The Faith Eaters, Chapter 6: Reunions

Had Jargon intended to kill them, the security squad of five elite Banshees surrounding Erin wouldn�t have had a chance. As it happened, they were fortunate to fire any rounds at all. Days later while in various stages of medical recovery, the majority of the squad would be humiliated, and therefore angry. The wise ones would be humbled, glad simply to be alive.

To his credit, the squad leader, a veteran sergeant of nearly two dozen intense and victorious firefights, perceived a flicker of movement in the darkness and recognized the threat immediately. He was, in fact, able to shout an initial command to his squad. �Enemy, to the rear!� The order, a sharp, clear bark, was instinctive. It was text book correct, battlefield practical and as intended resulted in every squad member turning his eyes to observe the man silhouetted by the dim lights of the rooftop accessway.

That�s when Jargon blinded them.

A brilliant strobe of white light pulsed from his uplifted hand and the night sky turned to day for a dazzling instant. The Banshee closest to Jargon screamed, dropped his weapon to the tar-papered roof and fell to his knees, head bowed and hands cupping his eyes. The others reacted similarly, though to lesser extremes, as the soft image of Jargon�s silhouette became a jagged black shadow imprinted on their retinas.

As a further testament to the character and skill of the Banshee sergeant, though blinded to the point of pain the man dropped to a kneeling position, tucked the stock of his rifle tightly into his shoulder and emptied an entire magazine into the accessway where he had first spotted Jargon.

But Jargon was no longer there.

He danced across the rooftop with grace and speed born of training, skill and, at one time, faith. Lips moving in silent prayer, he approached the closest Banshee, then the sergeant, and every other Banshee in turn, as if searching for a worthy dance partner. Here the flat of his blade struck the bridge of a nose. There, pommel met temple. Each time he stepped away, the unconscious form of a Banshee crumpled and fell.

From where she lay near the edge of the building, Erin blinked her eyes several times to clear her vision and stared, wide-eyed, at the shadowy form gliding toward her in the darkness. Within seconds Jargon came to a stop in a low crouch before her. His left arm was extended from his side, the neck of the final Banshee grasped tightly in his hand as he applied firm pressure to the soldier�s corotid artery. He gripped his sword in his right hand, its long blade held at chest level, perpendicular to his body. He remained in that position for several heartbeats, as if giving Erin time to observe the blade as it gleamed, bloodless, in the moonlight. Time to recognize what it meant. Then he released his hold on the Banshee and silently stood as the soldier clattered into a graceless heap at his feet.

Erin spoke his name slowly, as if in disbelief. �Jargon?� Her mind, still grappling with the images she had seen on the street only minutes before, had resigned itself to capture. Now, as she looked at the man who stood silently before her, she was unsure what to do. He had been a friend once, years ago, in a time before either of them had shed blood or made it run. Her eyes met his, questioning, and she opened her mouth to speak.

He cut her off. �We�ve little time.� His voice was quiet, but firm. �Players from half a dozen teams will be on site in minutes. Either come with me, or go it alone. Choose now.� He turned on his heel and strode across the roof towards the accessway. Behind him, Erin hesitated less than a breath before she stood, scooped up her rifle and jogged to catch up.

As Jargon neared the stairwell, his form once again silhouetted by the light coming from inside the building, he stopped suddenly, leaning back on his heels as if surprised. Erin slowed. She could hear a quiet murmur of words, but saw only shadows from the stairwell. Slowly, quietly, she sidestepped to her left in an attempt to gain a better view, finally able to position herself so she was facing Jargon but concealed from anyone standing in the stairway.

Jargon ignored her, his attention focused instead on the man beyond the sword tip which pressed against his throat, piercing his skin. He took three slow steps backward and his adversary followed him into the wash of light where Erin could see them both. The sword tip didn�t waiver and a trickle of blood worked its way slowly down Jargon�s neck to soak into his collar. His eyes met those of Inquisitor Guerin with a steady gaze.