by J. F. Holmes
I held up the blade in the stabbing stance that Father Feradach had shown me earlier that day, and what had been Vargas stopped. Yeah, it was him, right down to the missing top quarter of his skull.
“When I heard the call in Hell, I leapt at the chance to get my -” and then it turned into a blood curdling scream as I shoved the gladius in its face. Never frigging stop to talk shit. Never. The blade went into the open mouth and I ripped it sideway, carving out a big chunk of the face. It left a brilliant blue glow in its wake and the thing screamed again. I felt a burning hot hand wrap around my wrist and squeeze, agony flaring up my arm. The sword fell out of my hand to the floor with a clang and incredibly strength pulled me towards that fiery face.
“DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HELL IS LIKE?” it screamed at me, and I saw it. Saw damnation in its eyes, billions of figures screaming in torment as Vargas pulled me towards his gaping mouth. “COME JOIN ME, KINCAID!”
Like the pale marble arm of a Greek statue a hand and wrist appeared, pressed the barrel of a pistol to Vargas’ flaming skull and pulled the trigger. The light of the billions of souls went out and the apparition faded to dust. I fell to the floor feeling as if I were still on fire.
“UNCLE MIKE!” I heard Shannon yell, but he was already through the door. Something splashed across my wounds, and I felt immediate relief as the lights came on.
“Take it easy, son, and Shannon, put some clothes on,” the priest ordered. Then I felt cool water on my lips and I guzzled it down.
“How … how did her gun work on that thing? I saw the rounds go right through it,” I gasped, shivering now as Father Feradach drew a blanket over me after helping me to the bed.
Shannon came over and dropped the magazine from her pistol, thumbing out a round. She held the tip up to me and I saw a tiny cross inlaid in the tip of the hollow point, silver glinting in the overhead light. “Uncle Mike’s been working on this for me. It’s not the silver, he says, but the faith behind the symbol. Probably won’t work for you until you actually believe, but it’s good enough for me. Either way, I’m glad it worked.” And she kissed me deeply. It burned only a little less than the demon’s touch, but in a much more pleasant way.
“Ahem, uh, I’ll just be going now, if everything is OK …” said the priest, but we ignored him.
Chapter 51
From the war journals of Lord Thar Tavan, Head of House Tavor, Commander of the Third Army.
I have arranged for satisfaction of honor with the human Kincaid and I will have vengeance for Ellarissa, and it will be all the better because it comes from my own hand. My sending from the lower planes failed last night, though I know not why and I am troubled. However, by dawn the day after tomorrow this will be ended, one way or another. The council grows ever more impatient, and I think they are having their own problems.
The man who stood in front of Lord Tavan was almost a giant, and he wondered if possibly there was some actual giant’s blood in him. The human bore in one hand a rolled scroll and had a white band tied around one massive bicep with skin dark as night. Maybe more troll than giant, thought Tavan. The two were alone in a suite at the top of the Waldorf Astoria. As a condition of the meeting, even Tavan’s advisor Grimalt had been sent away. This was personal.
“So, your commander accepts my challenge,” said the Elf in flawless English, nodding to the paper in the emissary’s hand. “What is your name, then, underling?” He stressed the word, trying to get a reaction out of the human.
“You can call me Mister Jones, your pinheadedness,” grinned the giant, watching for Tavan’s own reaction.
“I know all your colloquialisms. Mister Jones,” he sneered back. “For example, I understand the history of your people in this country and what the use of the modern derivative of the Latin word ‘nigreos’ means to you. Shall I call you that?” He was testing to see how far he could push.
“Try it,” rumbled Jones, “and I’ll break your head before the -er comes out, parlay or no parlay.” He stepped forward one long stride, bringing him within arm’s reach of the new ruler of New York City.
Tavan gestured to a chair, unphased. “Have a seat. My grievance is not with you, and I understand being a soldier in an army. I would like to speak with you of several things, though. Wine?” The Elf snapped his fingers and a human woman appeared. With a start, Jones recognized her as one of the New York “elite” who so often graced the cover of the daily newspapers in the City. Instead of makeup and thousand dollar torn jeans she now wore nothing but a silver chain around her neck, and in her hands she held a silver tray with two wine glasses on it.
Jones took the wine, ignoring the girl and saluting Tavan, then tossed it off in one shot. “Not bad.”
“There’s more like it, of course. For those who choose the right path. You can have her too, if you wish. You reside in the Springfield Gardens neighborhood of Queens, am I correct?”
“I got a crib there. Bunch other places too. World has gotten a bit dangerous to be staying in one place. By the way, it’s only because I’m here on a diplomatic mission that I’m not reaching over and ripping your scrawny little head off. Your boys killed my sisters’ son, and if Kincaid doesn’t get you, I will. It’s only a matter of time.”
“I too have lost loved ones in this war. You have my sympathy.” Tavan tried to look sincere when he said it, and for a moment, Jones actually saw grief in the alien eyes.
“How about you fuck off with that sympathy shit. You started this, and your daughter’s death is on your head.” Jones said it calmly, but Tavan’s’ anger flared.
“I was going to offer you a fiefdom if you swore loyalty to me, Mister Jones. A town to call your own, with slaves such as this at your beck and call. However, if you insist on being the crude barbarian, so be it.” Tavan leaned over and placed his fingertip on the cowering woman’s neck, waited a moment to see the human’s reaction and then let loose a bolt of energy that cut cleanly through, causing her head to flop forward and onto the floor without a sound other than a startled grunt.
Jones sat impassively, then finally said, “So now she is free. You said you studied the history of my people, Tavan, but obviously didn’t learn anything from it. And as far as giving me my own territory? As someone once said, you fucked with the wrong Marine. Staff Sergeant Isaiah Jones, United States Marine Corps, and since you already know Latin, you’ll understand what ‘Semper Fidelis’ means.”
“I see,” said Tavan. “Well, to business then. Major Kincaid has accepted my challenge and has the right to choose weapons. I am familiar with your firearms and am willing to ‘duel at ten paces’, as you say.”
Jones laughed, a big booming sound that echoed around the apartment. “Oh no, no no no. It’s swords, no magic, to the death. And he has asked that you bring a neutral observer from your council of Lords to watch and see that you don’t cheat. We’ll have a camera crew to observe the same.”
Tavan smiled. “Agreed, but how do I know that you won’t have someone shoot me from a distance, being the cowards that you are?”
“I’m pretty sure that any of your Lords who shows up to watch will be quite able to prevent that,” said Jones. “And to reassure you, the duel will take place on Hart Island, dawn the day after tomorrow.”
“You are the Major’s second, I presume?” said Tavan.
The terrified face of the dead woman stared up at Jones, and he reached down to close her eyes. “Oh no. I have other things to do, and I’m just an emissary. You’ll know his second as soon as you see him.”
Tavan stood up and Jones rose slowly to his feet, eyes watching the Elf lord’s. Then he looked down at the dead woman. “This is why, in the end, you’re going to lose.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement he turned his back on the invader of his world and walked out.
Chapter 52
US Army Special Forces (Delta) - Team Gulf Three
Hart Island stood in the Sound midway between Kings Point on Long Island and Pelham Park in the Bronx and had
been many things over the years. Today it was mainly noted as the City’s Potter’s Field where the poor and unclaimed dead were buried in their thousands each year. Before that a jail, a workhouse, barracks for training Civil War colored regiments, in the vernacular of the time. Even before that, in the early 19th century, it had been known as a place for illegal fighting, duels and bare-knuckled pugilist contests that attracted thousands on steamer trips. I felt it was kind of appropriate, in a way.
The small Boston Whaler skipped its way across the Sound, taking the small waves easily in a calm air. It was growing lighter in the east, that still time that every soldier knows before the sun rises and the wind picks up again. I breathed in the salt air, filling my lungs deeply. I had grown up here, spent my summers out on the Great South bay fishing, and it always made me feel alive. If today was the day that I was going to die, so be it; I couldn’t think of one better.
In the faint star light reflected off the water I could Shannon’s’ form but not her face. She had on camouflage paint and a ghillie suit strapped to her back. Next to her sat Clark, the long barrel of the newly sighted Barrett rifle sticking up over his shoulder. They were my insurance policy; if I fell in battle Tavan was to be taken down and any other nobles with him. The heavy .50 caliber rounds were inscribed with the letters INRI, and Shannon would be on the gun. If I won the duel, we would walk away, that was the deal.
Father Mike sat behind me as I steered and next to him was Hollis. Her face was still a mass of bruises, but her job wasn’t to fight; in her hands was a high-definition video camera. The internet was pretty much down now, though occasionally we could log on, so her job was to record the entire thing and get it out as widely as possible. CD, TV, YouTube, whatever. People needed to see either that the Elves could be beaten or at least fought. Behind me in a duffle bag strapped to the covered shield was a suit of “armor” that we had cobbled together from whatever body armor we could come up with.
It was quite possible that I was going to die. I knew that, and accepted it, but for the first time in a long time there was something to live for. Maybe what had happened between Shannon and me was driven by the war and the passion for just feeling alive, but I didn’t know. I liked her; she knew what she wanted and was tough, something that really appealed to me. We would see what happened later, when all this was settled.
She must have caught me looking at her, because her teeth suddenly appeared in the midst of the dark camo oval of her face, a broad smile. I smiled back and then put the thoughts of her as anything other than Sergeant O’Neill way down deep. It was time to fight and maybe die. Love came later, if at all.
We pulled up to the southeastern end, the gentle waves pushing us towards shore and our sniper team got out, wading through the surf and taking off through the trees. I gunned the engine and swung northward, following the eastern shore and wanting to be in place before the slightest hint of sunlight appeared. The docks were on the west side but that was closer towards the City and observable. If necessary, I wanted as short a run as possible to get to the Bronx and safety. Clark and O’Neill had a zodiac that had been placed there the night before; they would have to make their own way back if it went to shit. I pushed back thoughts of tentacles reaching up through the water at them.
The boat ground on the sand and Father Mike jumped out, dragging a line to a tree and tying it off. I grabbed the duffle and the shield, helping Hollis over the bow as she was still a bit unsteady on her feet. She took a deep breath and hauled the camera bag out, disappearing herself behind a broken, ruined rock wall. I wasn’t worried about her being seen; if there was anything Delta did well it was recon and surveillance. She had a satcom with her and hopefully she would get a data uplink. I wished her well, she was one of the best soldiers I had ever met.
The Padre and I walked across the grass towards the middle of an open field as the sky grew lighter and then we stopped. “David,” he said, “mind if I say a prayer?”
“Sure. I have no idea if God is listening, but it can’t hurt.” Remembering my Catholic upbringing, I knelt and bowed my head. He chanted in the old way, in Latin accented in Irish, so I had no idea what he actually said. When he was done I stood and dumped out the gear from the duffle, spilling it on the ground. The bits of Kevlar and ceramic clattered and thumped in the dawn air and I picked up the vest.
We had gone to the Bayshore armory and found an old style frag vest, the kind without ceramic plates that were issued before 9-11. It was odd to see the mottled green and black instead of desert tan or off brown, but this was better than the newer stuff for what I was facing. Kevlar could stop a pistol round but probably not an arrow with a bodkin point. That could go through steel plate armor but I wasn’t worried about that threat. Instead, it was saber cuts that concerned me and the woven Kevlar was designed to stop artillery fragments from ripping through your body. To the vest I had attached shoulder pads and a crotch guard, adding two more panels to my hips. I would have to cover my legs with the shield but I did have catchers’ greaves. It was my arms and neck that I was worried about. The arms I decided to leave bare for speed, but my armpits felt awkward with reversed Kevlar shoulder pads duct taped to the vest. If Tavan managed to stab me in the armpit, I could bleed out in seconds.
My helmet was my standard ballistic Delta issue. The problem with those is that it exposed my entire neck to a sword stroke, so I had to figure something out. The solution that we came up with was fairly simple, two more of the crotch guards screwed to the helmet to cover either side to form flaps. They covered my neck and part of the sides of my face. If he was able to get to the back of my neck, well, I was screwed anyway.
I jumped up and down to settle the gear and Mike laughed. “You look like a fooking idiot,” he said.
“Profanity from a priest?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, unsnapping the chin strap and took off the helmet.
“My one and only vice. Don’t tell my sainted mother.” We were joking to relieve tension, but it didn’t help. I took a long drink of water and we both fell silent to wait.
Chapter 53
Rays of the sun touched the tops of the trees and flickered off three golden hued dragons gliding in from the west. I did have to admit they were beautiful animals, and I wondered what it would be like to ride one. That started plans to spin in my head and I forced myself to focus on the riders as they settled to earth.
In the center, as I expected, was Tavan. Screw giving him a title. On his right was a younger Elf wearing a Sigel of the same house. His son, then. The other was dressed in what I would come to know as Elven “civies”, a short skirt almost like a kilt, hose, and a pulled over shirt. She wore no sword, only a wand slid into her belt. The elven woman was, like all of her kind, stunningly beautiful, and her expression was steadfastly neutral. That would be an observer from the ‘Council’. Good, it might keep Tavan honest.
My radio crackled in my ear. “You can look, but no touching the Elf maid!” came O’Neill’s voice.
“Jealous much?” I answered.
“You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, mister. Stay alive to enjoy it.”
“I’ll try, no promises,” and then I focused on Tavan. He wore armor but it was lighter than the heavy battle stuff I had seen him during the invasion. This consisted of a chainmail suit that started at his shoulders and fell to his ankles, belted at the waist, and moved like it was light as cloth. Crap, so much for wearing him down. On his head he wore a small circlet that held his hair back, maybe a mark of rank or something, and there was a high metal collar around his neck. Otherwise he had no protection for his face or his head that I could see. He still had the same sword, a medium weight blade, slightly curved, but with a longer reach than the gladius.
All three hobbled their dragons to stakes driven into the ground and started to walk over to me. I say started to, because they got within fifty feet and then stopped. Beside me Father Mike had pulled something out of a backpack and slipped it on over his street c
lothes. I looked over at him and saw that he had pulled on a sort of overcoat, more like a shirt that draped over him. Across the face were embroidered three symbols. At the top was the traditional cross, with an Irish Catholic circle around it. Below that the three leaves of an interlocking Triquetra, the ancient druidic symbol which had also come to represent the Holy Trinity. Under that was the outline of a crow.
“You know, if the Pope hears about that, you might be in a spot of trouble,” I said to him. The triangle was bad enough, but I recognized the black bird as the symbol of The Morrigan, the Irish goddess of war. “Especially that crow.”
“All things under heaven are God’s plan, including the Old Ones who prepared the way for the coming of Jesus. And besides, the Elves hung the Pope last night in the Colosseum in Rome. I heard it just before we left.” He crossed himself and said, “He was a good man, and died well.”
“All we can ask for, sometimes,” I answered, and looked over at the Elves. They had stopped and were having a furious conversation, Tavan and his son trying to convince the other one to let them blast me off the face of the Earth, but she was having none of it. Finally they stopped and approached.
“DRUID!” hissed Tavan. “I will burn you in a wicker man while the gods dance and I eat your heart!”
The other noble placed her hand on his arm, holding him back. “Priest, of the Dead God” said the woman, “my name is Lady Marit, and if you interfere with this duel, I will crush your soul beneath my boot.”
