by J. F. Holmes
The head of the beast passed me, scooping up a woman who panicked and ran out of a doorway, long tongue flicking out and drawing her into a mouth the size of a large SUV. She screamed and then the teeth snapped down. I ignored it, because when shit is hitting the fan, you’re going to see things that would make your normal self go insane. The head moved past the street entrance, a long, sinewy scaled neck following, then the rider appeared.
He wore shiny black chrome armor and was looking away from us, aiming some kind of staff down the opposite direction of the street and yelling something. I centered the front sight post on the neck just in front of the rider and pulled the trigger. With a WHOOSH CRACK the rocket leapt out and hit, exploding just before it touched the skin. There was a mixture of red and orange flame that belled out around an invisible shield and the same blue light formed a wall that flashed and then weakened, I was momentarily deafened by the proximity of the explosion; it had detonated only about twenty meters from me. I didn’t hear the boom of the Barrett echoing down the concrete canyon but the dragon went ape shit, flinging itself about like a snake that had just taken a shovel to its head. I had been right; the amount of energy to maintain the shield integrity against the warhead effects had allowed Clark to punch a hole in the dragon’s head. That’s what you get for using armor without infantry support, dickhead.
The beast crashed into the side of the building across the street, smashing brick and steel, and the rider was thrown to the ground, landing on his back. With one final spasm, the huge trunk landed between us and him, blocking our view.
“Time to jump!” yelled Garcia, but I ran out into the street, around the side of the still twitching head and found myself facing the rider, who was slowly getting to his feet. The staff was gone but something had kept the dust off him and his armor gleamed. He stood, then nodded at me. The dude was tall, with red gold hair in braids, and - I shit you not - pointed ears. Around his head was a band of gold with a diamond set in the middle. High rank, I figured.
“Well played, warrior, well played,” he said in accented and melodic English. I shot the shit out of him, emptying a full magazine of 7.62. He staggered back, and I swear I saw several rounds spark off the armor through the wash of blue energy that erupted. Then he stood upright again, muttered the words, “Dishonorable scum,” or something like that, and raised his left hand towards me, light gathering.
I raced to change magazines, but it was a race I was going to lose. The light shot out at me just as Garcia hit me from the side, knocking me down and sending my rifle flying. I landed on the concrete with a thump as my NCO was transected by a beam of white light, shattering into pieces as his momentum carried him into the side of the building. I mean, he literally shattered, like a piece of crystal hit with a hammer.
Lying on my back I drew my pistol from the cross-draw holster on my chest and fired but the .45 caliber slugs did nothing, howling away into the distance. The Elf walked over to me and kicked the pistol out of my hand, then sucker punched me in the head with an armored fist and the world went black.
Chapter 6
From the war journals of Lord Thar Tavan, Head of House Tavor, Commander of the Third Army.
Their flying machines could, if given a chance, be effective in a war. I have made note of it with our mages, and they work to extend the reach of our spells. They move far higher than any dragon can reach, but it shall not be a problem. Good commanders adapt to the enemy. It is amazing how far they have progressed in the three centuries since our last foray into this world, and I had scoffed at the reports from the Fae who have infiltrated here. They seemed too incredible to believe, but the Way will be enough. It must be.
I grieve to write that Orme is dead, slain by a competent foe. I give respect to his victory, though it was from a distance with a coward’s weapon. They are learning that there are limits to our power, and I confess that I was unprepared for such an attack, growing used to the ease of which we advanced. There was one enemy soldier in particular who thought to challenge me in single combat, and I left him for the feast.
Tavan stood with his sword out, touching the throat of the unconscious human. One little push, to end a life. Quick, painless, the warrior way. The “bullets”, as he had come to know them, had used up the last of his strength, the last of his energy, and he felt weak. Perhaps this one would make a good slave. Or a sacrifice on Orme’s pyre.
Looking around he saw a group of orcs standing and staring at the dead dragon. There were more than a dozen, Uruks, all wearing the mark of the Red Arrow, and no Elves about. He stood sword in hand and waited for them to come at him. This was what happened when he let the joy of battle take him and he got too far ahead of his retainers. They would catch up, eventually, maybe even in minutes, but that would be too late. He looked to his right; blocks away he saw his advanced guard in a furious battle around a subway entrance.
“Not so fucking high and mighty now, are you mate?” growled one of the Yrch. “That human did yer dragon, and I’m guessing your Way is drained. GET HIM, BROT-” and Tavan’s sabre whipped across to cut the words short with a slashed throat.
It was his armor, forged from the best dwarven steel and spell soaked, that kept him alive for the next ten heartbeats. The inferior blades of the Yrch skittered across angled plate, seeking the vulnerable joints. What finally brought him down after slaying five was a wounded one wrapping its hairy arms around his legs and a warhammer smashing into his shoulder. Lord Tavan fell to the pavement, almost landing atop the still unconscious human. There was a bray of laughter, a deep rumbling shout of glee and the remaining half dozen drew short skinning knives. Then an instant flash of blinding light backlit them and an enormous animal, all thick fur, slashing claws and rending teeth, bounded into their midst. A short wand whipped back and forth, the lightning of a summer evening crashing into any that remained standing.
Ellarissa slid down off the back of her bear and helped her father to his feet. “Someday, my Lord, I will not be there to rescue you. Then who will I go see the redwoods with?”
Shaking off dust, he looked at her and said coldly, “The question is who is leading your troops while you are here? Deserting from your duty is an offense punishable by death, Lady Ellarissa.” There was a time for humor and a time for seriousness, and his daughter was ever one thinking about things far away that might get her killed in the here and now. “Focus. I was in no real danger; my guard would have been here momentarily.”
Her tone was as cold in reply. “Yes, my Lord.” As she said it, a half dozen of his knights arrived, their own riding beasts breathing heavily. They had not been able to keep up with Tavan on Orme and had gotten distracted by looting a jewelry store.
Tavan leaned deep down inside him for one last well of strength for the Way, held up his hand, and turned his guard commander to stone. Then, in his anger, for he had considered the Elf, if not a friend, for he had none, at least a companion, he picked up the heavy Yrch war hammer and smashed the statue to pieces. Turning to his daughter he said, “GO! Do not ever become separated from your troops again. For all we know this, “and he gestured to the shattered remains, “was a plot from one of the other houses to remove me. The rest of you,” he directed, “report to my son and tell him you are to lead the next assault against one of these human ‘machine guns’. Maybe you will redeem your honor in death.”
With that he watched his Ellarissa head south and the exiled guard turn north. Sending a message of thought to Artuian, his Chief of Staff, Tavan asked for a priest to mourn Orme. Many dragons were broken to service, but he had raised this one from an egg, and they had been together for five hundred years. Then he mounted the fallen guard commander’s steed, the unconscious human forgotten in the battle.
Moving back up the avenue, controlling the new beast with blows and curses, he passed a group of White Hand orcs escorting human prisoners back towards central park. The humans were dressed in mostly what he knew to be called “business attire”, the equivalent
of the robes he wore out of his armor when meeting with subordinates. “Stop,” he ordered flatly, and dismounted. “Make them kneel.” He had no fear of the White Hand orcs, their tribes had been broken to the Elves’ will centuries before. The lead orc yanked downward on the chain and the dozen prisoners fell to their knees. Tavan then proceeded to assuage his anger at the death of his dragon by beheading six of them at random, his blade whipping through the air to cut cleanly through the neck. He drank in the fear and terror of the humans, hearing their screams and laughing at their struggles.
“You may eat the rest, alive. Let one go to tell the other humans.” Then he remounted the small, flightless dragon and headed back towards his headquarters.
Chapter 7
US Army Special Forces (Delta) Team Gulf Three
When I awoke I lay still, unmoving, not opening my eyes. In the distance gunfire crackled, echoed by what I would later come to recognize as the whip crack of spellfire. My head hurt as I lay there, not moving, trying to listen and assess where I was and what was going on around me. I heard chopping sounds close by, the sound a heavy butcher’s knife makes when it hacks into a carcass. I’d heard it often enough when I was in the Middle East, a farmer slaughtering a goat or a cow. Crackling flames, gunfire that was blocks away. Also the thud and boom of heavy ordnance being used by someone, but that was a long way off. Kilometers by the difference in the vibration in the ground versus the sounds I heard.
One of my eyes was glued shut by blood but I slowly opened the other and the night was a sullen red light around me. Power was out but fires still burned, leaving a glow that reflected off a low, smoky sky. I heard the thud of helo blades, the echoes of a chain gun, and the scream of what I assumed was a dragon or some other animal in its death throes. Well, that was good.
Heavy footsteps sounded, jogging past me on a double time. I knew the sound of that, a squad of troops moving out to combat. Their harness jingled in a metallic way that meant they weren’t humans. We used nylon and plastic, even the Guard with their older equipment. I closed my eyes and held as still as I could, smelling their animal sweat as they passed by. Their sergeant told them to MOVE! and I knew that word no matter what language it was in. I waited until they were long gone before moving my hand slightly around, feeling for my pistol. It was dummy corded to my vest, so I found the line first and slowly worked my fingers down to the weapon. Which was, of course, gone. Shit.
I was thinking what to do next when I felt an iron grip on my ankle and something started to drag me across the concrete. Then I was lifted in the air and flung a dozen feet, crashing into what I immediately knew from the stink was a pile of bodies. I lay there, as loose as I could, hearing the ragged breath of a dying person in my ear and felt wet tears on my face as it pressed up against another person.
There was an exchange of harsh language, an argument between several whatevers, and the body next to me was jerked away. “Oh please God, no!” screamed the woman, who had obviously been playing dead too. I opened my eyes onto a scene from Dante’s Inferno and immediately wished I hadn’t.
The dragon that we had killed was surrounded by candles and half a dozen well, Elves I guess, were kneeling in front of it and chanting. Directly in front of me human torsos hung from butchering racks, arms hanging down and throats slit to allow blood to drain. Behind that were fires with meat turning on a spit, and the chopping sound I had heard was limbs being cut off roasted bodies and being handed to a line of the apelike troops. As I watched the woman that was screaming had a rope thrown around her legs and she was hauled into the air, hair hanging down. She was pretty, wearing some kind of business suit, and terrified. Her captors swung a short knife and blood splashed out on the ground, leaving eyes to lock with mine as her life slowly drained out. Harsh laughter sounded at her screams, a red rage washed over me and I fought the urge to charge them. Instead I rolled to my left, got to my feet and ran like a son of a bitch.
Behind me a hunting horn sounded and I dove to one side as arrows ripped at me, headed for the shadows of Rockefeller Plaza. There was more laughter and then the horn brayed again, and I looked back. Two of the Elves, young guys dressed in beautiful armor with some serious jewelry, came jogging towards me, putting their bows away. The look on their faces was feral and I guess the hunt was on now. OK, fuckers, this was my town. Bring it. I kept running and then slipped into an alley, dodging into the deep darkness, wishing I had some night vision goggles. And a 240-Bravo. And a mechanized infantry company.
I crouched down behind a dumpster and picked up a two by four that my hands found, a stout piece of wood about three feet long. Running my hand down the length of it I found a couple of bent nails on the end. Even better, time to show some down and dirty. I could probably have outrun these yahoos, but I was mad as shit after seeing what happened to the woman. A light appeared at the end of the alley and I yelled, “In here, shitbags!”
The light stopped, a sort of will-o-wisp that hovered in the air, and the two Elves stepped into the alley. One, smaller and probably younger, drew his sword and advanced forward towards me with a shit-eating grin on his face. I stood there and held the piece of lumber in one hand, out like a fencing foil. The other I held back behind me, parodying a fencer, looking for all the world like an inept scared shithead who was challenging him to a duel. With a laugh, the Elf stepped forward and took a lazy swing to knock the two by four out of my hands. I figured I was stronger than him, so I took the hit, letting the wood get knocked aside, and bum rushed him. The snub nosed .357 magnum hidden in my right hand came out from behind my back as he lazily reversed the blades’ direction and I stepped inside his reach. The gun came up and I placed the barrel less than an inch from his face and fired two rounds, bang bang. My hideout gun wasn’t good for much further than ten yards, but I was taking a bet that a contact hit would push past any kind of shield they had. I saw the light go out of his eyes and I shoved him back, rolling myself around the clanging, falling armor. I had three shots left and the other Elf stood there, a look of surprise in his eyes. He began to draw his own sword with one hand and raised his other, light starting to swell in his palm. I fired the last three rounds, two of them sparking off his magic and the third, higher up with recoil, glancing off his helmet, stunning him, and the Elf fell to his knees. Picking up the other sword I stabbed him through the throat, screaming like an animal. Again and again, until his face was a ruin. “Yippie Ky yay, motherfucker!!” I screamed and spit on him. “Welcome to New York!”
I stood there, panting, and looked up. In front of me was an orc, because fuck it, that’s what I was going to call them, squad. Four of them, the sergeant I guess and three troopers, watching me. I pointed the empty gun out at them and he barked an order. Two of the privates lifted small crossbows and aimed them at me. I held the pistol straight out, my arm rock steady, and I had to hand it to the creature, he didn’t blink. The orc had just seen what I did to two armored Elves, and for all he knew, I could just blow his head off. He raised his arm, and I knew that when he dropped it, I’d be punctured by those crossbows, no joke.
Instead, he grunted some command, and the bows lowered. Then he looked back down the street to where the feast or whatever it was going on, looked at me, and started rumbling a low, deep laugh, followed by a left hand clenched in a fist over his heart. Then the sergeant barked another order and turned, leading the squad back towards Sixth Avenue. I waited until they couldn’t see me, lowered my pistol and sank to my knees, covered in sweat, not noticing the puddle of blood on the street that soaked through my jeans.
Chapter 8
The thing about Manhattan is that it’s an island. Easy to lock down if you wanted to and had enough troops to control the choke points, and I needed to get off as fast as possible. It looked from the stars to be around three in the morning, I was assuming the same night. I had been out for quite a while and my head hurt like a son of a bitch. That and I was hungry and pretty much unarmed. I couldn’t do anything about being hung
ry, not yet, but I could arm myself. Plus I needed the intel.
The sword was light, of some kind of steel that had a beautiful pattern on it. I didn’t think I could just walk the streets with an elven sword, but there was a matching dagger, a poniard, that was about eighteen inches long and wickedly sharp. That I slid down inside my pants leg, pulling my shirt over the handle. Before I did so, though, I knelt down and cut off one of the Elves’ fingers, one that held a nice ring. I slipped off the ring and put it in one pocket, then wrapped the finger in a piece of the dead Elf’s cloak and put it in another. I was already thinking far ahead, this was going to be a long war, and if we could do some bioweapon shit with their DNA, all the better. If they even had DNA as we knew it. My plate carrier came off, I dropped all the ammo pouches then put it back on and slid my t-shirt over it. I suspected that anyone who was geared up would be considered a combatant and fair game, but I wasn’t ready to ditch all my protection just yet. There were humans that were just as dangerous as magic Elves.
I started when I heard a noise that I knew from Afghanistan. Heavy jets, dozens of them, medium altitude. Subsonic, a rumble over the city that portended very bad things. For a moment I stood there, stunned that they would actually do it, bomb the city. Then I ran like hell. Central Park had to be their target, but you never made a bet that there wouldn’t be a short round, even with guided munitions. Bolts of light started reaching into the sky, and I caught glimpse of them, B-52’s and B-1’s, maybe thirty of them that I could see. One by one they exploded in midair, transected by the lightning. It was a slaughter in bright flashing light, bomb bay doors open, dumb bombs dropping away. You couldn’t land a JDAM in Central Park, for the most part, without knocking down the buildings around it, and they were going for a straight Arc Light run. It was time to get the hell out of there so I ran south, across the rubble and broken glass, avoiding dead bodies, until I came to a cross street. Just then the first bombs started, muted crumps that I felt through my feet. I turned left, heading east. Whomever was running this clusterfuck bombing would want a damage report, and for that I would have to get high up.
