Monster Hunter Siege (Monster Hunters International Book 6)

by Correia, Larry

  By the time we reached the top of the hill, I was breathing hard and sweating. The other two were fine. In my defense, Gerecht was close to half my mass, and Trip was a college athlete; I had about eighty pounds on him, and I hated running. I was just proud to keep up.

  “There.” Gerecht pointed his light. Like us, he was carrying an eyeball-melting flashlight that carried for a long ways. Monster Hunters wanted all the lumens.

  At first it looked like a campsite more than anything. There were several big tents set up. If I’d not known what it had once been, I would have just thought the ancient fort was a bunch of rocks piled up to make a few walls. Caution tape had been strung up to keep anyone from falling into the black holes that were excavation pits. There were a few big construction lights, but they were off. The biggest tent had a generator next to it, but the engine wasn’t running. There was a car and a truck parked there as well. Other than the yellow tape flapping in the desert wind, there was no movement.

  “It could be dangerous. You two don’t need to go in there with me. These aren’t your people. This isn’t your fight.”

  “Bull crap. We’re going.” Trip was very matter-of-fact about it. Most Hunters paused to figure out if there was an angle where we could get paid, but Trip was the sort who would do the hero thing for free.

  Good thing he had me to look out for him. “Shared PUFF, or whatever you guys have here.”

  “Deal,” Gerecht said without hesitation. “I was hoping you wouldn’t want to mind your own business.”

  I snorted. “Mind our own business? You must not know any Americans.”

  “I appreciate it.” Gerecht gave us a solemn nod as we started down the hill. “But for the record, my wife is from Illinois.”

  We shouldered our rifles and slowed to a fast walk, partially so we could be ready to engage any threats as soon as they popped up, and also because running down a rocky hill in the dark was a great way to break something. There wasn’t any plant life to hide behind, but I tried to angle our approach so we could use big rocks for cover in case anything else started chucking spears at us. Gerecht had grabbed a black tactical vest out of his vehicle, so was the only one with all his gear in the right place. Trip and I had mags sticking out of our pockets. It was haphazard, but it would have to do.

  “The largest tent was Rothman’s base,” Gerecht whispered.

  “If he summoned something, it might not leave until he’s dead,” I warned. I’d been taught that was common with this sort of thing. Pacts sealed in blood and whatnot. What went unsaid was we might be the ones having to do the sealing-in-blood part.

  “I know. We do what we have to.”

  “Let’s play it smart and hopefully nobody has to die at all,” Trip said.

  I’d worked with Trip for years. He was my brother in battle. You train and fight with someone at your side long enough, you know exactly where they’re going to be and what they’re going to be doing. He would be solid, no matter what. Gerecht, I didn’t know, but he seemed determined and carried himself like a pro.

  So we headed into the unknown.

  The camp was too quiet. No birds. No insects. Everything was so dry and hard here the wind didn’t even seem to make much noise.

  I was tense, but ready. I was rarely what I would describe as scared when doing this sort of thing anymore. Nervous and extremely aware of my mortality, yes, but you focus on the task at hand so much that stuff just becomes background noise. The more you fight, the more confident you get. Confident, but not cocky, because with experience comes a certain knowledge of just how fast things can go sideways, and how easily the human body can be destroyed in the process.

  Not having any idea what had caused this mess to begin with, we cut the chatter. Despite cultural differences, hand signals for this sort of thing were pretty universal. You cover that side, you go that way, shoot anything that looks scary, etc. We spread out. Trip veered left. Gerecht took the middle. I flanked right. I was fifty yards from the big tent when I raised my fist in the universal sign for Stop, there’s an undead Roman up ahead.

  Okay. I added that last part, but they got the picture when they looked over and saw the eerily glowing skeleton dressed in rotting armor float around the side of the tent.

  The hair on my arms stood up. The sight of the thing caused an involuntary shudder. It was unnatural. The bones were gleaming pale green; the armor was blackened from time and rotting apart. An unnatural green substance, part liquid, part fire, dripped from the eye sockets and every joint and between the ribs. I think that substance was what the big brains called ectoplasm. It seemed like the something was wearing the bones and armor as an ill-fitting suit. But clutched in one set of bone fingers was another decaying pilum. In the other was what was left of a gladius, and something about its manner told me this thing was really pissed off.

  I took a knee behind a boulder. The skull swiveled over, two flaming holes aimed right at me. The jaw hinged open, and it began bellowing.

  “Vis mihi nummum. Age, me pugnare meretrix!”

  I didn’t speak Latin, but I got the message when the pilum clanged off the rock next to my head and went spinning off into the desert.

  “Pugnare mihi!” It waved the gladius around, like come at me, bro.

  Apparently the old ghost wanted to fight. We were happy to oblige.

  “Open fire!” I shouted. Trip had another borrowed micro Galil, Gerecht had a Tavor. Dust flew as bullets pierced the old armor. Bits of ancient leather and rust went flying. The skeleton shook back and forth as it was pelted. I leaned out and aimed. Shooting at night was easier when your target glows in the dark.

  I stuck with rapid, aimed, semi-auto. This wasn’t a person, and I didn’t think it had any vital organs. So I put a bullet into everything, hoping there was some sort of weak spot. Eyes. Mouth. Where the heart would be. Nothing. The little gun kept bouncing against my shoulder. I didn’t have my hearing protection, so my eardrums were taking a beating. Out of a barrel this short, 5.56 was really loud . The thing just stood there, seemingly annoyed at getting popped. Somebody nailed the gladius; it was in such rotten shape that the antique blade snapped.

  The monster glanced down at its broken sword. It didn’t have lips left to snarl, but I bet it would have if it could. It tossed the hilt into the sand and began floating my way, still uttering what I assumed were threats and insults in Latin. The Roman had an attitude.

  I kept shooting, and when I ran dry, I yanked another magazine out of my jeans and reloaded. In that brief lull I saw the dead Roman’s skeletal feet were hovering a few inches off the ground in a swirling circle of blown sand and green energy.

  Okay, I admit, now I was getting a little scared.

  “Fall back, Z,” Trip shouted.

  I moved out from behind cover, heading their way while the other two Hunters kept up the assault. That was when the Roman got its first real look at me.

  “Prohibere.”

  That had sounded confused. Its tone had changed so drastically that I actually slowed down long enough to look back. The thing waved its skeletal arms, gesturing for me to come back, but I didn’t stop until I was crouched behind some crates next to Trip.

  When I stuck my head over the side, it still wasn’t moving. Rather, it had stalled, floating in the open. It showed me its hands, not threatening this time, but rather to demonstrate that it was unarmed. I think it wanted to talk. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  The gunfire stopped. There were dozens of new flaming .22 caliber holes in the armor, but none of them seemed to have had any effect anyway. There was a long awkward silence between us and the dead guy.

  “What’s going on?” Gerecht shouted.

  “I think it wants to talk.”

  “I’ve got a man down. We don’t have time for this.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  The fiery Roman kept tilting its head, like we were talking gibberish. It asked something else. Trip looked up from his rifle, over at me, and shrug
ged. We had us a bit of an impasse.

  “You speak Latin, Gerecht?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Try Hebrew.”

  He did. Nothing. When he tried Arabic, the monster threw its hands up in the air in frustration, like what is wrong with you idiots? Because of getting inside Lord Machado’s head, I could sort of speak archaic Portuguese, and even though it was five hundred years closer and a Romance language, I tried a formal greeting, and still got nothing, except for feeling silly saying it.

  “Hang on,” Trip said. He pulled out his phone. “Since we’ve been traveling so much I downloaded a translation app on my phone”—he tapped the screen a few times—“and …I can’t access the internet from here.”

  “That’s useless.”

  “You can download languages in advance and use it offline.”

  “That’s handy.”

  “Except I didn’t think I’d need Latin, Z!”

  So the three of us spent a minute shouting various things in different languages at the monster, while it floated back and forth. It seemed to grow increasingly frustrated, but it was that or go back to shooting it. We had a diplomatic standoff. The monster even took off its helmet and ran its finger bones through where its now nonexistent hair had once been. It was a very human mannerism.

  The monster floated a little closer. Put flesh on those bones and he probably wouldn’t have come up to my shoulder. I guess they hadn’t been big people back then.

  It touched its breastplate. “Sextus Bassus.”

  That had to be its—rather his —name. I shifted the Galil to my off hand and moved out from behind cover. I pointed at myself. “Owen Pitt.”

  He said something else. I shrugged. Bassus shook his skull. “Stulte.”

  “I know that one,” Trip said. “He’s calling you a moron.”

  But the monster was already pointing at a freshly dug hole and complaining again. I was pretty sure he was angry that he’d been woken up. At least he was calmed down enough now that he’d temporarily stopped throwing spears at people. Then Bassus seemed to have a bright idea, dropped his helmet back on his glowing head, turned, and began hovering back toward the main tent.

  “Hey, Trip. Since he’s not watching us, how about you take the high ground and see if you can spot the others.”

  “Got it.” He took off running for the ruins.

  “Be careful.” For all I knew, Rothman had animated an entire Roman legion. “If you see any other monsters, fall back.”

  Bassus disappeared beneath the canvas, though I could still see the glow through the seams as he puttered about. I moved back behind the crates and knelt. A moment later Bassus floated back out, now carrying somebody by the back of their collar. I put my light on him so I could get a better look. It was hard to tell when being dragged through the sand by a short ghost, but he was a thin man, with angular features, salt-and-pepper hair, probably around fifty, and he looked like he’d just been on the receiving end of a severe beating.

  “That’s Rothman,” Gerecht called out.

  The Roman dropped the professor on the ground, then pointed one bony finger at him and began shouting again. I didn’t need to speak Latin to get the message of this is the asshole who disturbed my grave! Bassus may have been floating, but that didn’t stop him from giving Rothman a swift kick to the stomach.

  “Hey!” Gerecht shouted.

  But that woke him, and he came to, coughing. An archeology professor had to be able to speak Latin, so before Bassus could go back to kicking his ass, I shouted, “Rothman! Speak to him in Latin!”

  He must have heard me, because he quickly said something, and whatever it was caused the monster to pause his beating. Bassus asked him an angry question. Rothman was terrified, but he answered. The centurion lifted one hand, as if to backhand him, but Rothman gave what sounded like a very sincere apology and plea for mercy, and the hand slowly lowered.

  “Awesome. Now let’s all make friends,” I shouted.

  Rothman turned toward our lights. His face was covered in bruises and scratches. “Are you here to rescue us?”

  “It’s me—David. Don’t worry, Doctor. We’ll get you out.”

  “I read the incantation. I know you warned me not to, but I had to! There was a flash of lightning, and then this, this…thing burst from the ground and attacked us.”

  “You should have tried talking to him,” I suggested.

  “He wasn’t in a talking mood then!”

  “Well, he is now, so don’t screw it up, Doc!”

  I was betting that when he was alive, Bassus was one impatient son of a bitch, because he kicked Rothman again. Not as hard as the first time, but definitely letting him know who was in charge here. Bassus demanded something.

  “He’s ordering me to translate for him.”

  “Fantastic.”

  Only what an otherworldly being had in mind for translate was drastically different from what I’d been expecting. Because Bassus reached down, put his fingers on the professor’s head, and the man screamed. The green glow engulfed Rothman’s head.

  Gerecht shouldered his rifle. “No!”

  “Hold your fire!” I bellowed. I could still see his face beneath, and it seemed to be in one piece. My gut was telling me that action wasn’t malevolent. “He’s just trying to communicate.”

  “You’d better know what you’re doing, Pitt.”

  Occasionally.

  Rothman began to speak, only it wasn’t his voice. It was Bassus’s. “That is better. I will use this one to speak through.” The green liquid fire came dribbling out of Rothman’s mouth as his eyes rolled up in his head.

  “Can you understand us now?”

  “Yes. This one has a ridiculous number of words.”

  “Don’t hurt him.”

  The skull looked down. “The criminal scum is lucky I do not cut his hands and feet off and feed them to hounds. He cast spells in my tomb. He ripped me from my fields and put me back in this!”

  “Remain calm, Bassus.”

  “You remain calm, Owen Pitt! Charon is toying with me. Look at me. I am a skeleton! I do not even have a dick!”

  I could see how that would be upsetting. “Take it easy.” I had no idea what Bassus’s frame of reference was. I’d dealt with dead people before, and sometimes they weren’t even aware of it. “A long time has passed since you were here. I hate to tell you this, but you are dead.”

  “This is obvious. I said it was my tomb. Do you think I am stupid?”

  “Well, I don’t know what you know. You’re the one throwing a fit here.”

  “Come and fight me then. Is everyone stupid now? Or was I just unlucky enough to be violated by a gang of fools?”

  Bassus was kind of an ass. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “I do not wish trouble either. You woke me!”

  “And we’re really sorry about that.”

  The skull swiveled back and forth. “Is this a trick? Where has the Nubian gone?”

  I assumed that meant Trip. “He’s looking for the other people who were here, to see if they are still alive. Did you hurt them?”

  “I educated them for their impudence, but I did not take their lives.”

  “Thank you for that.”

  “They are lucky. I was very annoyed when I arrived here.”

  “You stabbed one of them.”

  “I warned him not to run off. What kind of idiot does not listen to orders?”

  The kind that didn’t speak Latin, especially when it was being shouted by an angry flaming ghost. “You have my sincere apologies.”

  “Your mongrel garbage tongue hurts my ears.”

  “You don’t even have ears.”

  “Scum!” Bassus laughed. “I like you. I saw that you are like me. Or like I once was. That is why I spared you.”

  “Spared me?” I snorted. “I don’t know about that.”

  “You are a Chosen. As was I. You wear the mantle.”

  Now we were getting so
mewhere. That just meant that like me, some cosmic faction had picked him to fight for its interests. “I am.”

  “Then we are brothers in the eternal war. Seeing another brother gave me clarity. I remembered. My final orders warned me I might someday be dragged back to this world should another Chosen have need of my treasure. From the spell this fool used, I know what he was looking for, but he is unworthy. Do you seek the Ring of Bassus as well?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know what it does. In truth, I have to go into the Realm of Nightmares and I’m looking for any tools that can help me.”

  “I know that place. I have been there. It is a terrible land of swirling fog, murderous beasts, and treacherous criminal shit bags. Why would you willingly venture there?”

  “An evil creature has taken some of my friends. I want to get them back.”

  “Ah…I did that once. The Legate of Judea’s beautiful daughter was stolen away there. Having destroyed more monsters than anyone else in the empire, it was my appointed duty to save her.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course. Because I am amazing. And afterwards I bedded her repeatedly!”

  He may have been dead for a couple thousand years, but Sextus Bassus would have fit in just fine with modern Hunters. “Well, good for you.”

  “Yes. Good times. We returned, because of this.” The skeleton held up his other hand. I’d not noticed before, but there was a ring around one of the finger bones. “It will always lead the bearer toward that which he loves the most. It will show you the path home.”

  “That would be very useful.”

  “Of course it is. I just said so. I must know, in this day, who is your enemy? Who do you go to fight?”

  “The demon called Asag.”

  “Jupiter’s cock!” Bassus obviously recognized that name. “Asag Shedu is a terrifying foe. Then you will need all the help you can get. My ring is yours.”

  He swung his hand toward me, like an underhand pitch. With no flesh to hold it, the ring sailed smoothly off. It was still burning green on the flight over. I reached up and caught it. It was so freezing cold it stung. I held it in my palm and watched as the glow slowly died. The ectoplasm turned to water. When the light show was over, all that remained was a very plain silver ring.