God Country

by S T Branton

  My hands and fingers tingled with the rush of returning blood. I shook them out. “Thank you. It might’ve been a while if you hadn’t been on standby.”

  “I thought you left,” the man interjected, eyeing his rescuer warily. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but what are you doing back here?”

  “Contingency plan,” I told the agent, covering my mouth and nose. “I didn’t have time to tell you before we got here, but I’m happy to fill you in after we get out of this death smog.”

  “Agreed,” Brax grunted. “The smell reminds me of the food in Asphodel.”

  He led us back up the ramp to the ground floor of the abandoned building. All was quiet. The general and his cronies appeared to have returned to the main fort. The three of us stood in a small cluster, none of us with our backs to the door or windows. We stayed out of the moonlight that striped the floor.

  “It was back at the camp that he first brought it up,” I said, nodding to Brax. “He told me he didn’t really want to come to Fort Sigel, that the whole thing gave him a bad feeling. Plus, we had no idea how they’d react to us bringing a bona fide demon in. Obviously, I wasn’t willing to jeopardize our people by keeping them away from a potential stronghold, so we came up with a compromise. He’d pretend to leave the moment we arrived and before anyone from the fort had a chance to lay eyes on him. Then he’d infiltrate after we were inside. That gave us an ace in the hole for emergencies such as this one. Brilliant fucking job, by the way.”

  Brax’s dour expression eased into a very brief smile that faded as fast as it had appeared. “High praise, but in fairness, this douchebag isn’t very subtle. I knew something was going down the second I saw you two slipping out. All I did was follow you here.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

  I must admit, it is sometimes wiser to dance with the devil than it is to risk his wrath, Marcus said. I held in an exasperated sigh. The old centurion would never get over his obsession with the Marked.

  “Now what?” Deacon turned and looked down the ramp toward the dungeon. The smell of the bodies wasn’t noticeable up there, but if I searched for it, I could still detect the faintest hint. That basement of horrors had upped the ante big time. The general wasn’t a savior. He and his men were an infestation.

  I pointed at the agent. “I need you to figure out where Dan and his crew are and get them out. Brax, you come with me to the main building. Go let everyone who’s anyone know what’s happening. Tell them not to eat or drink a single thing. Not anything. Not alcohol, not juice, not soda. Not even water. And tell them to get ready for a fight.”

  “And then?” The lenses of his dark glasses fixed on my face. “We wait for you? What are you going to do?”

  “Simple,” I said, heading toward the door. “I’m going to get my fucking sword back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Deacon took the plunge back into the awful dungeon in search of Dan and company, and Brax and I raced toward the fort. Outside, the sun had reached its highest point, a furious white eye against a porcelain-blue backdrop. The biting wind stole all semblance of warmth from its light. My breath steamed like a dragon’s, and my feet crunched over the lightly frosted ground.

  I went in alone through the garden door, my fingers crossed that there would be no new guard detail moved mysteriously into the hallway. Deacon and I had to be high on the list of the general’s enemies, and we were absolutely not supposed to be roaming the fort anymore. Whether or not he had already told his soldiers, I couldn’t say, but I knew I’d have to be a little more careful than usual until I got my hands on the Gladius Solis again.

  This will be an interesting evaluation of your current skills, Marcus declared. I am looking forward to it.

  “Oh, come on.” I hunched over and ran toward the fort wall and pinned myself to the frigid concrete. Listening for approaching footsteps, loading guns, or radio chatter, I inched along the side like it was the edge of a cliff, my arms braced out to my sides. “It’s not a fair assessment if you’re handicapping me.”

  I have said many times before that although Kronin’s sword is mighty, it is only as strong as its wielder. The more you improve as an individual, the worthier you will be.

  “Don’t you worry, buddy. This is the shit I’ve trained for. These assholes will get their shit jacked up.” I eased my way around the corner of the building and, seeing no one, decided to run the rest of the way. We were losing valuable time, and they would soon know I was there in no uncertain terms anyway. On my approach to the door, I leaned into my run, picking up a good head of steam before achieving lift-off and bashing the door in with a flying kick. The latch bar splintered into an empty passage that wouldn’t be that way for long. I could already hear boots on the tile—a whole herd of them.

  It is time, Victoria. Make this old centurion proud.

  The general’s men all had the guns they’d pilfered from Fort Sigel’s doomed staff. Having witnessed Marcus’s transition into portable ghost counsel, I was pretty sure the nectar I’d drunk wouldn’t bring me back from a fatal gunshot wound. The easiest way to solve this conundrum was to level the playing field.

  The first goon came into sight, already shooting though not aiming precisely. He sprayed a fan of bullets in my general direction, and pieces of the floor and walls shattered. The guard was too preoccupied with covering as much ground as possible to notice me rush directly at him, my head down and shoulder out like a football player or a bull. The gun spat fire into the air as we collided hard. I felt the breath crushed from his lungs.

  Barely slowing, I wrenched the rifle from his slackened hands, hit him in the head with the butt of the stock, and swung around the corner myself in hopes of recapturing the element of surprise.

  Very smooth, Marcus applauded. I cannot say I wholly approve of your current weapon, however.

  I glanced at it. “It’s not about the weapon, baby. It’s about the wielder.”

  The gun felt cheap and the firing mechanism hitched when I shot it, but it got the job done. At the end of the new passage, I used the sights to pick off approaching baddies, but as the distance closed, the gun became more reliable as a bludgeoning weapon. Or maybe I’d simply gotten used to swinging a big old sword around all the time.

  I grabbed it by the barrel and whacked bad guys with the fat stock end. Unfortunately, the rifle wasn’t built nearly as well as the Gladius, and after a few good hard swings, it broke against a soldier’s jawbone. Both the thug and the back half of the rifle crashed to the floor.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You guys blew your whole budget on razor wire and army rations? Because this is shameful.”

  I dropped the rest of the weapon and grabbed another from a different man sprawled beside me. I wielded it in the same way—first, the way it was intended with middling results and then as a souped-up billy-club. This one had a sturdy metal ammo clip affixed to the bottom that removed a few teeth.

  I retract some of my earlier statement, said Marcus. This method is rather crude but also effective. I should not have doubted your ability to achieve success via brute force regardless of the circumstances.

  I smiled. “And you doubted me. Shame on you.”

  Making my way down the endless gauntlet of foot soldiers, I watched carefully for any refugees who might happen to wander too close to the crossfire. Other than my aggressive fan club and me, however, the fort might as well have been empty. Over and over, I told myself to keep my eye on the prize and focus on recovering my sword. It wasn’t so much that everything else could wait. It was that everything else had to.

  Deep down, I knew we were cutting it close. Hell, we might already be too late. There was no clock to tell me the exact time, but I had a feeling the pervasive lull of activity in the fort meant that the populace had already gathered in the mess hall. An image of the general appeared unbidden in my mind’s eye, beaming and sprinkling white powder into giant trays of glasses.

  The feast would start very soon. Time to pick up the pace.
I dropped my latest and now shattered rifle butt and resorted to punching my assailants directly in the face. It was faster and probably as effective.

  I did not know you thought yourself a pugilist, Marcus said. He sounded like we were sitting in a bar, having a revealing conversation.

  “I don’t.” I adjusted the angle of my fist and kept punching. “But I really, really need to get back into the general’s study. I’m sure the Gladius Solis is there in that lockbox. And every time I think of myself putting it in there, I get a little madder.”

  We had been vulnerable, in desperate need of food and shelter and medical care, and the old snake had taken advantage of that. He would pay. All these bastards would.

  My punches grew harder and more vicious, and I barely even noticed.

  Your hand-to-hand form is…intriguing, Marcus said. Be more careful, or you will risk injury. You must preserve your dominant hand for when you retrieve the blade.

  My knuckles sank into the right side of another flunky’s head. He crumpled to the floor at my feet among a growing trail of his comrades. “This isn’t hanging fucking streamers, Marcus. I’ve got this. Let me do my thing, all right?”

  He didn’t respond directly, but I still sensed him fretting. For a brief moment, I wanted to take the medallion off and put it in my pocket. He was a tad distracting at that moment. Then I recalled how put out he’d been the last time I had pulled that stunt, and I took a deep, stabilizing breath instead. The faint red tint faded from my vision. My swirling thoughts cleared and focused on my goal.

  Get the Gladius Solis.

  I finally made it to the hallway leading to the general’s study, the one protected by an electronic lock. At the same moment, the door opened to admit yet more soldiers. Intent on seizing any opportunity, I snatched a loose weapon from the floor and fired its clip into the mass of troops. They broke apart like a flock of birds. I threw the gun aside and ran toward the open door.

  “Close it!” someone shouted. “She’s making a break for it!”

  With a grinding noise, the door began to close slowly. I saw it and launched my whole body forward into a slide.

  “Close it!” came a second cry. “Don’t let her get past.”

  A host of hands grabbed at my clothing, but none caught me firmly enough to slow me. I barreled on my stomach toward the steadily lowering door. As I slid under the wide steel lip, a storm of cursing followed before the barrier closed all the way.

  “Safe!” I declared, umpire-style. Then I stood and bashed in the electronic panel on my side on the off chance that it would force that portal to remain shut completely. Satisfied with my handiwork, I turned and headed quickly toward the study door.

  “You can’t tell if he’s in there, can you?” I asked Marcus.

  I cannot. He is but a villain, not a true Forgotten.

  “Damn. Well, here goes nothing.” I put my hand on the knob and my foot against the door and pushed inward.

  The study was empty. The general’s enormous desk stood opposite the open threshold, as tidy as the last time I’d seen it. The man himself was nowhere to be found, so I took the liberty of stepping behind the desk and pulling the drawers out one by one. Each was full of mundane things that didn’t look altogether out of place inside a desk—staples, index cards, boxes of pens, and notepads. I pushed the high-backed leather chair away from the desk. The lockbox wasn’t under there like I’d hoped, but I did see something that looked suspiciously like a switch.

  I leaned down and pressed it. Behind me, something mechanical hummed to life. I turned around in time to see the bottom row of the bookshelf disappear.

  “Huh.” I knelt in front of the exposed alcove. “I thought they only made these things for movies.”

  It is highly irresponsible to dispose of precious books in such a manner. Parchment is difficult to come by.

  “Don’t worry. They’re probably all fake.” I peered intently at the shelf and found myself staring at the top of the lockbox. “Bingo.” I reached down, grasped the handles on either side of the box, and lifted it out onto the floor. It was crazy heavy, and it had a complex lock on the front. At first, I was discouraged. Then I remembered where I was and what I was doing.

  I rotated the box to face outward, retrieved the battered, discarded rifle I’d dropped in the hall, and used it to shatter the lock. With an audible release, the lid lifted about an inch.

  It could be trapped, Marcus warned.

  The thought had crossed my mind as well. I stepped forward and nudged the box with the tip of my boot until the lid popped open on its own. Nothing happened, so I reached in and felt for the Gladius Solis near the bottom, the only sword hilt in a pile of guns. When my fingers finally closed around the hilt, it was like being reunited with a missing limb.

  I held it flat in both hands, examining the exterior for any signs of damage. The sword looked pristine. “Oh, I missed you,” I said. “Now, it’s time to go to work.”

  As a little warm-up test, I summoned the blade right there in the study. Its ambient heat washed over my arms, and I felt the familiar energy spread through me, reconnecting.

  “Okay, new rule,” I announced. “Never, ever give up the sword.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It is raining, Marcus observed.

  “What?” I glanced up, stepping carefully over the bodies of henchmen littering the path from the back door to the general’s study. Some of them—most, in fact—weren’t really dead, but I didn’t care. They couldn’t fight me, and that was currently all that mattered. I paused for a moment to watch raindrops spatter a nearby window. The sliver of sky that I could see had gone from a hard, clear blue to sooty-gray in less than an hour.

  If I believed in omens, that would not have been a good one.

  The halls of the fort were still eerily quiet, as they must have been right after the general’s initial massacre. No one had even raised the alarm about the platoon of downed soldiers outside the officer’s quarters. There was only one reasonable explanation for the emptiness: the feast had definitely begun.

  And that meant we were down to the wire. I hoped Brax had been able to reach someone before things got underway. But when I saw him standing out in the rain, his arms folded and face completely impassive, I knew otherwise. He was alone.

  “No dice,” he said when he noticed me. “They had started already. I couldn’t go in.”

  “Is everyone in the mess hall?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” the demon answered. “I didn’t stick around long enough to get a real good look. But there were a lot of people. Your friends too, I’m guessing.”

  “Yeah. Shit.” I shot a glance toward the looming shape of the abandoned building and caught sight of several shapes hustling across the wet grass. Deacon and Dan were the first to come into focus, tailed by Dan’s troops. Except for Deacon, they all were dirty and pale, and I smelled them almost immediately.

  “Lovely,” Brax deadpanned. “Now we’ll all stink of rotting corpses.”

  It may work to your advantage. I doubt the general will be intimidated, but his troops might be.

  Marcus’s theory struck me as wildly optimistic at best, but there was nothing to be done about the stench anyway. I met them on the approach to make sure they were all fit to fight. “Good to see you, Dan,” I said. “You had us worried there for a minute.”

  He grinned, snapping a salute. “I’ll admit to being caught off guard, but every one of us has been through worse.” His face darkened. “Can’t say I’ve seen much worse than what was under those tarps, though.” He turned to survey the men who had formed up at his back. “I don’t think I need to tell you we’re all gunning for a fight. The military is our family, and we don’t take kindly to people who kill our family.”

  The men bellowed in vehement agreement and raised their guns. The level of anger smoldering in their eyes worried me for their sake, but it would certainly help with the task at hand.r />
  “No backup?” Deacon asked. Brax shook his head. The agent looked at me. “What’s the call? I’m deferring to you.”

  “You know what it is,” I said and smiled. “Time to crash this party.”

  With another rallying cry from Dan’s squad, we turned and stormed the front door. None of the guards were on duty. They’d probably been summoned to the feast with everyone else to make sure the plan went off without a hitch. Or maybe he wasn’t above sacrificing his own men. Whatever the case, even the front foyer stood as empty as a tomb. As we crept closer to the mess hall, we heard signs of life—silverware clinking, dishes and plates rattling around, and the constant hum of conversation. There was laughter too. A lot of it. The sound tugged at my heart. None of these people had any idea what was coming. Nobody knew, except us.

  Suddenly, the noises stopped, and momentarily, so did my heart. Our little group was almost at the hall door now, and the two men watched my every move, waiting for the go signal. We were all as tense as hell, like coiled springs ready to explode. I put my hand gently against the center line of the double doors in case the last person in had been stupid enough to leave them open.

  They were locked, but a voice boomed from the other side. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the general began. “Thank you for attending this most victorious of celebrations. The road we have traveled has been long and difficult, full of trials and tribulations. Many have not been blessed with the good fortune we share today, and we will mourn those souls as we move forward into a new era.”

  Dan nudged me. “I can’t listen to this horseshit,” he growled. “Let’s go.”

  “Stand back,” I replied. “I’ll kick it in.” They fanned out behind me. I took a step back, gathered my strength, and struck the doors with the heel of my boot. They were tall and sturdy but weren’t reinforced like some of the others. Both burst inward with a sharp crack.