He steps forward again transferring all of his weight to his front foot. My chance. I step aside and flick my weapon at his knee, blowing it out. He crashes to the ground like a sack of bricks.
With one stroke, I’ve won. I stand over him, savoring the final moments of his desperate life. The crowd hoots. They’re about to witness the death of the world they know. Vaarkson crawls through the muck trying to reach the pipe that has fallen from his grasp. I calmly smash my boot onto the top of his hand, breaking it. He stares up with tears of terror streaming from his black eyes.
“Mercy, Leontes,” he says, gasping.
“The great Bruul Vaarkson, foreman of the Haulers, asks me for mercy?” I spread my arms wide, addressing the crowd. “Shall I give it to him?”
Vaarkson lashes out with his fist, but I feel the shift in his body before his synapses even fire. I hear his thought to strike long before he reaches me. I deflect the attempt easily, and my finger snaps downward toward the big man’s jugular. I touch him at just the right point for the effect that I want and step back.
“There’s your mercy,” I whisper.
It’s operatic, really. I remember the first time The Maestro played Die Walkure’s “Ride of the Valkyries.” Its thundering melody plays for me now in this moment of triumph.
Vaarkson trembles. He clutches his neck as the veins in his forehead bulge and his face turns purple. He tries to scream, but no sound escapes his lips. Instead, a geyser of blood spews from his open mouth. Then his ears and eyes. He bathes the crowd in a shower of red. The crowd’s chants climax with the grotesquery. I raise my fist in victory as Vaarkson collapses in a pool of his own blood.
“I am the foreman of the Haulers!” I call out. “Any who challenge me step forward!”
My words are met with silence.
“Leontes rules the Haulers, and I the Pickers!” Jinam Shank grabs my other hand and raises it to the sky, but the crowd remains quiet.
“No.” I smile. “The Pickers are also mine.”
Shank’s eyes narrow as I continue. “I think it’s time for new leadership in the Picker Gang, too. Strong leadership. Don’t you agree, Shank?”
I turn to the scarred man, who shakes with anger. I’ve just called him out for the leadership of his gang after everyone witnessed me murder a man twice his size in a most gruesome fashion.
Before it was just an accident. Now it’s just as my father wished. I’ve become a killer. For Nadia. For my mother. For revenge!
“Don’t be stupid, Shank. Submit or suffer Vaarkson’s fate,” I whisper.
The scars on Shank’s face pucker as he scowls. He can’t beat me, but he’s wrestling with pride. To submit is worse than death. His hand shakes as it hovers near his belt, where he carries a shiv. Can he grab it and stab the plastic into my guts before I can react? That’s what he’s asking himself.
I watch his eyes, his body language, but he has already made the decision. He drops to a knee. “The leadership of the Picker Gang is yours, Leontes.”
The crowd cheers. I look down at Shank. Part of me would reach a hand down, stand the groveling man to his feet, clap an arm around his shoulder, and create an ally out of him. Yet Shank has just tainted himself by Tao’s laws. I must have no part of the stain. I can’t have a man resentful, waiting for his moment to knife me in the back, either. Soon, he’ll meet with some unfortunate accident that will remove him as any future threat. I’d rather not kill anyone, but I’m also not sorry enough to stop it.
“One more thing,” I call out. “Bring me the one called Toshiro Kodai.” There’s a rustle within the ranks and the scrawny islander, who I once thought was to be my only friend in the frozen wastes, steps forward.
“Foreman,” he says. He smiles, but his eyes show fear.
“Toshi, when I came to the Wendigo, we were friends. I saved your life.” He nods, hoping I will absolve him of his crimes. “Then you betrayed my friendship. You must be punished.”
“Edmon, please!” He kneels to grab ahold of my leg and beg, but I kick him in the face before he can reach me. He falls into the snow and muck. I spit on him.
“You’re not worth my effort. I’ve promised I wouldn’t kill you. I keep my word. What man will rid me of this meddlesome worm?”
Carrick steps forward.
“Carrick, I make you my second. Kill him.”
Is this necessary? I ask myself. Vaarkson was necessary. Didn’t I promise myself I would be better?
Then I realize, I don’t care. “Make him suffer before it ends so all know that no one crosses Edmon Leontes, the leviathan.” I turn my back on them and enter the darkness of the tunnel, the tortured screams of a dying man echoing behind me.
CHAPTER 24
CABALETTA SEGUNDA
Months pass. Plans come to fruition. Carrick from the Pickers and a man named Korban from the Haulers sit before me. They lead the gangs publicly while I command in secret. I’ve beaten all challengers. It’s no longer vague fear that motivates followers, but utter faith in my ruthlessness.
“The Smelters and Welders are with us,” Korban says, nodding.
“And the Trainmen?” I ask.
Carrick grunts. “They’ll halt the cars, but they refuse to fight. They’re still afraid to go against The Warden.”
“This will be for nothing if we don’t unite. The Warden relies on divisions between us. It’s all of us, together, or nothing.”
“And if we win? Then what?” Korban asks.
“Then we rule.”
“Aren’t we just inviting the Pantheon to simply bury this place with soldiers?” Carrick asks.
“The nobility of Tao doesn’t care who owns these mines so long as production continues. We’ll make this place more profitable than The Warden ever could. If that fails, we know these tunnels better than any Meridian soldier. We’ll retreat into darkness, letting cold and guerrilla warfare wear them down. They sent us here to die. Now they’ll deal or die themselves.”
This is the message that I bring the men over and over: They’ve forgotten us, thrown away the key. We either remain on our knees as slaves or stand and fight as men.
“If the trains are stopped, then I don’t need their men,” I admit. “But tell the Trainmen foreman that if he refuses to fight, he’s forfeiting their right to spoils, and his right to lead. I’ll challenge him if need be.”
“You’d call him out?” Carrick asks.
“Is there any other way?” Thus far, I’ve managed to avoid having to kill every single foreman. Usually, the mere mention of challenge is enough to spur them to join. Yet I’m willing to do the killing if necessary. That’s why they follow me.
Carrick nods. “It’ll be done by workday’s end.”
I look to the old man, who sits like a statue by the fire. He no longer moves and rarely speaks. His energies are concentrated on keeping himself alive. Fear of death drives him. Perhaps he thinks whatever it is we’d find on the lost world of Miral will save him? I’ve told the men Faria’s an oracle who is imbued with magical powers to predict the future, that his silence presages the final battle.
“It’s time.” The words croak from his leathery lips.
I nod in agreement. “We attack at dawn.”