by Max Kramer
“And what of your mission?” The encircling inquisitors parted deferentially for the man that had spoken, who, though old, approached the hulking Rex with a confident stride and straight back.
“Father Clement,” Rex answered respectfully, “the mission was a success. Both the witch and the traitor are dead. I killed them myself.”
‘Indeed?” Father Clement peered up at the tattooed mutant. “Very well then. Inquisitor-brothers, take the freaks into custody.”
Solomon Rex grunted in surprise as Taser barbs sank into the bare flesh of his chest. Blinking in confusion, he took one juddering step toward Father Clement before spasming leg muscles forced him to his knees.
“Why?” he grunted out through clenched teeth, before falling fully to the stone floor.
“Look at yourself,” Clement answered mildly, “what did you expect us to do?”
***
Lieutenant lowered his field binoculars, handing them to down to the young adjutant waiting patiently below him in the belly of his command tank.
“We’re ready,” he said, “take out the towers.”
At his command, the Leopard shook with the force of its main gun, arcing a shell onto the closest of the prison camp’s two guard towers with pinpoint accuracy. Almost simultaneously, a howling gout of witchfire bathed the second tower, roasting its inhabitants in a merciless inferno.
Their target du jour was a not inconsequential prison camp, the kind that the Church erected liberally amongst their more inhospitable state-run farmlands, administrated with soldiers and propganda priests, and populated with non-violent criminals, people that could serve as cheap labor in the fields until such time as they were determined to have been rehabilitated from whatever transgression had gotten them sent there in the first place. It was usually something minor, The Church was not in the habit of keeping more serious offenders alive.
The prison camp was iris shaped, its curved stone and barbed-wire walls anchored on the points by the two guard towers with spot lights and heavy machine gun placements. Lieutenant had wrung what slight advantage he could out of their attack route by approaching from the west, so that his tank could provide enfilading fire down the length of the fortification. He had timed their attack for late afternoon, so that the low hanging sun at their backs would provide some concealment from the eyes of the prison’s defenders. Even with this, he knew his main force would be spotted long before they reached firing distance, there simply wasn’t enough cover available for that many men in the relatively flat farm land surrounding the prison. That was why he had sent small commando groups ahead with the majority of his witch force tagging along to provide magical concealement.
The flaming ruin of the far guard tower showed that his plan had unfolded perfectly. His decision was further validated when snipers armed with rocket propelled grenades stopped a major attempt by the guards to flee in an armored prison bus through the main gate. A couple of guards did manage to race away on foot in the confusion of the attack, but Lieutenant was happy to let them go. He wanted news of the assault to reach Rome. This was the third Church target his troops had raided. The sooner the city leaders reacted to his attacks and sent out their garrison, the sooner the special strike team could split off from the main force and inflitrate the city on their rescue mission.
Having the main gate stuck open by the burning hulk of the bus proved disastrous for the prison’s defenders. Deirdre and her men were quick to take advantage of the gap, and soon swarmed into the prison interior. Even from his distant perch, Lieutenant could hear the rattle of small arms fire, and the screams of dying men. The battle would be short now, but Lieutenant couldn’t bring himself to smile. Having seen the results of Deirdre and Konstantin’s attacks in previous raids, he knew the horrors those Church soldiers now faced. The two had become shocklingly bloodthirsty.
“Take us in,” he sighed down to his driver, “lets stop this before it gets out of hand.”
***
“Hit him again,” Deirdre commanded, her voice cold as ice.
“Happily.” Konstantin responded, flexing his scarred fists as he wound back for another swing.
They were in the warden’s office, the unlucky warden bound to the radiator behind his massive desk. Deirdre was sitting primly on the desk edge, one hand resting on her crossed legs as the other directed Konstantin in his beating with her nail file raised like a conductor’s wand. Or a witch’s wand.
They were alone in the office, the troops who had found the warden cowering beneath his desk during the height of the fighting had left soon after Konstantin began his ministrations. They now stood uncomfortably outside the closed office door, pretending they didn’t hear what was going on.
Konstantin had stripped off his ragged coat and vest, but sweat still trickled down his bare back. He had been at his work for some time.
A commotion in the hallway earned the bruised and bloody warden a brief respite, as the office door swung open and admitted a very angry Lieutenant.
“Damn it Deirdre, what in the hells are you two doing? We don’t have time for this.”
Deirdre shrugged off his ire. “We’re interrogating the warden.”
“Interrogating?” Lieutenant spluttered, “this isn’t an interrogation. Have you even asked him any questions, or have you just been beating him? Konstantin, stop that!”
Konstantin refused to look at the small officer, but he did release the warden, who he had been slowly throttling.
“Now come on,” Lieutenant said, “we have to keep up our pace if you want to have any chance of sneaking into the city before Solomon Rex gets there with the twins.”
The battered warden surprised them by beginning to chuckle.
“What is this? Why is he laughing?” Lieutenant asked.
The warden coughed a thick wad of blood onto the ground, and said, “I’m laughing, because you’re too late.”
“What do you mean, too late? What do you know?” Deirdre asked.
“We have an office of the inquisition in this prison. They tell me things. I know Inquisitor Rex has already returned to the city,” he said, “with his prisoners. And I know who you are, Apostate Konstantin.” He glared at the former inquisitor through swollen eyes, his bloody lips pulled back in a sneer. “You’ve failed, traitor. The witch-children are being tortured by your order as we speak, unless, of course, they have already been fed to the flames.”
His laugh cut off abruptly as Deirdre, with magic fuelled rage, kicked him under the chin so hard that his neck snapped. His body slumped over the radiator he was chained to, his head hanging grotesquely down against his back, his mangled face frozen in a rictus of surprise. His dead eyes stared blindly at Konstantin and the shrieking Deirdre as they stormed out of the room, followed by a shaken Lieutenant.
Passing into the hallway, Lieutenant hurried to keep up with Konstantin, who was running toward the main gate even as he re-buttoned his vest and coat.
“Deirdre, come on,” he yelled, “we’re going. NOW.”
“Wait!” Lieutenant called after him feebly, “what about the plan?”
Konstantin didn’t even slow down. “There’s a new plan.”
“What about us? What about all the troops? We need time to get reorganized.” Lieutenant asked.
“I don’t care,” Konstantin replied, “I’m not waiting. Follow me if you want to. Or go home. Just don’t get in my way.”
“How are we getting to Rome?” Deirdre wanted to know as she sprinted beside him.
Konstantin raised the framed picture he had taken off the warden’s desk. “We’re taking this.”
24
Konstantin knew what he had seen. His boot heel through the prison’s motor pool door proved him right. There it was, the same race motorcycle from the warden’s photograph. It was the perfect ride to bring him and Deirdre to Rome.
“By the beard of Odin. This is so perfect.” Deirdre liked. “Saddle up, we’ve got a lot of road to cover.”
&nbs
p; With a full tank of fuel and a trickle of charge lightning from Deirdre’s index finger, the slumbering road god was coaxed to chest thumping, feral she-bear roaring life.
Konstantin swung his leg over the warden’s land rocket. Blipping the throttle, he kicked their red-boned steed into gear and crunched over the fallen door into the dwindling afternoon sun. Settling the goggles she had found hanging from a peg on the garage wall over her eyes, Deirdre followed him outside. Once clear of the debris field surrounding the prison gate, she climbed up to the passenger pillion behind him, careful not to singe her calves on the burbling twin mufflers. Without so much as a nod to their watching troops, the pair shot off in a shower of dirt and gravel.
“Alright,” Lieutenant clapped his dexterous hands together, surveying the strange group of warriors he was now in charge of, “here’s what we’re going to do…”
***
Konstantin leaned into the curves, enjoying both the sensations from the incredibly responsive machine between his legs, and the young woman clinging to him like a backpack. If only she wasn’t who she was. If only he wasn’t who he was. If only they weren’t charging at reckless speeds along unlit, poorly maintained country roads, or hurtling toward the most secure fortress in the post Judgment world, with no set plan for getting in, or saving the girls, or getting free again. If only there weren’t so many bugs in his teeth.
Oh well.
At least it was almost over, one way or another.
The road forked ahead. With a twitch of his wrists Konstantin chose the right fork. What did it matter? All roads led to Rome.
25
The world’s population was a fraction of a fraction of what it had once been. Earth had become a scary, lonesome place. Even in the zone governed by the powerful Church of Rome, the vast majority of the populace resided solely within thick-walled cities, departing only for matters of trade, or war, or to tend the surrounding agricultural collectives, and then only in the daytime. That and supernatural camouflage was how Deirdre’s army had been able escape detection for so long. You were more likely to find a herd of deer wandering along the rebuilt roadways than any person.
Even so, The Church was an organization of considerable might, and its lands were subject to the rule of law. Interspersed among its many religious edicts were a plethora of completely secular regulations. These included traffic laws.
The Italian people have long held a powerful obsession with speed, and their creations were never known for subtlety. Even in modern times, when you went fast in Italy, you got noticed.
Thus the line of flashing blue lights currently cresting the top of the hill Konstantin and Deirdre had just caromed down.
“You’d better punch it,” Deirdre shouted into Konstantin’s ear, fighting to overcome the roar of the wind, “we’re getting close to the wall, and even if they don’t know who we are, when they notice two people on a motorbike running from the police, they’re going to shut the gates right in our faces.”
Konstantin knew she was right. Cranking further on the throttle, he hunched low between the motorcycle’s wide handlebars, resting his chest on the gas tank to lessen the effects of the wind. Deirdre tightened her grip as well, pressing her head between his shoulder blades. They were going to get into the city one way or another.
Timing was working in their favor. They had reached the city during that special twilight hour when it became too dark to work the fields, and the traditional work day ended. The roads leading to the few gates through the city wall were packed with laborers heading home, most walking, but some from the further farm combines riding in buses, or seated on wagons pulled by massive Ag-tractors.
Rome’s rush hour traffic proved advantageous to Konstantin and Deirdre. Cutting between lanes and around the enormous treaded tires of the tractors on their nimble vehicle, the pair were able to easily outpace their police tail. In the general hubbub, the guards at the gate had noticed the pair’s reckless approach too late, and were now impeded in their efforts to close the gate by the slow bulk of traffic. The wagon-towing tractors could only clear the entrance so fast.
Long-barreled machine gun turrets on the barbican tracked the speeding motorcycle’s progress, but the gunners were unable to find a clear shot through the milling populace.
Konstantin was reminded of the last time he passed through a gated checkpoint with Deirdre. He grinned, but there was little mirth in the gesture. With luck and trickery, that ruse had worked. That time he had been buried under sacks of manure as Deirdre smuggled him and his sister out of Munich. Brita. His heart wrenched inside his chest. That first desperate flight seemed like it had happened a lifetime ago. Much had changed since then. Konstantin had changed since then. The Church had a world of hurt coming to it.
They were near the mighty Roman gate now, but the scrambling guards had almost gotten it fully closed. There would be no opportunity for trickery here. They were going to have to do this the hard way.
“When I say three,” he roared back at Deirdre, “you jump!”
Getting a firm grip on the back of his coat, she nimbly hopped atop the small seat pad, balancing with her customary grace on the tail of the motorcycle.
“One!”
Guards had spread out from the grinding gate, establishing a double firing line along the swiftly vanishing gap. They placed themselves with clockwork precision, the front row kneeling to give the standing back row clear lines of fire as well.
It was a straight shot into the city now, just a few hundred more yards of empty ground between Konstantin and the entrance. Suddenly out of nowhere, the roaring motorcycle was joined by a swarming cloud of Deirdre’s familiar winged companions. Konstantin twisted further still on the throttle, his vision tunneling as he demanded yet more speed from the venerable machine. He ignored the brakes. They were going to get through that gate or they were going to splatter spectacularly across it as it sealed shut.
“Two!”
Shouted orders became shrieks of surprise and fear as the guards standing before the wall realized that the fools on the motorcycle had no intention of stopping. Firing wildly, they broke ranks and leapt out of the way, dodging Konstantin’s suicidal rush. Squeezing every ounce of power from the bike’s massive engine, Konstantin tucked in his elbows and rocketed past the thick metal gate into the tunnel beyond just before it slammed shut with a hollow boom, deadening the yells of the soldiers stationed outside.
A heartbeat later, and they were bursting out of the tunnel in a fluttering black mass into Rome proper, as if shot from a nightmare cannon straight at the heart of The Church. The traffic that had preceded them through the gate was waiting for them when they reached the other side, and they were heading straight toward the exhaust stained rear of a parked city bus.
“Three!”
Deirdre and her murder went up. Konstantin went down. Diving from the bike just before it crashed into the unmoving commuter bus, he let inertia carry him sliding and rolling along the pavement between its thick rubber tires, his already tattered coat disintegrating completely, leaving his skin to bear the brunt of the abuse as he cleared the other side and slowly slid to a stop.
With preternatural aplomb, Deirdre had carried out a graceful swan dive off the back of the crashing motorcycle, and after clearing the length of the bus in mid air, she was able to tuck and roll into the landing. She was already standing again, dispersing her spiraling cloud of ravens when Konstantin slid in next to her.
“Safe.”
Konstantin clambered to his feet, bloodied and bruised, but very much alive. They had made it into Rome. Quickly, while everybody’s attention was drawn to the flames of the wrecked bike, they limped into a nearby alleyway before the soldiers realized there weren’t any mangled bodies in the burning wreckage.
Now for the hard part.
***
Someone reported the disturbance at the gate. The Holy See was forewarned. Konstantin and Deirdre’s march on the Basilica was preceded by the peal of alar
m bells.
Deep underground, the warriors of the Inquisition heard the call to arms. Three impossibly old men were consulted. Orders were given. The soldiers were mustered. For the first time, the might of The Church was being challenged by one of their own. It was strong in its convictions, secure in its power. It was ready with an answer.
The great bronze doors groaned open. From it marched rank after rank of the Swiss Guard, so many that the ground shook under their perfectly timed footfalls. They were the best of the best, the elite tip of a war machine that had built the biggest empire in the history of the Post Judgment world.
They were the least of Konstantin’s worries. Out of side doors and servant’s entrances, secret tunnels and back alleys, trickled the real threat. Wraiths. Legends. The warrior-monks of the Holy Inquisition were surfacing throughout the city.
***
Deirdre had heard the bells ringing, a distant thunder that rolled through the streets like the beating of a monstrous heart.
They were both tired and injured. She knew it was only a matter of time before they were tracked down and cornered. She had never been to Rome before; it was suicide for a witch as powerful as she to travel this close to the seat of the Inquisition’s power. The Church had ways of discovering those of her ilk. This was Konstantin’s show.
“Do you have a plan?”
Konstantin did indeed have a plan. He didn’t think it would be a popular one, so he kept it to himself.
They trudged into a square dominated by one of Rome’s many ancient fountains. It was nearly deserted. The streets had been getting progressively emptier since they moved from the gate. Where there should have been crowds of people going about their business in the square, there was now only him and Deirdre and one old man sitting quietly beside the gurgling water feature.
