Monster Hunter Siege (Monster Hunters International Book 6)

by Correia, Larry

  If his theory was correct, we really needed to get out of here before the realm switched over to the worst places from my memory, because I really didn’t want to see their take on the Dread Overlord’s endless dimension of madness and suck.

  “My real juvenile facility at least had the sun shine once in a while, but not here. You’ve almost got to admire the alps’ ability to accentuate the bad. They’re like artists who paint with suffering. On the bright side, the skinnies have a hard time keeping their powder dry in the rain, so when they try to shoot you, they get a lot of misfires. They could have used my old neighborhood; that was pretty nasty too, but I wouldn’t mind that so much. My pops was in prison and my mom was a druggie, so I learned to get by young. You get to be okay with crime and violence, especially when you’re good at it.” Apparently Lococo was back to rambling because he hadn’t had anyone to talk to for so long. “So this is a glimpse of my youth. What about you, Pitt? You were a killer in the ring, so I’m guessing your life wasn’t too squishy.”

  I had to smile and shake my head at the question. By his standards my formative years had been downright comfy. “Military brat. Lots of moving around until my dad retired. Never rich, but not too poor. It was okay.”

  “Bullshit. I fought a lot of tough guys and made a lot of money doing it. When I put a beating on somebody, they usually had the good sense to quit.” He held up one fist. The knuckles were misshapen and crisscrossed with scars. “Men don’t fight like you do unless they got a chip on their shoulder, trying to prove something to someone.”

  He was a lot more perceptive than I gave him credit for. I was used to being the big ugly one, constantly underestimated because I was smarter than I looked. But Lococo was bigger and uglier than me, and an ex-con to boot, so I’d fallen into the same silly trap that some people did with me. “Yeah. I guess so…My dad was a warrior. I’m not talking philosophically or metaphorically. Literal warrior. He was a Green Beret and got the Medal of Honor.”

  “No kidding? He won the Medal of Honor?”

  “He’d correct you if he heard you say that. There’s no winning involved. He just did things when nobody else could, with no concern for himself, bona fide hero with zero fucks to give. His dad was a GI from the States, but he grew up in the Islands, dirt poor. You look at pics of him when he was just a kid, even then he was like this block of muscle and grumpiness. I never saw a single photo where he was smiling. He always looked determined, you know? So tough, even as an old man he makes both of us look like wimps. My whole life he pushed me hard to be like him. He taught me how to fight, how to shoot, and when his lessons didn’t always sink in, he’d take me to old friends he respected and have them teach me instead. Judging by the frequency, I think his favorite words were try harder. ”

  “That actually sounds kind of badass.”

  “Yeah…now. Paranoid survivalist sounds great. Back then? It was harsh. Dad was stern. We had to be the best at everything. ‘A Pitt never does anything half ass.’” When I tried to sound like him, it made me smile, but then that just made me sad. “Man, we fought a lot. It wasn’t just the physical toughness, but the mental too. He wanted us to be smart; he always said to be smart like Mom’s side of the family—they were the doctors and the engineers—but actually Dad was really good at crunching numbers in his head. I guess I inherited that from him. Math and a mean streak…”

  Lococo was just listening. With everything going on during the invasion, I’d been too busy to think about my father. I guess it was my turn to ramble. “He was harder on my brother: good kid, friggin’ brilliant, turned out to be a musical prodigy, but he wasn’t naturally combative like me and Dad. Mosh wants people to like him. Me? I’m inclined to piss people off. Can’t help it. After we grew up, Mosh could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. I think Dad knew he was too hard on us all those years, but by then it was too late. As grown-ups we barely talked, and he didn’t see Mosh at all. For a long time we drifted apart. Though I think Dad actually liked the break. For a few years he got to live a regular life; we weren’t his problem anymore. Hell, he even took up golf. He could be a normal man, without worrying every minute about some prophecy about getting his sons ready for the apocalypse.”

  “Huh?”

  I gestured angrily at the stupid evil forest. “He knew this was coming. You know there’s that stereotype about how somebody who has seen war won’t talk about it? Not my dad. There was no problem talking about all the gory details. That was just how he was wired. So I never realized just how many secrets he’d kept. I think he never told us about the supernatural things he’d seen because he was holding out hope that we’d dodge a bullet. It wasn’t until a few years ago I learned why he was the way he was. All this? They showed him. He was like me—Chosen. Only his job was to get the next generation ready. Looking back, Dad took his charge real serious, and he was kind of an ass about it, but if he hadn’t been so damned good at it, I’d be dead a dozen times over already.” My throat was getting tight. My eyes were starting to water. “And I love him for it.”

  “He sounds like a hell of a guy. You get us all out of here, I’ll personally shake his hand and tell him thanks for raising you not to punk out.”

  I sucked on my teeth, then spit on the ground. “You can’t. He passed away a few days ago…Hell, I’m here missing his funeral.”

  “Oh…” For once Lococo didn’t seem to know what to say. “How’d he die?”

  “His job was done. He was supposed to get me ready. And here I am. So they—the ones who picked us—they let him die. I was on the path they wanted. He wasn’t of any use to them anymore…so they…they just let him go. Let him waste away in a hospital bed.” I had to stop talking.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Pitt. My condolences.”

  I just nodded.

  We were quiet for a long time, chewing on our rations in awkward silence. I couldn’t even taste what my MRE was. It might as well have been ashes.

  “Hmmm…” Lococo was staring off into the rain.

  “What?”

  “A death like that, for that kind of man, hardly seems fair. It sounds like they used him up and threw him away. You talked about how these things chose you to fight the forces of evil, but are you certain which side is which?”

  I wasn’t hungry anymore. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  There was a flash of lightning, followed shortly by a rumble of thunder.

  I froze. Normally in a rainstorm, thunder and lightning wouldn’t be so disconcerting, but in this perpetual rain of never-ending dreariness, that was different. And anything different was scary.

  We were making our way up a narrow rocky path on the side of the mountain. Below us was a sea of green, and above that was nothing but roiling clouds for miles. Lococo turned around. “It’s the Fey. We’ve got to hide!” The nearest cover was a hundred yards ahead. “Run.”

  The path was only a few feet wide, barely enough to fit either of us, and it was slippery. We’d been creeping along with one hand against the rock face, because it was a long way down. Going over the side meant, at minimum, a bunch of broken bones. Falling was a bad way to die, but the Wild Hunt was worse. Heedless of danger, Lococo sprinted up the trail. I was right behind him.

  Lightning struck again. It cast gigantic shadows of alien horsemen against the clouds, horns and antlers, banners whipping, spears lifted high. The thunder nearly shook me from my feet. Off balance a bit, I looked over the side as gravel fell forever , but I kept going.

  The riders in the sky were barely visible, just black shapes, but they were getting bigger. They weren’t flying. They were galloping. These things did not give a crap about the laws of physics.

  Ahead, the trail widened out a bit and there were a few bushes and scraggly, crooked trees. Lococo got there first, crouched down, and made sure his leaf-covered hood was up. I was almost there.

  Crack!

  Three feet of trail broke right off the mountainside…while I was running acr
oss it.

  The world tilted as I slid toward my doom. Desperate, I reached out. My fingers struck, grinding across the stone, tearing the skin from my fingertips. I ripped off a fingernail as I hooked a rock. My shoulder popped as all my weight hit.

  By a miracle, I held on.

  Fall interrupted, I was left dangling by my right hand from a jagged lip of rock, hanging in space.

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

  I looked down just as the broken piece of trail shattered against a boulder far below. My teeth were clenched too tight to scream. As I looked up, dust fell in my eyes. I’d dropped several feet. I couldn’t see anything else to grab onto.

  My fingers were burning. There was nothing to get my feet on. I swung my other hand up, searching for something, anything, to hold. That hand scraped uselessly across cracks and gashes too narrow to cling to. Nothing.

  Water and blood were running down my palm. My handhold was beginning to slip.

  Maybe there was something I could latch onto a little higher. Grimacing, bicep straining, I pulled myself up with one arm. Back home on a comfy pull-up bar, I could do that no problem. With the weight of my weapons, ammo, and gear it was really hard, but I was super motivated.

  Still nothing to grab onto.

  The Wild Hunt was getting closer.

  My fingers were slipping. Skin was tearing.

  The Fey would see me. Then we were both dead. If I let go, they might not see Lococo. He’d still have a chance…

  “Pitt!” I looked up just as Lococo appeared over the edge. He extended his hand, but I’d fallen further than I’d realized. He was too far to reach. “Hang on.”

  Funny, I couldn’t think of a snappy comeback right then.

  Then he stuck the musket over the side. I reached up with my free hand and got hold of the stock. I was careful to avoid the trigger, because if I’d accidentally shot him right then, that would have been really bad.

  Thankfully, Lococo was still one strong son of a bitch. He hauled me up. I found another handhold. Then a foothold. And then Lococo tumbled back, and I flopped over the edge.

  A hunting horn blew.

  After nearly falling to your death, your natural inclination is to catch your breath. That was not an option. Both of us crawled toward the bushes. Cazador was bouncing against my chest. If it hadn’t been slung to my body, I would’ve lost it. We took cover. I crawled beneath the wet leaves and lay there, gasping, trying to become one with the ground as the Fey passed by.

  For the next few painful minutes, I huddled there, still as I could be, while the Wild Hunt roared past. I don’t know how hooves could hammer air, but these did, with a vibration that I could feel in my teeth.

  They were terrifying. Black armor gleamed, slick with rain, popping with static electricity. Their steeds were monstrous creatures, an unholy combination of horse and insect. The riders were jagged steel, melded with flesh, white teeth shining beneath their helmets. Some carried a standard, black and ragged, flapping in the wind, with words written in alien runes that burned my eyes but wouldn’t let me look away.

  From the way they rode, they were proud and looking for a fight. Every instinct told me these things were absolutely deadly. The parade went on, terrible and awe-inspiring. Monstrous hounds snapped and barked as they ran between the mighty hooves.

  Visors turned our way, but thankfully, didn’t linger.

  And then they were past.

  I lay there for a long time after that, quivering, in a puddle of rain and sweat, glad to be alive. After I was positive they were gone, I waited a little bit longer to be sure, then I said, “You saved my life. Thank you.”

  “I probably didn’t do you a favor. Falling would have been a much quicker way to die.”

  “You doing okay, Lococo?”

  “Considering we’re chasing that …What do you think?”

  I was feeling a little overwhelmed myself.

  * * *

  The march to the tower took days. Or at least I think it did. It was pretty much impossible to tell here. It turns out time gets even fuzzier at the edges of a world.

  We’d walk until we were so tired we were in danger of sleepwalking off a cliff, then we’d try to find someplace semidry to crash. The nightmares were continuous but impossible to remember. The only reason we slept at all was because physical exhaustion is the best sleeping pill ever. Split between the two of us, my food had run out fast. Now it was nearly gone, and you can only ration it so much when you’re burning this many calories. There was plenty of water. Lococo swore that it tasted fine, but I didn’t trust it that much, so mine all tasted like iodine and my portable water filter.

  Since all he had for weapons was a dead skinny’s musket and a knife, I’d given my .45 STI to Lococo. I’d made him promise to give it back. My wife had made those custom pistols as a gift, one long slide and a matching compact, originally meant for her brother Ray, but after he’d died, she’d given them to me. I’d killed a lot of things with that big pistol over the years, so I was rather fond of it. I felt naked without a handgun on my hip, but I’ll be honest: walking this damned far I wasn’t missing the weight.

  The rain turned to mist, then a thick fog which reminded me of the gelatinous stuff at the gate. The forest grew deeper, darker, and weirder. It changed from the Pacific Northwest to something out of Grimms’ fairy tales. The trees were all old and gnarled. The bark formed too many convenient face shapes, and those faces always seemed to be afraid. The leaking sap looked like congealed blood. It smelled like something had died. The soil was black as a fertilized battlefield. Everything here was twisted.

  We had entered a Fey kingdom.

  If I’d thought the nightmares had been bad in the place constructed out of Lococo’s memories, this place was awful. It was flashes of weird beasts, crying children, loved ones being carried off during the night, villages with straw roofs burning, hooves thundering across a field, and refugees fleeing. I dreamed about my dad, dying in his bed, only this time he was desperately trying to warn me of something. I saw Julie, sobbing over an empty crib.

  And I woke up in the “morning” pissed off and ready to show this awful place who was boss.

  Lococo was already up, sitting on a log. “Wakey wakey, Pitt. It shouldn’t be too far now.”

  “Define far.”

  “Before the next sleep…Man, that sounds odd. I miss sunrise. Okay, I’ve been thinking. The last time I saw this place, the Fey had a fortress. Like a literal need-a-big-ass-ladder-to-get-over-the-wall fortress, and I got no idea how to get inside.”

  I groaned and stretched. I never thought I’d miss the comfort of the warm, constantly seasick rocking of my cot on the Bride of Krasnov. “I figured we’d wing it,” I said sarcastically.

  “Since we’re going to go storm a castle full of them, what do you know about Fey?”

  I rolled out from beneath my comfy rock. “That’s like asking what I know about mammals. Fey is a really broad category.” I wandered off to relieve myself, but not too far. The fog was much nicer than the rain, but I always suspected that there was something hiding in it waiting to kill us.

  When I got back, Lococo said, “Tell me what you know about Fey anyway. Imagine you’re teaching a Newbie.”

  “Technically, I am.” I grinned. Lococo just smiled and shook his head. Sure, we’d beaten the shit out of each other twice, but you march through hell with a guy, eventually you start to become friends. “What do you want to know?”

  “How the legendary Owen Zastava Pitt plans to do the impossible. So dazzle me with your brilliance, asshole.”

  Monster lore wasn’t really my area of expertise. Somebody like Lee or Rigby would be able to rattle off all sorts of myths and legends, and even tell you the page number of whatever old book it was in. I’d always been more pragmatic: where’s the bad thing at and how do I kill it? Half the time, the stuff Hunters thought we knew about the supernatural turned out to be wrong anyway. Anybody who thought they knew everyt
hing there was to know about a particular monster was either lying or in for a nasty surprise.

  “Some Fey are evil, some are…I wouldn’t say good, but not outright hostile. These things kidnapped our guys, so I’ll assume the worst. Some are really intelligent, others just want to eat your face. Some are organized and legalistic. They even have a type of government made out of rival courts, and those have heavy duty Fey knights like we saw. But other Fey have a reputation for being tricksters, and they just like the chaos.”

  “Every wannabe thinks they’re good at spreading chaos.” Lococo snorted. “So basically, you don’t know shit about the Fey.”

  “I never claimed to be an expert. We lump all sorts of things in that category. They all originate from the same world, and there used to be a lot more of them on Earth. Most of the old fairy-tale creatures were probably Fey. Nobody knows why most of them left. Orcs, elves, ogres, probably even gnomes, they’re all leftover servant races from when the Fey were a big deal. From the description, I think these things are what the old legends called a Wild Hunt, as in a bunch of badass Fey knights get together, and ride across the sky to hunt the living shit out of whatever they feel like. Supposedly each court has one, it gives them something to do when they’re not at war, and the creature in charge of a hunt is always super dangerous.”

  “So you got a plan for these?”

  I’d been thinking about it for a while, but so far, I didn’t have anything I’d call good. I went to my pack and got out some of my dwindling food stores. I’d brainstorm better with something in my belly.

  “Plan? Hell, I don’t even know if bullets work on them. But I’ve got two possibilities. There are still powerful Fey who visit Earth, and we’ve got reliable accounts of those making deals with mankind. Back in the Eighties, MHI’s Seattle team made an arrangement with one of their courts, a kind of peace treaty. To satisfy that court, a Hunter had to take this thing called the Harper’s Challenge and play a violin to amuse them for three days. If he won, they got a treaty. If he lost, they’d eat him or something. Fey are whimsical like that.”