It never came. Something white streaked in from my periphery to strike Maul’s leg with an audible ring of metal and a storm of sparks. When my vision cleared, a tall man in silver chainmail and a white surcoat stood above me, a shield strapped to one arm, and a bloody sword held in the other.
They called him the White Knight. One-time leader of the Los Angeles Defenders, he’d retired a decade earlier to take an advisory role with the Hammers of God. He had to be pushing seventy, but his movements were as fluid as ever.
Maul howled in anger, his club whistling through the air. It was the sort of blow that would have obliterated a tank, and the White Knight didn’t try to take it head-on, but instead swayed to one side, letting it whistle harmlessly past. He slid back in at an angle, leading with his shield, pushing Maul’s arm and weapon out wide. Then his other hand thrust forward, driving his famous sword right through the Titan’s torso.
Maul grunted, but his free hand punched the White Knight in the chest. The old Cape lost his helm and flew back a dozen feet. As hard as he went down, he was back on his feet almost immediately, white mustache and beard slick with sweat and sticking to a gaunt, wrinkled face.
“Come and die, old man,” taunted Maul.
“I think I’ll stay right here,” said the White Knight, breathing heavily, “but thanks all the same.”
“Coward!” Maul raised his club and charged the Cape.
“I call it prudence.” On the third step, Maul slowed. On the fourth, he dropped to one knee, his free hand clutching at his chest. “That was your heart I hit,” continued the White Knight. “Every step you took just tore the hole open further.”
The last shreds of strength evaporated from Maul’s arms. Still five feet from his opponent, he fell to the earth and died.
The White Knight hurried over, still breathing heavily. A seasoned eye looked me over, taking note of my wounds, and the old man shook his head. “Stay still, lad, and keep pressure on that wound. When this is over, the paramedics will—”
I never got to hear what the paramedics would do, as something hit the Knight from behind, tossing him twice the distance Maul had already sent him.
One of Fallout’s reinforcements had broken through the army’s line. That was bad enough on its own, but when I saw who it was, all hope of victory fled.
He was the leader of the Legion of Blood and the one Black Hat even Fallout feared. Unofficially ranked as a Mid-Four Titan and a Mid-Four Stalwart, he’d fought the adult Paladin and several members of the Defenders to a stalemate on multiple occasions.
Carnage was here, and we were all going to die.
•—•—•
The infamous Black Hat didn’t spare me a glance as he stepped forward. Even at nine feet tall, he moved with that grace unique to Stalwarts, his long, powerful legs crossing the distance at inhuman speeds.
The White Knight barely got to his feet in time. Blood poured down the right side of his face, but he’d held on to both shield and sword somehow. Pale eyes widened as he saw who was coming toward him, and then a sort of resigned determination set in. He raised his shield and his sword. “So be it. Let’s see what you have.”
I’d seen Orca and Matthew fight more than a dozen times, and I’d seen WarChild and that anonymous Stalwart compete in the Graduation Games, but nothing prepared me for seeing two Cat Four Stalwarts in battle. It wasn’t just that they were fast and skilled… even the first-years were like that. It was like they were communicating in a language I couldn’t even comprehend. Every strike was a puzzle instantly divined and solved by the opponent. For almost thirty seconds—a lifetime at that speed—not a single blow landed.
Carnage’s gruesome smile widened. “Tiring already, old man?”
“Come and find out, monster.” Sweat mingled with blood, but the White Knight blinked both away.
Carnage was already in motion, gliding past the Cape’s defensive sword thrust. The other man lashed out with his shield but Carnage stopped it dead with one giant hand. With a low growl, the Black Hat ripped the shield up and to the side.
I don’t know what the old man had done to try and brace himself, but it didn’t work. The shield went flying and his arm went with it, torn from its socket in a spray of blood, shredded tendons and splintered bone.
The old Cape’s scream was lost in the sounds of dying men all around us, but as I watched, something like triumph entered his eyes. The sword strike Carnage had dodged on his way in had been one last, risky feint, pulled back at the very last moment. The Black Hat was too close to dodge, too far out of position to block.
The White Knight drove his sword forward, all of his remaining bodyweight behind the blow.
Still on my ass, still struggling to rise without even a table leg to support me, I watched the Titan’s body heave up and down, as if trying to dislodge the sword I couldn’t quite see. Then I heard the sound, drowning out even the roar of machine guns firing in unison.
Carnage was laughing.
He hoisted the White Knight into the air. In the Cape’s left hand—now his only hand—was a golden hilt, and the three-inch fragment of blade which was all that remained of his legendary sword.
“I hear you used to be something back in the day,” Carnage said, leaning forward to let the other man’s blood cascade down over his face. “You should’ve stayed retired.”
The hand holding the White Knight came down like a hammer, smashing the old Stalwart into the earth again and again. By the third impact, there was nothing left but a broken body in shredded chainmail.
CHAPTER 74
Carnage tossed the
