by J. F. Holmes
“Like your hero Odysseus, finding his way home,” he rumbled.
“Let me guess, you know these poems?” I asked, not surprised.
“The Elves have been studying you a very long time, human. Let us hope that they haven’t learned everything.”
“Oh trust me, they haven’t, not by a long shot. Let’s get to work, Master Sergeant. We have shit to blow up, and an insurgency campaign to run. As soon as I can take a shower,” I added.
Chapter 30
Our safehouse was in Rosedale, pretty far from Manhattan as the drive goes, but close enough to JFK that we could get in and out of the country if we had to in normal times. Instead of taking the Belt Parkway we drove up Atlantic Avenue, using a beater car that Clark had hotwired. The further we got from the fighting the less and less it seemed like anything had actually happened, except that the place was a mess. I didn’t see any people until we had gone about twenty blocks, though there were some cars moving and patrols of orcs and Elves. They ignored us, intent on looting banks and jewelry stores. I did see a lot of bodies, though. Mostly human, some orcs, no Elves. I guess they didn’t leave their own dead on the field. In one intersection was a burnt out Humvee and two wrecked cop cars. There were literally thousands of brass casings littered around the three vehicles, and there were four bodies, two in army uniforms, one civilian and cop. Fucked up thing is that they were laid out on top of a huge pile of weapons, swords, bows, and axes and covered with an American flag, with broken shields laid at their feet.
“Damn!” I said as we drove past. A woman was laying flowers at the makeshift memorial and she gave me a thousand yard stare as we went by. Along both sides of the avenue were hundreds of dead orcs, with people dragging the bodies out of the street.
Clark shook his head. “Sometimes I actually respect these guys, but I bet the Elves didn’t have shit to do with it.”
“Nope, probably their enlisted orcs. I’m sensing some serious issues with their command that we might be able to utilize. We’ll have to pick Tor’s brain about it.” The dwarf wasn’t with us; he said he would find his own way and meet us there. Didn’t like cars, apparently, and we were better off. He would probably be a bit hard to explain.
The trouble started when we hit a checkpoint. There was a cop car with lights flashing, a military LMTV, two guys in army uniforms, one cop, four orcs and two Elves. They had been smart, set off to one side and someone stepping out to wave us down. One orc and one human, and of course the Elves hung in back. In sight but with a clear line of retreat. There were several dead bodies and empty cars, one with bullet holes spiderwebbing the back window. One car was sitting with doors open about a block past them and an orc / human pair were getting ready to behead another of three human males.
I took this all in just a second as we came around a turn. They were less than fifty meters ahead, and that was a complete fuckup. Might work in the day and age of foot traffic, but cars moved a hell of a lot faster and had a lot more mass than people. Clark said nothing, just grimaced and stomped on the gas. We were driving an older Chevy Impala, a pretty good sized car, and the V8 hummed under the hood. The human in the pair understood what we meant to do and I saw him dive to one side. The orc took a precious second to process it and we hit him a glancing blow with the front fender, shattering the headlight but keeping us mobile as he rolled up and over the hood. Never hit them square on, you’ll jam the radiator into the engine and be dead a few blocks later.
What happened next surprised the shit out of me. Clark threw it into a bootlegger, standing on the brakes and swinging the car around, bouncing across the pavement. The tires spun crazily until they caught up and we headed back again. “Jesus Christ you’re going to get us killed!” I barked at him but I drew my pistol anyway. Rounds started coming at us but they were high and to one side. Before we got there Clark stomped on the brakes and slid around again, sticking his M-4 out the window and doing a mag dump on the orc that was holding the headsman's axe. His human partner fired a few rounds into our windshield, showering us with glass. If she had run away, I would have let her go, but she ran back towards the Elves. I shot her in the back as the prisoners piled into the back set and we hauled ass, this time down a side street. One didn’t get all the way into the car and he rolled away as we accelerated, to disappear in a fireball cast by one of the Elves that whipped past us.
There was smoke pouring out of the engine compartment and blood covered half of Clark’s face as we tore off. We made it a few more blocks and then pulled into a parking garage. I spent the next minute putting a bandage on Clarks’ face wound while he cut the ropes that bound the two men’s hands. While he did that he interrogated them quickly. “What’s your crew?” he asked.
“Nine Tr--!” the younger one started before the other slapped him upside the head. I doubted that either of them was old enough to be full members of the violent street gang, but I saw what Clark was doing.
“More like fucking Grove Street or the Saints, I bet. You pass it up the line that everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, will be set aside while we fight these sons of bitches. You tell them Uncle Sam has got a war on.” He said it urgently, emphasizing the ‘everything’ again.
“Looks like Ol’e Uncle Sam done got his ass kicked, you cracker motherfucker.” That was the older one.
“I wasn’t the one about to get my head cut off, shit for brains. You owe me, I could have just let you die with your buddies. Now,” and he pulled out his .45, “get your asses back to your crew and tell them it’s open season on the Elves. Spread the word, unless you all want to be slaves again. Anyone wants to talk, tell them to find Mister Clark out by JFK. Go on, git.”
As we watched them take off, I said, “Good call. The harder things are for them, the better for us.”
Chapter 31
The next day we just rested. I know, heroes should be out fighting, but you’re a hundred times more effective with some food in your stomach and good night’s sleep. Plus we needed intel, which the internet gave us plenty of when we had power. Figuring out what, exactly, was going on was the hard part. We had a shortwave radio too which brought us news from around the world. That day, four days since the invasion started, I think the Elves finally figured out how that was working, because the operators and stations started dropping off the net.
We got two surprises the day after that. The first was one of the kids from the gangs, banging on our door around 02:30, a quick rap rap rap. I went out the back and came around the corner of the house, ready to pop anyone. Hollis came to the door, and I heard the kid say, “We’re looking for Mister Clark.”
“What the hell you doing waking me up this time of night, punk?” I heard her say to him. “There ain’t no Mister Clark here.”
A deep, basso voice rumbled, “Cut the shit, ho. We know he’s in here and we want to talk.” A quick peek showed the kid on the steps and behind him a frigging giant of a man. There was a tricked out Jeep idling at the curb with a driver and another thug, probably a gunner, and a good one. He was casing the street and the surrounding houses.
“You better watch your mouth, boy, before I blow that giant friggin head off your shoulders!” she shot back, and there was the quiet snick of a safety clicking off.
That started the man to laugh. “Girl, if I wanted to, this entire house would be nothing but a hole in the ground right now. I came here to talk. Tyree, go wait in the jeep.”
There was a muttered protest but the kid did what he was told. When he was out of earshot the giant politely said, “Can you tell Mister Clark that Staff Sergeant Isiah Jones would like to speak with him? Please?”
“What branch?” I asked from the shadows.
He was cool as ice, this guy, no surprise in his voice. “Late of the United States Marine Corps Force Recon, currently of an organization that doesn’t matter to you right now.”
“Let him in,” I ordered, “Mister Jones, tell your boys to come back in fifteen mikes.”
Tor was dr
inking coffee when we came into the kitchen. He had shown up an hour earlier in our basement, covered in dirt. “Aye,” the dwarf said, looking at the gang leader, “you’ve got giant’s blood in you. I can feel it.”
“What the fuck do you have, midget blood?” came the reply, but it was accompanied by a rumble of laughter.
“OK, let’s get down to business,” I interrupted. “I’m going to ignore your rank, but don’t be surprised if you get recalled sometime in the future. I’m talking to you as the leader of one of the local gangs. Are you going to fight?”
He looked at me for a long moment and said nothing. Finally, “You’re a smart mother fucker, aren’t you, Major Kincaid?”
“Let me guess, you have guys in the 69th who fought with me at the Brooklyn Bridge the other day. I AM a smart motherfucker, Mister Jones.”
“Call me Jonesy, Major. I don’t know if we’ll fight yet. I have people to look after. Families. Kids. This ain’t no mission and I ain’t on orders.” He sat back, making the chair creek, and sipped on a cup of coffee that Hollis had handed him. She stood behind me, leaning on the counter, SIG in her hand.
“I understand that,” I answered, and I really did. I never discounted gangs, though I hated the random brutal violence that they bred. Often they were the de facto leaders and protectors of their communities when societies had left them behind. “These fuckers are hardcore, and if you get caught, I suspect that everyone around will pay. Here’s the thing, though. If they win, you’ll be slaves again. Maybe not in chains, but sure as shit get out of line, they’ll string you up.” I heard Hollis take a deep breath and Jonesy’ nostrils flared. Yeah, I was deliberately using inflammatory language.
“Like we ain’t slaves now?” he said bitterly. “Still, you’ve got a point. Besides, some of my boys aren’t going to sit back and take it. You know how teens are. What do you want?”
“Drugs. Stop selling to humans and start on the Orcs and Elves,” I said flatly.
“What?” said both Jones and Hollis at the same time.
“Explain for me, will you, Tor?” I asked the dwarf, who had been sitting quietly making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cramming them in his mouth.
“Aye,” he said, “the Elves, as ye calls them, well, they live near forever as far as we can tell. So they get bored. The only thing that excites them is pleasure and conquest. And revenge.”
I nodded. “So you see my point. The faster that we can corrupt their forces, the easier it will be when the time comes to take them out. Plus addicts will sell anything to get their fix. Including information.”
He leaned forward and rested his massive arms on the table. One hundred percent pure muscle; if this guy wanted to, he could have cleared the room and left a bloody mess behind him. “I suppose you’re going to want every single piece of magic you can get your hands on, aren’t you?”
“How many times did you turn down the offer of a commission in the Corps, Mister Jones?” I asked shrewdly.
“Once or twice,” he answered, with a grin. “So, do we understand each other?”
“I think we do,” I replied, and offered my hand.
He took it and, not trying to play hard ass games by crushing it, said, “And what about after?”
“We’re just soldiers, Jonesy, doing our jobs. That’s for other people to decide.” I knew what he meant, though. “Tell you what, no matter the outcome, nothing will ever be the same.”
“You got that right,” and he made his way confidently out of the house. A leader is a leader, great or small. I liked him.
*****
Our next surprise came after sunup. The power was on and we were cooking some breakfast while Clark went through a targeting list. I was on watch using a remote camera while I looked at maps of the city. There was little traffic on the street; many of the residents had fled to God knows where. There had been reports of refugee camps and some YouTube videos put up, but the civilian population wasn’t my problem.
My eye caught some movement and I panned the camera to focus on a big eighteen wheeler that slowly rolled down main street a block away from us. It came to a halt and a platoon of orcs and half a dozen Elves came piling out of the back. The orcs started unloading crates and baskets, leaving them right here in the center of the street. I zoomed in the camera and saw that the baskets were full of fresh fruit and vegetables. Smart as shit. “Heads’ up!” I shouted, and then moved downstairs. Hollis and Clark were already gearing up.
“What’s up? Do we need to bug out?” asked Clark.
“Looks like we’ve got a hearts and minds mission down the street,” I answered. Then I froze as there was a knock on the door. We all turned to the monitor in the gear room that showed the front door from a view across the street where we had hung a camera on a light pole. There was an Elf, accompanied by two orcs, walking away from our door. As we watched they moved to the next house, banged on the door, and stuffed a flyer in the door handle.
“I got it,” said Hollis, and she came back with the flyer.
I took it and read out loud, “Greetings from Lord Tavan. In the faith that we can have a better world and a reconciliation between our peoples, and in conjunction with the government of your great city, all citizens will be given a weekly food grant, enough meat, milk products and vegetables to sustain a household of five for seven days. Each week more will be distributed at a local market.”
We were all quiet for a moment, then Clark said, “Son of a bitch. And the shithead mayor signed it too.” He was right. “Fat and happy people don’t have a reason to fight. Starving ones do. This is a hell of a coup, and smart thinking on the Elves part.”
“And if we go after the food trucks, we’ll lose the support of the people. That means we’re going to have to be a lot more targeted in our work,” agreed Hollis.
“Well, the food has to come from somewhere, and I think it will take a mighty powerful magic user to make enough to feed ten million people. That and trucks to move it. Priority target number one has just presented itself to us.” And we sat down to plan. First things first, though, payback for Lord Tavan.
Chapter 32
“So, Tor, fill us in,” I said to the dwarf. He had just come back upstairs after digging us an exit tunnel into a house a block away and he was tasting the sandy soil that clung to his beard, then spitting it out. I was getting my stuff together to head back into the City on a recon, as were the others. They were going to different places and different missions though.
“I’m not sure,” he muttered, “why the Elves want this world. It’s full of nasty stinking, what is that word, ah yes, petroleum chemicals. Even in the soil.” His command of English was moving forward in leaps and bounds, to the point where I didn’t even need the ring anymore, though he still sounded a lot like Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“Well,” said Hollis, “any time you want to explain that to them and politely ask them to leave, be my guest.”
He barked a laugh, more like a snort through his beard, and said, “Remind me to eat you last when I’m starving, Armsman Hollis.”
“Armswoman, sweety,” and she leaned forward, squeezing her cleavage together.
“Grow a beard then come speak with me, ye temptress!” he growled.
She laughed and pulled over a kitchen chair. “Stand on this, first.”
I grinned at the growing friendship between the two, but told them both, “OK, knock it off. We’ve got some serious talking to do. Tor, I want to know everything you can tell me about the Elves, your people, the Orcs, whatever.”
“Well,” he said, downing a whole can of peaches, “where would you have me start?”
“Tell me about your people,” I asked, and he did. For the next half hour we listened to his tale of the destruction of the seven houses of the dwarves, their long on again / off again relationship with the Elves, the final war of subjugation and the sacking of their ancient halls.
“So, then, for more than five hundred of your Earth years we hav
e been slaves, though not willingly, and we are a dying race. I am a hundred and fifty two, a dwarf in my prime, but one of the youngest left.” For the first time, I saw a look of despair come across his face.
“You said ‘your Earth years’. What did you mean?” I asked. “I thought the Elves were from here? They mentioned returning. And there is plenty of mythology about your people in our legends.”
“Afore there was much traffic between the worlds, and maybe the Elves came from here, or lived here as masters a long time ago. I don’t know, I’m just a youngling. There are others in my clan who may remember.” He paused to drain another can of Fosters, his fifth in half an hour. If it affected him, I didn’t see it. He let out a long belch, wiped his face and continued.
“Each of the houses of the Elves have, I guess you would call them, ‘lands’ that they are assigned to take and rule in the name of the Winter King, their High Lord. Thing is, he is just a figurehead. The Council meets and determines who does what, and whose idea wins depends on …” he paused, thinking of a word, “depends on politics. I read yer book The Prince, yon writer was on the mark. Tavan has been given all of your ‘state of New York’ to rule, or more like he chose it. So now it is his to hold unless he cannot, then other Elves will take it from him. This is the wealthiest city in the world, is it not?”
“Depends on your point of view,” I said.
“So what about the Elves? How do we hurt them?” asked Clark, who had just switched out with Hollis on guard.
Tor looked straight at him and said, “Yer’ quite the killer, aren’t you? The major here, he has to think big thoughts, but you, Master Armsman,” and he grinned, “yer content to go where ordered and kill where needed, aren’t ye?”
“You’re not so bad with the axe, Dwerg,” he said, using the Afrikaans word for Dwarf.
Tor shrugged. “I’d rather be picking stone than slaying those poor Yrch bastards.”
