The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun)

by Shami Stovall

  No. It couldn’t be.

  That chill, that unmistakable crawling dread… it had to be GH Gas. It was all around her. She couldn’t see it, but the terror singing in her bones told her it was close.

  Geist brought her good hand up to Fechner’s arm. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.” Anything was better than death at the hands of the gas.

  Fechner chuckled, a rough, hollow sound. “You spared me on the operating table. I figured I would extend you the same courtesy.”

  He shoved her further into the darkness. Geist stumbled forward, her eyes wide but not a single drop of light alleviated her blindness. Somehow, Fechner moved through the shadows with certainty, never once tripping or fumbling in his trek around the room. When he stopped, and before Geist could react, he slid his hand down her gown and withdrew her handgun. With her disarmed, Fechner pushed her into the edge of a metal table. He strapped down her good wrist, trapping her to the equipment.

  When he grabbed her second wrist, she cried out pain.

  “Please,” she said through clenched teeth. “It hurts.”

  Fechner released her damaged arm and left it free. Then he walked away, leaving her attached to the table. Geist focused in on her hearing, tracking Fechner’s movement through the gloom of the underground room.

  “I couldn’t believe you were a woman,” Fechner said, continuing his musings. “I fought myself over the fact for some time. But here you are. In the flesh.” He touched a few things—metal things that clinked when they collided—and then went still. “Now that I know for certain, I think I understand you. I had a lot of time to dwell on the subject as I lay strapped to that table.”

  Electric lights flooded the room.

  With each blink, Geist found her vision returning. She squinted through the pain and glanced around the room. Large duralumin gas tanks—some the size of motorcars—sat stacked one atop of another until they reached the ceiling. The pressurized contents could hold thousands of gallons of gas, and Geist didn’t need to read the labels to know what was inside.

  GH Gas. All of it.

  So much, Geist thought, unable to look away. One shell on the battlefield had killed hundreds. The gas here could fill thirty shells, at least.

  She panned her gaze around the room, taking in the details one at a time. Gas grenades sat on the metal tables scattered around the middle of the large room. Geist stared down at her own table, shocked to find bloodstains near the leather straps for the wrists. By the far wall stood a wooden shelf filled with bottles of thick blackish-red liquid, each with its own label. Tubes and nozzles hung off a few fire extinguisher-sized gas containers, some with mouth attachments and IV needles.

  This wasn’t just a storage facility. It was an operating theater.

  “I knew I would see you again,” Fechner said as he crossed he room to the wooden shelf. “It would just happen, given our professions. And I asked myself, what would I do once I found you? And after some thought, I know the best solution. One that doesn’t involve killing you. Snuffing out magic like yours is the last thing I want.”

  And then he turned to face her.

  Geist quickly turned away, her stomach in knots. He wore clothing—a pair of uniform slacks and a belt—but his “shirt” was nothing more than tight leather bindings that kept him together, spanning all the way down his arms, covering every inch of flesh beneath the neck. The once open sores and mutilated parts of his body were covered and held in place, the leather attached to his skin directly with small metal hooks.

  Geist remembered Fechner’s arm had melted into his gut, becoming one solid mass. His arm, cut away from his body, had been reshaped through braces and wire. Black opals, shattered into fragments, traced his bones, and a gauntlet armored his mangled hand. He moved it through magic: even Geist could sense the power, and she knew his whole uniform was some sort of magi-tech miracle, giving him the ability to function once more.

  But his neck, face, and head still retained their waxy sheen. He didn’t have eyes—Geist could even see the bone of the sockets—and his mouth stretched further back than any mouth should. She could see the points of opals emerging at the tip of his spine, and she knew they must be lodged all down his back, just like Battery’s.

  Whoever had crafted him had created a monster.

  “Don’t like what you see?” Fechner asked, his back to Geist as he ran his fingers over the bottles. “I don’t blame you. I’m not… what I used to be.”

  “What are you?” she asked, breathless.

  “An abomination.”

  “Can you see?” Geist barely got the words out.

  “I see magic,” Fechner said. “And sorcerers. And anything they touch. I didn’t know this before, but magic, it hangs in the air like a fog. Sorcerers like you are vibrant, while others are dull and hard to discern… But I see. I see just fine.” He pulled a bottle off the shelf and searched for another, running his fingers over the glass as though reading braille.

  “Fechner,” Geist began, but she cut herself short.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’ve wanted to know for some time.”

  Geist held back a laugh. So many people wanted to know. She had gone nearly two years without revealing it, and now a whole handful of individuals knew. What was one more? Once Battery told Victory and the others, she would be discharged from the Ethereal Squadron eventually.

  “Florence.”

  “No. Your true name. The one your allies know you by.”

  She looked up at him, surprised at the question. “Geist,” she whispered.

  “Fitting,” Fechner said. “I also have a true name. They call me Amalgam.”

  Amalgam. Geist couldn’t unhear it. The name rang like a cracked bell in her ears—it would never have suited Fechner, but it fit this slumping, monstrous creature perfectly.

  Amalgam plucked a second bottle from the shelf. “I don’t like seeing you like this, Geist. I won’t lie, I was excited when you decided to come down to the basement, to enter my domain, but you’re so distraught. Something is wrong.”

  “Your domain?”

  “I was one of the first they made with the GH Gas, you see. I’m one of their specimens. One of the first to survive.”

  Amalgam turned around and walked back, his terrible, misshapen face unable to convey the weight of emotion his voice carried. “The magic whispers things. I couldn’t hear it before, but now it’s clear as church bells. When you came to me as a nurse I could hear the song and see the colors—your magic came through bright, but now it’s suffering.”

  There had never been stories of men hearing magic before, but Amalgam was right. He was right about it all.

  “I’m—” Geist took in a breath an exhaled, “I’m failing my operation. My teammates. They need me. Right now.”

  “Is that so?”

  She pulled on her restrained wrist. “I have to go. You said you weren’t going to kill me, but if you keep me as a captive, that’s exactly what will happen. I know too much. I know about the plan to attack Paris.”

  “I’m not going to keep you restrained,” Amalgam said. “Not for long. But I am going to change your destiny.”

  “What… does that even mean?”

  “The doctors used it to fix me.” Amalgam took a step away. “When they told me that I would be gathering sorcerers from the Ethereal Squadron, all I could think of was you. I knew if I found you first, that I could save you from the fate that awaits your compatriots.” He grabbed a small canister of gas and filled an IV bottle with a mix of the blackish-red liquid from the shelves.

  Blood. Geist could smell it the moment Amalgam opened the bottles.

  “Not everyone lives through the process,” he said as he mixed his vile concoction. “I’ve seen a few sorcerers simply give up once they changed. But that won’t happen with you. Your will is too strong for that.”

  “Amalgam. Do you know why they want sorcerers from the Ethereal Squadron? How they’re… how they’re goi
ng to add schools of sorcery to their bloodlines?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  With the canister of GH Gas and the IV of blood, Amalgam walked back over to the table and set them down. “Once, I only knew the school of aversio sorcery. Then, after I pulled myself from the trench and they scraped up my body, the scientists found traces of others on the battlefield and mixed them together. The GH Gas… it fuses things. Flesh, and the magic within it. It makes everything one. Now I’m not some no-named sorcerer from a family with just one school of magic. Now I am more.”

  Amalgam snapped his fingers and a spark of flame appeared in his hand.

  Geist couldn’t breathe. Even here, she recognized Little Wick’s fire.

  And suddenly it all fell together.

  The Germans and Austrians had discovered a way to add magics to a sorcerer—not through bloodlines or dynastic legacy, but with GH Gas. They could melt the body of one sorcerer into another to create a new superbeing capable of different magics, with more sorcery.

  Like the mutilated deer in the forest. Like Amalgam.

  Geist glanced back at the bottles of blood and then returned her gaze to Amalgam’s fire.

  Little Wick. He had fused with the blood of Little Wick.

  Geist forced herself to gulp down air. They’re going to liquefy sorcerers in the Ethereal Squadron to strengthen themselves. Vergess… Battery… Victory… me. All of us.

  That’s why they’re attacking Paris. That’s the Ethereal Squadron headquarters for all of Verdun. They want us all.

  Amalgam held the fire in his palm; it shifted and twirled, eventually changing from orange to a sickly shade of green. He grabbed at his forehead and allowed the ignis sorcery to fade. The sound of his breathing filled the room, his body shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” Geist forced herself to ask, her mind still reeling.

  “The gas,” he muttered. “I can hear it whispering when it’s this close… It’s enough to drive you mad. Can you hear it, Geist?”

  Amalgam walked over to a nearby table and picked up a gasmask. It was made from the same material as the leather of his shirt, but the visor, unlike that of most gasmasks, was fully reflective, like a small mirror. When he pulled it on and secured it to the rest of his uniform, Geist could see her reflection in the glass lens clear as day.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice both muffled and mechanical through the mask. “I won’t use enough to kill you. The doctors figured out a way to administer it in small doses. Enough to change you without breaking you. All you have to do is stay sane.”

  Amalgam picked up the canister of GH Gas, and Geist recoiled. The strap of the table kept her from fleeing.

  “Amalgam,” Geist pleaded. “Listen to me. You don’t have to do this. You can stop. You can help me. We can leave together.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You know this is wrong. And I think the GH Gas is something far worse than just a tool.” She held up her arm. “Look, it’s corrupted. Something’s wrong.”

  “There’s no escaping this, Geist. If I use the GH Gas on you, they won’t kill you. It’s the only way to save your life.”

  “No, wait. I’m here with others. Together we can—”

  “Others?” he interjected. “No. They already captured your teammates. They’re here, in these dungeons past these research rooms. They’re having their blood drained as we speak.”

  For a second, Geist’s heart stopped beating. Draining their blood?

  Of course. To fuse them into the enemies. To steal their magic. To empower German and Austrian soldiers.

  God, I failed them again. I should have done something… I should have…

  The door to the room opened, revealing an Austrian Magic Hunter. The man scanned the room, sweeping his gaze over Geist to rest on Amalgam.

  “Lieutenant?” the man asked.

  Amalgam turned and faced the newcomer. “What is it?”

  “Lieutenant Cavell wants you to, um, handle the new magic-technology general.”

  “Don’t fret. Heinrich’s already down here. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Yes, s-sir.”

  “Now leave us.”

  “There’s one more thing,” the man said, his nervousness on display with each word he stuttered. “Lieutenant Cavell also wants you to s-search the grounds for hidden members of the Ethereal Squadron. He thinks there may be more.”

  Geist pulled on her restraints. When she couldn’t slip out, she took a deep breath and focused. It was harder without Battery, and she yearned for his strength, but hearing about her teammates hardened her determination. Her arm shimmered and shifted, allowing her to ghost through the leather strap.

  “I’ve already taken care of that,” Amalgam said. “But tell Cavell I’ll search the place again once I’m finished.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  The Magic Hunter shut the heavy door as he left. Amalgam didn’t bother turning around when he spoke. “You remember I can see magic now, right, Geist?”

  Geist leapt across the room and slammed into the table that held her handgun. She brought it up and pulled the trigger, the soft click of an empty magazine her only reward. She cursed under her breath: of course Amalgam had unloaded it under the cover of darkness.

  “I’m not going to let you do this,” Geist said, tossing aside the weapon.

  “I don’t think you understand. It’s either let me help you or die.” He kept his back to her, unmoving. “Don’t make me kill you. Your magic has such… luster. Like a night full of stars.”

  Geist moved around the room to another table and picked up one of the GH Gas grenades. The icy metal of the weapon left her hand numb. She held it at arm’s length, well aware of the deadly power contained within.

  “I’m going to give you one last chance,” Geist said. “I’m going to leave this place, one way or another, and then I’m going to rescue my teammates. I can take you with me. We don’t have to be enemies.”

  “No. No one will accept what I’ve become beyond these walls.” He waited a moment, breathing heavy in the gasmask. “You saw that man just now. Even the men who created me find my form… distasteful. I’ve accepted it. I’m a monster.”

  “I’m sorry,” Geist murmured. “You don’t deserve this.”

  “You made me this way.”

  “I didn’t make any of this. Your country did. Please, Amalgam. Come with me.”

  For a moment he said nothing. Then: “You’ll never make it,” he muttered. “Your plans for escape are mere fantasy.”

  “I have to try.”

  Amalgam laughed, his voice echoing inside the mask. “You’ve always been defiant. Ever since when we first met. I like that—but it’s not going to do you any favors here.”

  Geist lifted the grenade, her fingers wrapped tight around the pin. “Stand. Aside.”

  He turned to her, the reflective eye pieces of his gasmask leaving him utterly faceless. “You don’t know what you’re doing. That won’t affect me. Not while I’m wearing this.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true. You’ll only destroy yourself.”

  Despite her doubt, Geist pulled the pin and hurled the grenade. Amalgam jumped back as the gas poured out of the canister, filling the room with an evil hiss. Yellow-greenish fog wafted up, and Geist took the moment to grab a bandolier of four more grenades.

  Amalgam stood amidst the cloud of gas. Although he did not melt, he grabbed at his head, his fingers curling around the seams of his mask. “The voices,” he rasped. “So terrible. They burn.”

  Geist could almost hear it too. The gas had always seemed more than mere vapor—almost sentient, pursuing its victims across the battlefield. And now it wanted to whisper something to her…

  But she didn’t have time to listen. Geist rushed across the room and hit the door hard. She burst into a dark hallway and collided with the opposite wall, fighting with her dress to stay upright.

&nbs
p; CHAPTER THIRTY

  FLIGHT

  THE GAS FOLLOWED.

  She ran for the next room over and grabbed the door without a second thought, throwing it open and rushing inside. It was an armory, complete with lockers. A soldier, half-dressed and smoking, finished fastening his belt just as he glanced up to spot Geist. Her attention didn’t linger on him long. She took stock of the room in a matter of seconds.

  Rifles on the far wall.

  A box of mining dynamite in the corner.

  “What’re you doing here?” the soldier asked, his words coming out in indignation as he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth.

  Geist picked up the bottom of her dress and crossed the room. She took a rifle, checked to see if a round was loaded in the chamber, and then glanced over to the box of explosives.

  They were underground. Using the dynamite would be a terrible risk.

  “Hey,” the man barked as he pulled on his tunic. “You can’t touch that! It’s dangerous!”

  She hefted the rifle and aimed, using her bad arm as a post to rest the barrel on. “Stand down,” she commanded.

  The man froze and held his hands in the air.

  “Get on your—” Geist stopped the moment she saw the GH Gas slither into the hallway outside the door. I don’t have time for this! She grabbed the man’s cigarette and lit a long fuse on a stick of dynamite. “You need to run.”

  She picked up the explosive. I have a little over sixty second before this explodes.

  Before the soldier could muster an answer, Geist ran from the room, leaping over what little gas had sifted down the hall. She wheeled around and watched as Amalgam stumbled out of the operating room, his hand still on his head, his heavy breathing labored and desperate.

  Using her good arm, Geist chucked the dynamite over Fechner. It landed inside the operation room doorframe, near the first tank of pressurize gas. Geist didn’t wait for a countdown or even to watch what happened. She knew she had to be as far away from it as possible. She ran in the opposite direction, her bare feet barely touching the stone floor in her haste.