Warbound: Book Three of the Grimnoir Chronicles (37 page)

There were only a few days left until his appointment with destiny. Toru knew he would more than likely die fulfilling the final commandments of his father, but he accepted, even embraced that fate. The discovery of the Nishimura armor was a great blessing, a sure sign that his father was still watching over his mission and providing the tools necessary for success.

Working with his hands was a welcome distraction. He had been feeling ill at ease ever since his conversation with the newspaper man, Xiang. He had spoken of things which he had thought forgotten. Toru did not relish picking at scabs.

The suit was in better shape than expected. It had obviously seen combat, most likely at the front. Judging from the dents left by large, low-velocity bullets and the claw marks of a bear, it had been used in Siberia. Cossacks were worthy adversaries, but nothing like it would be facing shortly. Would the great Cog Nishimura ever have imagined one of his magnificent works would be turned against the Imperium? Toru did not know the answer, so he merely went back to testing each individual kanji.

The fit was tight. Ideally he would have time to adjust the armored chest piece. Normally the Iron Guard using such armor would have a few assistants to help him get into it, but he would not ask the Grimnoir for their help. To them, this was simply a device, a mix of machinery and magic. They would not understand the spiritual nature that came with preparation for war. They were simply incapable of understanding the connection between a true warrior and his tools.

He’d already tested the lower pieces. It took nearly an hour to get his legs and pelvis fully encased in steel and laminate, and then tied into the torso pieces. It was especially difficult to attach the hoses on his back. The floor creaked as he lifted one armored boot, but it seemed like it would hold.

He placed his hand against the design on the suit’s shoulder and let his Power free. He could feel the energy collecting in his muscles, and he concentrated and guided it down into the spell. It flared briefly with magical light as the connection was formed. Another kanji was ready. Toru estimated the armor was functioning at about eighty percent effectiveness. He was certainly no Fixer, but he hoped that over the next few days he might be able to get that up to ninety.

Though Toru had heard the stomping of huge boots against the damp wood a floor away, his visitor was polite enough to knock. “Come in, Sullivan.”

The Heavy entered, looked over the armor which was spread out across the floor, and then took a seat on an overstuffed and slightly moldy chair. “You getting the hang of this thing?”

“I was trained in its use many years ago, though I never had to privilege of using one in combat . . .” He realized that did not actually answer Sullivan’s question, and he had too much on his mind to be obtuse out of spite. “I am “getting the hang” of it.”

“Will it be ready in time?”

“It is ready now.” Toru slid his arm inside the steel sleeve, carefully guiding each finger into the gauntlet. He willed the gauntlet to curl into a fist. “It still requires some adjustment and fine tuning. I would like to test it more, but I believe it to be combat effective.”

“You need a hand putting it together?” Sullivan reached down for the
mempo.

“No! Do not touch that.”

Sullivan removed his hand. “Easy there.”

The armor made a slight grinding noise as he willed the legs to work. The boards beneath his steel boots popped as he took a step over. Bending at the waist was difficult without all of the parts attached for balance, but Toru managed to scoop up the face mask. “You are not to touch it.”

Sullivan seemed more curious than offended. “Why not?”

“It is . . .” Toru sighed. “It is difficult to explain. This armor is meant only to be used by the greatest amongst my . . . amongst the Iron Guard. Bearing it is a sacred responsibility.”

“Never knew you were the religious type, Toru.” Sullivan leaned back in the chair and produced a pack of cigarettes from his coat.

“I do not subscribe to your superstitions, but I know what I believe. Just . . . just do not touch the armor again.”

Sullivan lit the cigarette. “So it’s a worthiness thing?”

Toru thought it over for a moment. In normal times, the Iron Guard would ritually prepare himself before donning the armor, cleansing both mind and body. “Yes.”

“Fair enough . . . Did my brother have one of these?”

“He had been promoted to First before his death, so yes. He would have been given one if he had lived.”

“If that was considered worthy, then I suppose I wouldn’t want one anyway.” Sullivan shrugged. “I’ll be heading back to the
Traveler
soon with Barns and Lady Origami. Lance will be in charge here. Before that, though, I wanted to talk to you about the plan. You know what we’re facing better than anyone, but you were awfully quiet tonight.”

“You ordered me earlier not to destroy the hope of your men.” Toru turned away and went back to tying in the arm to the shoulder piece. “You are willing to lie, dishonor yourself, and bring eternal shame to your name—”

“I think Wells is right about the man. Whatever Saito’s real Power is, or whatever deal he’s got with the creature, I think this is the only hope we’ve got of exposing the Pathfinder. The only thing that matters is beating it.”

“So you intend to expose deceit through deceit . . . Despite the dishonor inherent in this, your plan is bold. Provided your assumptions are correct, your Cog’s assumptions are correct, and your alienist is not a madman sending us to our doom in order to amuse himself, there is a small possibility of success . . .”

“That ain’t so bad.”

“Success is possible. Survival is not. We will surely die.”

“That’s what I figured.” Sullivan took a long drag off of the cigarette. “Me and you, I figure we’re done for no matter what, but I was hoping to get as many of the others out alive as possible.”

“That will be entirely dependent upon how well we die.”

“If that’s what it takes, then I suppose that’s what it takes.”

Sullivan did not have the true code of the warrior, but he did have a code nonetheless. It was a remarkable achievement for a man raised in a culture with no concept of true strength or honor to follow such a path. Toru looked down at the Nishimura face mask he had set on the floor. Even such a weapon had been carefully carved in the style of their ancestors. It was a perfect melding of art and death. Only a true warrior was worthy of wielding the sacred weapons of the Imperium, but if there had ever been anyone among the Chairman’s enemies who might have been worthy, it was Jake Sullivan.

My father was a wise man to choose his champion so well.

“We fought once, Sullivan, and we were unable to decide which of us was the stronger. I have vowed to finish that fight. I am unable to take back that vow . . . However, the idea that we will die together now, fighting against my brothers and restoring my father’s stolen honor . . . It makes me glad that we will be unable to finish our duel.” Toru gave Sullivan a small bow of respect. “Let them speak of our deaths with reverence for generations to come.”

The two of them stayed there in silence for a time, Toru putting on his armor, and Sullivan thinking about the fate of his volunteers with a heavy heart.

Major Matsuoka of the
Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu
used his binoculars to scan down the docks. There were no lights visible in the abandoned apartment building indicated by the informant. The patrol boat rocked from a strong wave, and Matsuoka had to lower the binoculars, as the added movement made him a little nauseous. It would not look good to get motion sick in front of his distinguished visitor. “Are you certain this is their hideout?”

The translator conveyed the question to the worthless Grimnoir traitor. They’d said his name was Pang, and that he was supposedly a Brute. He rambled on for far too long with his answer.

“He says this is the place. Toru is here as well as several foreign Grimnoir. He says that Toru insulted him, and that he is a terrible person, and that is why Pang is willing to give him to us. He says that their leader is very young, and he is tired of being bossed around by a kid.”

Of course.
It had nothing to do with the staggering amounts of gold promised for information. Those who would betray a trust were always the same, and when caught would inevitably try to justify themselves by saying that they’d been somehow wronged, and were thus justified in their actions. Matsuoka had been a police officer for a very long time and had dealt with many such men. “I do not care what his reasons are. His information was reliable last time.” He turned toward the slight figure standing to his side, dressed entirely in dark, unassuming colors. “Does this please you, Shadow Guard?”

The terrifying little man simply nodded. He had been introduced as Hayate, a very senior, very experienced warrior, whose reputation for effectiveness preceded him. Hayate’s Shadow Guard would be the ones to handle Toru.

“Radio the other units. Summon all of the men and surround the sites. No closer than a block. Avoid being spotted at all costs. If anyone comes or goes, tail them discreetly. Use disembodied spirits if available. I would rather lose one than alert the majority.” He checked his watch. Raids always worked the best in the still hours before dawn. “We strike in one hour. We will hit all of the safe houses simultaneously. Standard procedures. Kill any who resist. If possible, take captives for interrogation.”

The message was relayed. The operation was in motion.

Pang spoke in Mandarin, asking again for his traitor’s blood money. Matsuoka spoke some of the language, but would not lower himself to talking to a dishonorable informant. He snapped his fingers, and two of his men came forward carrying a wooden chest. They placed it in front of Pang, who greedily knelt down and opened the lid. The gold bars had been neatly stacked in straw. Pang’s fat face split into a wide smile.

“It is too bad,” the Shadow Guard said. “They are normally so loyal. It is rare that a Grimnoir would break his oath.”

“True,” Matsuoka agreed.

“Nearly as rare as an Imperium warrior breaking his. Not completely unheard of, I am afraid . . . Oh, foolish Toru. What shame you have brought. Were you aware I knew him, Major Matsuoka?”

“No, Shadow Guard. I was unaware.”

“We served together during the offensive in Manchuko, and then again during the Thai insurgency. Despite his poor judgment, he is one of the finest combatants I have ever seen. He deserves to be felled by an equal. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Shadow Guard,” the major agreed. He had no intentions of stealing the Shadow Guard’s glory. Matsuoka was a policeman. Hayate was a legendary killer of men, a ruthless magical assassin who came in the darkness, like a ghost from nightmares, leaving no trace of his passage, other than the corpses. Matsuoka was certainly not an idiot. “My troops are merely here to facilitate your needs against the Grimnoir.”

“The Grimnoir are different than us . . . But in some ways, they are similar. They have oaths as well. I have fought them all over the world. They are stubborn and courageous, and seldom will one surrender. They are one of the few foes I truly appreciate fighting. I am thankful for the challenge they present.” The Shadow Guard looked over at Pang as he reached into his voluminous shirt. “Thus, I find this one disappointing.” And then he disappeared.

Matsuoka turned when he heard the gurgling noise. Shadow Guard Hayate had reappeared right next to Pang. The hilt of a dagger was protruding from the intersection of Pang’s jaw and throat. Blood gushed out of the obviously fatal wound. Pang was surprised and couldn’t even make a noise, but the traitor did have some fight in him after all. He surged his Brute magic and took a wild swing at Hayate, who simply Traveled out of the way, appeared on the other side of the Brute, raised one foot, kicked Pang in the ass, and sent him over the side. He fell over the railing with a splash, where he thrashed for a moment before sinking into the dark water.

“Save your gold.” Hayate went to the chest and carefully closed the lid. He walked back to Matsuoka and leaned against the rail. “We are fighting Grimnoir tonight, so expect casualties. You may divide this gold between the families of your men who perish.”

Matsuoka bowed. “That is very kind of you, Shadow Guard.”

Hayate looked at him with heavy-lidded grey eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. “That is because I am a very kind man.”

They kept a few boats stashed in the flooded first floor. Crumbling holes where the windows had been made for great hidden docks. Sullivan had been impressed by the Shanghai Grimnoir’s creativity.

Zhao was driving their little boat. He was the only one in view, standing in back, steering the small outboard motor. Lady Origami, Barns, and Sullivan were under the lifted tarp which served as a sort of tent-cabin. If they were accosted, Lady Origami was closest to the flap, because hopefully if anybody saw that there was a Nipponese passenger, the rest of them would be left alone.

Their little boat practically disappeared into the shadows of the massive freighters. It would take them a day to make it back to where the
Traveler
was hidden at this rate. It wasn’t going to be a fun trip, all crammed up beneath a tarp, especially since Barns had pulled his fedora down over his eyes and gone right to sleep. He hadn’t started yet, but Sullivan knew it was only a matter of time before Barns started talking in his sleep. Bunking together in the officers’ quarters had taught him that, but the sleep talking would be extra annoying on a tiny boat stuck under a tarp.

“It will be good to get back to the ship,” Lady Origami said. “I prefer to be in the air.”

“Not me. I’m all about being on the ground.”

“You are a Heavy.” She smiled. “Of course you like ground. I am a Torch. I am of fire and live in the sky, but now we are on water. However can we cope?” She gave him a wink, and when he returned it, she laughed.

Was she flirting with him again? He really wasn’t used to that. What a strange—

There was a thump. Zhao had just stamped on the boards to get their attention. “Quiet.”