He limped out of the trailer and got into the passenger seat of the Tahoe.
“What happened to you? Why are you limping?” she asked
“Long story. I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s go.”
Chapter Thirty Three
Devil’s Garden Overpass. They’d positioned themselves on either side of an underpass with his .50 Cal right up on top, mounted on a tripod and ready to rock and roll if needed. In past contests, the cutters would approach on the back of flatbed eighteen wheelers with plows mounted on the front of the tractor to push through barriers. Once enemy contact was made, they’d dismount, use the flatbed for cover, and Monks of the Western Wind would wield their sorcery. One wouldn’t think that a disfigured robe-wearing blood zealot could do such damage, but there were those who specialized in combat, and they could be unstoppable.
Previous engagements had seen elements of the 29th Fusiliers position themselves north of Morongo Valley. There were multiple reasons for this, but none more important than Morongo Valley was also known as the Valley of Worms. There’d been more Death Worm sightings in the area than all other sightings combined. The place had never been settled. No trains ran through the area and even the Pony Express had avoided it. Their tactic had been to let the cutters transit the area, but so far, not a single worm had ever attacked them. Headquarters believed that this was because of sorcery, which it probably was.
So on this engagement, Special Weapons Platoon decided to position themselves south of the valley in a place the cutters would least expect.
The road at this point went through a narrow draw with rocky high ground on either side.
First squad was positioned on the near side of the left high ground with Third squad above them.
Second squad was positioned on the near side of the right high ground with Fourth squad above them.
The strategy was to allow the cutters to get between them so that they could open up with a withering interlocking field of fire. Then if need be, third and fourth squads could deploy their special weapons.
Hayes felt the safest of them all. He sat beneath a poncho liner they’d constructed to keep the heat off of him high on the concrete overpass and he could see a mile forward and behind him. He had the heaviest weapon and was eager to use it on the cutters. They’d given him a radio to report any sightings. It now sat at his feet, the occasional chatter between Sergeant Foster and the other squad leaders as he prepared his unit for enemy contact.
Intelligence had reported that it was to be a company-sized cutter element, which meant thirty-three cutters and ten monks. Rules of engagement were to not fire until ordered to do so by Sergeant Foster and to target the monks first. They were the weapons. The cutters were merely their ammunition.
The vehicles were parked a mile to the rear, the drivers on call and ready to transport the wounded if needed.
For the first hour, Lance Corporal Hayes’s face ached with his smile.
By the third hour he was bored out of his mind.
Wall duty had more action than this.
By the fifth hour he wanted to go somewhere else. He’d sweated most of the water away and his stomach ached from lack of food. He had an MRE, but to eat it now would mean he’d need to go to the bathroom later and he didn’t want to miss anything.
Then the ground began to rumble.
There was no mistaking the source. Somewhere beneath them ran a Sonoran Death Worm. Everything jittered. Hayes focused on a .50 Cal round vibrating on the pavement beneath him. It was like being in a thunderstorm. You knew the lightning was coming. You knew it was going to hit something. You just needed to be low to the ground. But of course with the worm you wanted to be as high as possible and standing on sheer rock if possible.
Hayes examined how his platoon was arrayed, watching as they shifted nervously in their positions, their eyes to the ground instead of the kill zone.
Then it breached with the sound of ten million fingernails on a blackboard.
Hayes turned to see it eating Second Squad, who had been standing on the side of the high ground. Arms and legs and dirt fell to the earth as the giant worm bit down. It snapped towards Fourth squad, but they were too high.
Sergeant Foster commanded everyone to not open fire, then ordered First Platoon to the high ground with Third Platoon.
The worm’s upper body hovered as its sightless maw moved from left to right. Then it slid backwards into its hole, chomping the discarded limbs as it left.
The ground trembled for ten more minutes, then nothing.
Hayes listened to Sergeant Foster’s orders, detailing First squad to split and sending the other half to replace Second Squad.
There were no survivors.
Chapter Thirty Four
Cathedral City. Blane was one of the last ones out of the Cathedral. He fell in with a group of Rook’s followers who were heading for the Grotto, but got sidetracked when he saw Mandy standing in the shade of a Mexican palm, speaking with a monk… a twitching monk. She was speaking to Spaz, who turned toward him just as he thought of the name.
Spaz’s face lit up in recognition, then his eyes narrowed. He turned back to Mandy and they seemed to argue. Finally, Spaz stormed off towards the Grotto.
Blane approached. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. It was ironic. He’d been waiting for this moment for all of his life, but he’d never practiced what he’d say. Finally, he was standing in front of her, unable to look away. She spoke to him briefly, then she walked away. The words surprised him, but not as much as when he saw Spaz point to him and call his name from thirty feet away.
Blane felt a sizzle of pain as his hair began to smolder.
Barry, I need Sebastian now!
Blane jerked free his razor, drew blood, and cast a protection spell around himself. The burning immediately subsided, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
Five postulants had joined Spaz. All of them had torn away their tops and now knelt in front of Spaz, facing away from him, so that the broad canvas of their backs was available for him to harvest from.
If the battle was blood for blood, then he was going to be in trouble. He definitely needed Sebastian to help out.
Blane had the blood, formed the spell, then hurled it at Spaz and was gratified to see it immediately work. The monk’s motions slowed by half.
Blane broke into a run, charging the monk. He managed to cover the distance before Spaz could cast his next spell. Blane used one of the postulants as a launching pad, pushing off the bag and barreling Spaz to the ground.
The kid he’d once known growled through his misshapen lips.
Blane drove his razor into the monk’s face, slashing as fast and hard as he could. When the monk’s hands came up to ward off the blows, Blane tore into his neck, releasing life and blood upon both of them.
As he stood, he became aware that he was now the center of attention, covered in crimson and dripping blood in the middle of the enemy’s cantonment area like a middle-aged man version of Carrie.
Two of the postulants remained frozen in place. The other three were fleeing. Blane grabbed his other razor and with two hands, carved several complicated runes on the backs of the two remaining. He collected the power from their blood, then bade them rise.
They stood before him, now his to control, and through him, Sebastian.
I am here, came the Albino’s words in his mind.
Blane leaned down and wiped his hands in the still expanding pool of blood from his once childhood friend. He wiped the blood on his face and neck like it was a lotion, reveling in the iron smell and the power.
Three monks came at them from the Grotto.
The gathering crowd backed away to give them room.
Power flowed into the postulants from Sebastian. They held forth their hands and pointed at the monks. The result was immediate and miraculous. All three monks fell to their knees.
The crowd which had been getting loud, fell silent as Blane and his postulants mar
ched to the three monks.
Blane went to each of them, ripping their hoods and masks free, unveiling their mutilations. Then he lacerated their foreheads with another rune. After each one he placed his palm against it and recited the words. Finally done, all three monks rose and turned. Three monks in front, two postulants next, and Blane began marching into the Grotto.
No one stopped them until Rook came. He paused at the door to the Grotto as if he couldn’t believe his eyes, then strode purposely out of the oasis and onto the path towards them.
“You are the one who was here before?” he said. He wore the same white suit and shoes. His arms were crossed in front of him. He didn’t seem angry or concerned, just a little put out, as if he’d been interrupted and wanted to return to what he was doing.
“I am. Stand aside. I have business with the Black Bishop.”
Rook stopped five meters from Blane’s assault force. He bade his thralls to stop as well.
“He doesn’t have time for you.”
“Pity that. I’d have thought he’d want to meet his own demise.”
Rook laughed. “What sort of jumped up blood sorcerer are you, and why haven’t I heard of you?”
“The same reason we haven’t heard of you.”
Several monks had been closing in on them, so Blane asked loudly, “When are you going to dethrone the Black Bishop?”
He noted that the monks paused, and turned to stare at Rook, whose own expression became thoughtful.
“I have no intention of dethroning my friend and ally.”
“I’ve noticed the buildup of your men. I wonder if the Monks of the Western Wind realize that they are now outnumbered by your own followers.”
At least twenty monks and an equal number of Rook’s followers had gathered around them. The monks began to look concerned.
“Enough of this. You don’t have the power to fight me.”
“And where is the Black Bishop? Have you already overthrown him? Is he locked inside the Grotto?” Blane turned to the nearest collective of monks. “Look to yourselves. This man means you harm.”
Then with the combined energy of his five thralls, he reached out to the nearest follower of Rook—a young fresh-faced blond man—and seized control of his motor functions. Blane touched the bloody backs of the thralls to his front, and caused the follower to attack the nearest monk.
Rook’s follower jerked the monk’s mask free, and plunged his fingers into the monk’s eyes, popping the orbs until his hands came away with thick liquid.
The monk screamed and fell to the ground kicking.
All eyes were on him for a moment, then it was sheer chaos as monk and follower attacked each other, fueled with magical urgings here and there from Blane.
He took a moment to shoot from his body into the astral plane. He was immediately greeted by one of the harlots. Its face was human. White skull held glowing wild red eyes and a sucker for a mouth. The skull tapered to a slender armless body that ran a dozen or more feet to a wide tail. Like everything in the astral plane it was colorless. It more closely resembled a photo negative.
He prepared to fight it, but then realized it was Mandy.
What are you doing?
The same thing I did that day. Protecting you.
Blane looked up and saw a roiling mass of harlots coming at him from all directions.
I’ll keep them from your stem. It will be safer for you if you leave.
Blane tried to think of something to say, but nothing felt adequate. So he flipped back into his body…
…and not a moment too soon.
Rook was striding towards him.
Now! he shouted in his mind to Sebastian.
Blane stiffened as Sebastian’s power flowed through him, through the two postulants, through the three monks, and slammed into Rook, halting him in mid-stride. He backed several paces, as if pushed back by an unfelt wind.
So far everything had gone to plan. All around them monks and followers were locked in combat. Some had their hands at each other’s throats. Others were cutting themselves, casting panicked spells, trying to defeat each other through sorcery.
Blane left his coterie of thralls, keeping them in place so that they could hold Rook, while Sebastian fought him. He passed within a meter of Rook and saw the sweat pouring from the dark skin of his face. Rook glanced at him, his lips trembling, his body rigid.
Blane continued past and got maybe a dozen feet when he heard a word of power shouted. He turned and watched as every single one of Rook’s followers fell lifeless to the ground.
Then Rook straightened. He smoothed his suit and straightened his cuffs. It was as if he’d killed his own men just to get their power.
Upon seeing their opponents fall as one, the monks looked around confused.
From behind them came a group of cutters. Civilians, running into the fray, probably summoned by the Black Bishop. Together with the monks, they formed a ring around Blane, his thralls and Rook.
The being in the white suit turned.
Sebastian, are you there?
“Who was that friend of yours? He was very powerful.”
“You killed them. You took their souls.”
Rook chuckled. “There is no such thing. But I did take their power. It’s why I brought them.”
Sebastian? Are you there? Are you okay? Barry?
Hang on, Blane. Sebastian’s not breathing. We’re working to save him.
“Now of course, I can do this,” Rook said, pointing at each of the monks and postulants Blane had enthralled. As he pointed, their heads exploded, showering anyone within twenty feet with blood and gore. “Very ingenious using them as a focus, as a power magnifier. I’m going to remember that.”
All of Blane’s certainty and fear vanished. Had he really had the upper hand just moments ago? What if he’d sliced Rook’s neck from ear to ear as he’d passed? Why hadn’t he done that?
“Oh no. You had all of this planned out and here I went and ruined it.” He pointed at Blane who was suddenly forced to his knees. Then Rook tsked. “Did you really think one of the eighty eight would be so simple a task to take down? Don’t you know I was selected because of my power?” He moved his index finger from right to left and Blane felt a corresponding pain on his forehead.
He had to do something. He couldn’t just let Rook have his way with him. He had his failsafe. He had the bomb still wrapped around him. All he had to do was self-detonate and Rook would be vapor. Blane glanced at the crowd around them. There were too many others.
Instead, he reached up and into the astral plane. Mandy was still there, fighting savagely against the other harlots. She was dying, losing terribly, her brightness all but dulled to nothing. Blane reached over, grabbed her stem, and pulled her into him.
Time stopped for a moment as the energies that were Blane and Mandy merged and became one inside the broad landscape of Blane’s mind. He spoke to her on a cellular level. She’d sacrificed herself once more so that he could live and he wouldn’t allow her sacrifice to go unheralded.
Time started as he drew upon her incredible psychic energies, empowering him, giving him the strength to stand.
Rook’s eyes widened. “I watched you do that. Tricky thing. But now your stem is unguarded. You’d better watch your six.”
“Better watch yours. Do you think with your challenge to power that the Black Bishop is going to allow you to leave? They’ve come for you now. Not me.”
And he was right. His merging with Mandy had linked him to the greater consciousness. The Black Bishop had been watching and had seen as the followers had attacked his monks. He wanted no more than to be done with Rook. Even as he said it, the harlots shifted their attack from Blane to Rook. The harlots were merely human on earth, but they were astrally as effective as the monks were effective on the prime plane—the Black Bishop’s one-two punch.
Blane felt Rook’s power wane as he shifted his attack to the astral plane.
Blane moved forward, o
r tried to.
Rook had collected enough power from his fallen followers to fight on both planes. But halving his power would have to be enough. Blane cut himself, collecting blood from the new wounds as well as the one Rook had given him. He was beyond tired but managed to take three steps, then pressed his hand against Rook’s forehead. The power that was Mandy rushed through the connection and entered Rook.
His eyes shot open wide as Mandy ripped down his psychic defenses from behind, letting her sister harlots into Rook’s stem. His body stiffened, then he fell, his body twitching and jerking. Every muscle spasmed so hard Blane could hear bones break. Then after a moment, everything was still.
Rook’s blood-filled eyes stared up at the sky.
“So you came for me?”
Blane turned and beheld the Black Bishop, now part of the circle.
“I came to kill you.”
“You won’t be doing that.”
Sebastian, I need you.
He’s alive, Blane, but there will be no help from him.
Blane sighed. He didn’t have enough power. There was no way he could take down his nemesis the conventional way. But there was always Plan B. “I can still kill you,” Blane said, seeking out the button in his sleeve that would allow him to self-detonate. He could do it. He really could. So what that others might die, so what.
The Black Bishop cocked his head, then shook it. “But you won’t now will you?”
Blane was determined. All he had to do was depress the button and all of his problems would disappear in a single moment. “I will.”
The Black Bishop smiled like Blane’s mother had once done when he’d been caught in a lie.
Blane sighed. “No. I won’t.” He took his finger off the button.
Just then the cathedral behind him exploded, showering rock, steel, wood and debris everywhere.
When the shockwave passed, the Black Bishop got to his feet unsteadily amidst the smoke and dust. Screams and cries for help became a soundtrack of slow motion as those others who’d survived dragged themselves to their feet. The circle shakily reformed.
Red Palm Page 16
