face of Aker El Deeb. “Were you under orders? Were you hired to kill my husband?”
He spat in the dirt. “No.”
“That night, did you come to rob us?”
“No.”
“Did you come to rape me?”
He grinned. “No.”
“Would you have killed the rest of us that night, if you could have? Me, Mirari, Alonso? My baby? If you could have, would you?”
He shrugged. “Probably.”
She let her gaze drift across the yard, no longer seeing the bodies or the buildings or the trains. They were all just meaningless blurs of color and light. “So, that night, you came to kill him because you wanted to kill him. You wanted another soul for your sword. You wanted his skills. You wanted to steal his strength to make yourself a better killer.”
Aker snorted and tried to straighten up a bit taller, but he winced and put his hand to the burned side of his neck. “Yeah, something like that. It was worth it, too. I could fight like him.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Qhora said. For a moment, the sun-bleached gravel almost looked like the glaring snowfields of Espana, and then like the pale beaches at Cartagena, and then like the bright streets of Cusco.
So many places I’d rather be, so far away, so far from where I am.
And what I am.
And who I am.
She swallowed. “During the war, Enzo fought for his survival, and for his king, and for his fellow soldiers. After the war, Enzo fought to protect the people he cared for, and even to protect people he didn’t know. And as a teacher, Enzo fought for peace and justice. He wanted to end war. All war. He hasn’t…he hadn’t killed anyone for many years. I remember once,” she smiled, “we were attacked in the street and Enzo pretended to kill those men because he didn’t think I’d understand why he left them alive.”
“Oh?” Aker winced. “And you understand now? Now that you’re all civilized and holy?”
“No.” Qhora stared at him blankly. “I’ve tried for years to understand why such a gifted warrior as my Enzo would leave his enemies alive, why he would show mercy to people who wanted him dead, and why he was so humble. He deserved to be proud. He was strong and brave. A soldier, a hero, a teacher. Everyone loved him and respected him. But he clung to his faith, to his three-faced god.” She touched the triquetra medallion on her chest. “Uphold the Father’s justice, defend the Mother’s life, and temper all things with the Son’s mercy and compassion. It is the Espani way. It was Enzo’s way.” She paused to look down at the little golden disk in her hand. “But it isn’t my way.”
Aker grimaced. “What are you going to do with me?” He glanced over his shoulder at the two Mazighs. Taziri was reloading the gun bolted to her arm. The detective had already reloaded his black revolver and was staring flatly at the Aegyptian.
“I’m giving you to the Mazighs. You’ll go back to Marrakesh. You’ll stand trial. You’ll go to prison. Or maybe they’ll execute you. I don’t know. I doubt they’ll torture you. That isn’t their way. But to honor my husband’s love of justice, you will live to stand trial. I swear that.” She tilted her head back to look at the sky. A single faint strand of cloud stretched from east to west, torn and driven by the sea wind. “But that isn’t enough for me.”
She felt her chest drawing in, crushing her ribs around her heart. It hurt just to breathe and a dozen tiny claws seemed to be tearing at her throat, making it harder and harder to speak. The rims of her eyes burned. She pressed her lips tightly together for a moment. “You took my husband from me. And you took my son’s father. Forever. So now I will take something of yours. Forever.” She swallowed and steadied her voice, and then screamed, “TURIIIIIII!!!!!!!”
The harpy eagle screamed a wordless scream high overhead, a scream that shredded the sky and pierced the
