Pyotr stared intently in to the sea of faces below, scanning the crowd for the one he knew must come. Though no official mention had been made to the commoners, the press had begun arriving in waves earlier that morning, and it was not long before the people began filing in to the streets to see what was going on. In the middle of the square now stood a large wooden platform bearing only the flag of the Koyudom Army and a small podium at its center.
Pyotr knew that the reason for the lack of notice was to decrease the chances of an organized attack. The media would leak word of the conference like a sieve given time, but certainly Lyon had waited to notify them until shortly before his thugs had begun setting up the platform in the hours just before dawn. Lyon could rest assured that that the informants and spies lurking amongst the major media outlets would be unable to notify the Rebellion in time for any sort of decisive action. Lyon was a thorough man, and it was what had kept him alive thus far. He had cleverly selected to stage his event in a neighborhood that contained almost no Rebellion presence; whatever his sources, his intel was precise. Surely there would be scattered Rebels on the outskirts of the affair, but Lyon's secret police would put them down quickly and quietly.
The most distressing thing was that both the Rebellion and Lyon knew that soon he would be too powerful to be attacked in this manner. His army had already grown tenfold, and would expand again soon if he completed his campaigns in the west and north. Before long, the Rebellion would become powerless to oppose the Koyudom. The Rebellion would be only eyes and ears then.
And so today came Lyon to announce his power to the public. Before millions, he would lay his claim to everything he desired. He was confident that he had established Koyudom as a new superpower. There were even rumors that he had his sights set on China for his next campaign. If so, he would have it. Lyon seemed nigh unto invincible.
Unfortunately for Lyon, Pyotr had been tracking his every move for days. The Rebellion could not risk shadowing Lyon with a unit, as Lyon's scouts were too skilled to be bypassed by more than a single man. And no one was going to track Lyon alone. It was a guaranteed suicide mission. But Pyotr's flame was fueled by vengeance, burning bright, and he cared little for his own life. He had moved with the grace of a spirit through shadow, and fought like something not of this world. He had killed enough soldiers in the last 72 hours to fill the square below with the dead. With blade and bullet, he had cut his way through each man who would betray his presence. He was a ghost. He was a demon.
He had stealthily dispatched eleven of the men sent to scan the area before the conference. One had been left alive to call in the all clear signal at the appropriate times, but his usefulness was waning as it became apparent that Lyon's arrival on the scene was imminent. Pyotr closed his eyes and breathed deep of the crisp, cool autumn air. It was time to prepare. Today Lyon would die.
After he had dealt with the remaining sentry, Pyotr extracted the briefcase from the air duct where he had placed it several hours before. The rifle went together smoothly, with little effort. He had run through the exact sequence of movements required of him on this day so many times that he became almost entranced now. He loaded one bullet into the chamber. It was all he would need.
From somewhere that seemed lightyears away, raucous applause broke out. Pyotr's eyes drifted to the square. The man called Lyon strode confidently across the platform and took his place at the podium. He raised one fist to the sky and flashed an unfailing smile at the crowd, a gesture that had become all too familiar to those who had opposed him in the past. Lyon smiled only when he had conquered, only when the thrill of victory was his. Pyotr swore now, under his breath, that he would never smile again. His fingers gripped the cold steel of his weapon with a force that would break bone.
As Lyon motioned for the crowd to quiet, Pyotr rested his rifle comfortably against his shoulder. He prayed silently for a steady hand. In the square, on his platform, Lyon spoke in carefully practiced, slow and deliberate English. Pyotr listened for only a moment. The scope met his eye. The crosshair met the podium. With the press of a button, he was close up and personal with Lyon. In the scope, he was face to face with the man he hated. He inhaled sharply. From somewhere inside of him, the anger clawed upwards, into his heart, and threatened to drown him. He pushed it down with the same strength of will that had brought him this far. On this day, he must be cold. He must be precise.
The wind carried the sound of the bells from a nearby church, ringing sorrowfully in the distance.
Into the warming air, as the sun rose over the city, as Lyon paused in his speech, a whisper broke the wall of silence around Pyotr.
"For my sister."
"For Sara."
A bullet pierced Lyon's heart.
For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The crowd still stared attentively, the soldiers on the platform maintained their stance, and Lyon still stood tall and proud. Pyotr closed his eyes. From below, gasps and screams filled the square.
He opened his eyes.
Lyon still stood.
Through his scope, in a panic, Pyotr surveyed the platform below. In his crosshair, Lyon grimaced, shook visibly, and stood tall again as if little had occurred outside of the norm.
Lyon looked directly at Pyotr, into his heart and his soul, turning everything inside of him to fire, igniting the wrath that lay dormant there.
Lyon smiled at him.
Pyotr recoiled in horror. It was not possible. He knew the bullet had sailed true. It had reached its destination. Lyon could not know he was here, and even so, how could he survive such a wound? Pyotr began to tremble and cried out in rage as he slammed another bullet into the chamber.
He raised his rifle. And fired.
Another bullet in the chamber.
He fired again.
The crowd below stood in mute shock at the bizarre spectacle unfolding before them. Here stood Lyon the Mighty, taking gunshots as though they were pinpricks. And not one of his soldiers moved from where they stood. It was silent for a long time before Pyotr ran out of ammunition. Even in his anger, each bullet had struck home. More than fifty had made contact with the hated thing called Lyon, but none had accomplished what Pyotr had come for. He turned and threw down his rifle in disgust. Tears of frustration streamed down his face. Lyon stepped again to the podium, tall and proud. Pyotr could do nothing but watch.
"On this day, let the world know that God Himself has mandated my rule! No mortal man can harm this shell that carries me! No weapon will cease this life! Let those who stand before my armies tremble and wail! And from this hour when I make my demands known, let the world of man cower before the birth of its new savior! From now until eternity, I am the one who will shape the lives you lead! And you will know me as
Legion!"
On this last word, Lyon's voice seemed to become amplified to a volume that was nearly unbearable. Pyotr grasped his head in his hands as buildings and walls all around the platform shook from the force of it. People turned and ran in a panic. Many screamed as they were trampled. The soldiers stepped to the front of the platform to begin taking control of the crowd. And then, very suddenly, Lyon was gone.
The crowd was too involved in its hysteria to notice, but Pyotr saw it all clearly from his vantage point above. Lyon had simply disappeared. Several of the soldiers standing near him noticed but did not seem surprised. Whether by illusion or magic, he did not know, but Lyon had simply vanished into thin air.
Pyotr stood, staring downward. Everything inside him was twisted and strange. He could take only shallow breaths, clenching his teeth and his fists. His vision blurred red.
He had failed. And something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.
The above work is copyrighted by R Ryan Davies 2005.
