Chapter Sixty

 

The walls blurred past as Yara bounded through the tunnels after Deacon. He'd broken away from the main group, heading northeast towards the old Razor lands. She knew it wasn't smart to pursue him alone, but she didn't care. He'd taken everything from her including her father. While he hadn't been the one to put the blade in, his betrayal had led to his death.

Hatred that she'd long thought faded fueled her pursuit. A litany of reasons why he had to die by her hand repeated in her head, including when he'd thought she might switch sides after the betrayal. Her father, uncle, friends, and family. Her clan.

A massive multi-level cavern shone with faint fungal illumination. She didn't see him when she burst into the airy space. A tickle in the back of her neck alerted her to the danger before her mind caught up. She threw herself to the left as a knife spun past her head, bouncing off the rocks and slipping into a crack, disappearing forever. Deacon stepped out from behind a set of stalagmites that climbed to a cathedral-like structure.

"It would have been easier if you hadn't avoided that," he said.

Yara stood on an elevated position. Blades were in her fists, but she didn’t remember drawing them. Sweaty hair stuck to her face. Deacon's hooked blade rested on the stone as if he were too tired to carry it. She knew that wasn't true, but there was something hollow about him. His cheeks were gaunt and the swagger that he wore like a cloak was tattered and threadbare.

"It would've been a lot easier if you'd just died when I shot you."

He cracked an easy smile, which reminded her of why she'd fallen for him. He was everything the clan wasn't. She should have seen that betrayal long before it'd happened. Deacon pulled open his shirt, snapping buttons and revealing the mangled flesh where the dark plate had been.

"Maybe you did, it's just taking me a while to realize it."

"You fucked me. Fucked my family, my life."

"I thought you liked it when I fucked you," he said, his smile faltering at the joke.

"You could have had it all if you hadn't betrayed us," she said, lips curled in anger.

Deacon glanced askew. He closed his eyes. "I traded honor for subservience." His lips broke in a rakish grin. "Suppose it's too late for forgiveness?"

"I'd sooner give Tick a hand job."

"That bad, huh?"

The anger that had carried her in pursuit seemed to dissipate upon observing him up close.

"You look like death."

"You're not wrong." He pulled back the rest of his shirt, revealing the remaining plate, and rapped his knuckles on the dull metal. "I hear them calling me."

"I'd be happy to help you along," she said, holding up her blade horizontally.

"Don't. I don't want to kill you."

"You could let me sink my blade into your heart. I'd make it relatively painless and then all this could be over. Face it, Deacon. You lost. You picked the wrong side."

"Even if I'd won, I picked the wrong side. But you know I'll fight back. That's why I've survived this long. I don't know when to give up. I can't stop fighting."

He looked on the verge of tears. The vitality that she'd fallen in love with years ago was absent. He was a pale shadow of his former self. Any sympathy she might have had for him was lost to time.

"I have to kill you. I hope you understand that," she said.

He closed his eyes briefly while nodding his head.

"At least your father won't be around to grieve your death."

Yara moved into a crouch. It wasn't a natural pose, but it felt appropriate for their fight.

Despite Deacon's emaciated body and haunted gaze, he shifted forward with the grace and power of a python approaching an unwary prey. The hooked blade had her on reach and he was faster than sin, but she'd never felt more ready. Deacon attacked, using his hooked blade like a sledgehammer. Sparks flew as she countered his blows, slipping away before he could corner her against the wall.

"You've gotten better."

"I never understood my father's skill until recently. I thought he was a mythical warrior, but him dying proved that anyone can be beat."

Deacon arched an eyebrow. "I'm not even sure I could have beaten him."

Yara leapt with Lightness, coming down with a flurry of blows that would have eviscerated a normal foe, but Deacon moved with equal speed, keeping up with her attacks until he kicked her in the chest. She backflipped, landing on a ledge twenty feet away, a growl on her lips.

For the first time since she'd known him, he wore the mantle of doubt. He seemed to recognize that his skills had atrophied while hers had grown. He'd been measuring himself against the weak waku of his new clan, while she'd been honing herself in the shadows, waiting for the right moment.

She threw herself at him in another blurred exchange of strikes and blocks. When the pass ended with him retreating to a lower level with his skin flashing back from steel gray to pale cavern dweller, he checked his jacket to find a slice through the fabric. Deacon slipped out of the outer garment, slapping it on the stone. Blood ran down his forearm. He'd switched to black diamond too late.

The doubt burned away, replaced by unrepentant anger. He came at her like a whirlwind and it took all her skill to keep his blade from her throat. It was like fighting against a dozen foes at once. She never knew where the blade was coming, acting on instinct born from constant training. She managed to kick him in the thigh, giving her a chance to retreat to a different ledge.

"Two to one."

She didn't understand until she noticed the cuts. One on her thigh and the other on her side. Neither were deep enough to worry about, but they bleed into her clothes.

"I should have seen it when you put Camina in the hospital," she said. "I should have known right there you were rotten."

"You're not wrong," he said, stern expression breaking. "All I have left is survival. It's the only thing driving me."

"It must be miserable."

"It is."

Yara circled around, giving herself the advantage of terrain. In the last fight, she'd noticed a hole in his defense. The missing plate made him less flexible on the right side, either from scar tissue or the pain from its loss. She saw the path she had to take to kill him and hoped that he'd use his black diamond too late again. He wasn't using it as frequently as she'd seen in the past, which suggested he lacked the energy or hadn't kept up with his training. Her tactic would expose her to a fatal counterattack, but there were no safe fights in the shadows.

When Deacon turned his head slightly, as if he'd heard something, Yara used the distraction to attack. She flew at him like a thousand knives, forcing him to defend on his back foot. Deacon leaned to his left with an awkward twist, so she attacked the hole she'd seen before. Her blade sliced through his shirt, opening up a gash along his ribs, but he'd turned ever so slightly, avoiding a fatal plunge. The overextension left her open to the hooked blade, which she deflected slightly, but it hit her across the shoulder. Her entire left arm went numb and she dropped the blade. Before she knew it, Deacon slammed his shoulder into her and she landed on her back with him on top. He held her wrist with the remaining blade while she fought with his other arm to keep him from slashing down with the hooked sword.

"You shouldn't have come after me. I would have been much happier dying without having killed you."

"You killed me when you murdered my family," she said through gritted teeth, knowing she was slowly losing the battle for position. He was on top and his maetrie-given strength was stronger than her topaz.

"I'm sorry, Yara."

He wrenched his arm away from her grip and raised the hooked sword. She hoped it would be quick.

A blast threw him off. Deacon tumbled off the short ledge, landing on the rocks below her. A bloody and soot-covered Vasilisa marched over as she reloaded the shotgun.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Yara checked her shoulder. The cut wasn't deep. "I'll live."

Below them, Deacon lay on the rocks awkwardly. He was breathing in heaves. The side of his skull was pulpy. Yara dropped down and kicked away his weapon, then helped Vasilisa down the rocky slope. Deacon stared up with fear in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to speak, but he'd landed on a protrusion which had pierced his chest from behind. His skin rippled steel gray as if he were still trying to protect himself with the black diamond.

"I—"

A blast ended his attempted speech. Vasilisa threw the shotgun down next to the bloody mess that was once his head.

"I didn't want to hear another fucking word," she said.

Yara crouched down, grimacing from the wounds in her shoulder and thigh. She tried not to look at his missing face as she removed his stones, placing them in a pocket before joining Vasilisa for the return.