“Where is this happening, seer?” hissed the Emperor, his hand digging painfully into the Mage’s shoulder. “And what threat or promise does it hold for us?”
For him, he means, thought the seer, sorting through the images that were flooding his mind.
“They will be coming to this world,” said the seer as the images moved past his vision. “They will be coming here in their millions, while billions more die in the fires.”
“Who will be coming, seer?” hissed the half lich Ellala. “What manner of beings are they?”
“Humans,” said the seer, his eyes wide. “Humans.”
“Slaves and sacrifices for the Empire,” said the Emperor, a smile on his illusionary face. Then the smile left as he thought on what the seer had said. “What magic do they have, seer? How will they contest this world with us?”
“They will come with some of their lesser weapons,” said the Grogatha, his eyes unfocused. “The weapons will last as long as they have power, and then will be of no worth. And they have no magic.”
“No magic,” said the Emperor, the smile returning. “Then we will crush them and enslave them. They will sacrifice their souls to the greater glory of our people.” His voice lowered until it was almost a whisper that the seer could barely ken. “They will sacrifice their life force to increase my power.
“Is there anything else you see, seer?” he asked in a loud voice, clearly ready to end the session.
“Nothing of import, your Imperial Highness,” said the Grogatha, pulling his eyes from the globe and shaking his head to clear the visions.
“You have done well, seer,” said the Emperor. “See my steward about your payment. And we will meet here again in a week to see what else you can see.”
The Emperor walked from the room as a servant entered with a glass of wine. Mangratha accepted the offered glass gratefully and gulped the good wine he couldn’t get in the habitations of his people. He felt the undead chill of the room lessen with the absence of the Emperor. He handed the emptied glass back to the frightened looking red human servant with a smile and walked from the room, heading back to the surface and the gold that would feed his family.
He is a fool, thought the seer as he left the palace, thankful for the warmth of the sun on his face. He had not told the Emperor all that he had seen, and the Lich had been too impatient to question him further. Some of the images had been difficult to understand. But he had seen the faces of some exceptional members of the human species who were coming to this world. Individuals of great strength and power. The prophecies were about to come to pass, and this evil kingdom of Ellala was about to be plunged into the fight of its life.
And the others must know, he thought, looking up into the sun filled sky, then back at the city of the Elves. For his walking free from the palace proved that the Emperor didn’t know his greatest secret. The one that would have him screaming in agony through a day of torture just before his soul was ripped from his body. And after he had seen his dear family go into the void before him. I must contact the others, he thought. For this is the news we have been waiting for. That there is hope for our world, and soon an end to darkness.
Chapter One
Kurt Strausser sat at the outside table of the Munich gasthaus and sipped at a boch beer, waiting for his guest to arrive. The sun was bright in the fall sky, and with Octoberfest approaching the city should have been in a joyous mood. Instead people were staying at home, and the television and radio broadcast dire warnings of impending doom to the people of Europe.
Kurt ran a hand through his short blond hair while his eyes scanned a group of new customers, Americans from the look of them, who were ushered to a table distant from his own. He had paid for privacy, and the proprietors, old friends, were making sure he got what he paid for. Listening with half an ear to the radio being piped into the open air porch he took another pull on his beer.
Damned Russians, he thought as the man on the radio reiterated the war standing of the European Union and its American allies. We thought we were through with them when the wall came down. But the worsening world financial climate of a decade ago had affected their economy no less than any other. They had reembraced totalitarianism under yet another name. Not Communism; not Czarism. Closer to Fascism than anything else. They had taken back the Ukraine and Belarus, and now were threatening the borders of Poland, stating that it was their destiny to reoccupy their European Empire. And NATO member Poland, as well as NATO members Hungary, Slovakia and Romania, were having none of it.
Add to that the damned Moslems and their foolishness, with Iran and terrorist groups making waves, and the world was a powder keg, with multiple matches hovering near. It almost made Kurt wish that he had died all those years ago, when the fire...
"Herr Strausser," said a smooth voice, breaking through Kurt’s thoughts of the past.
The German looked up at the man who stood on the other side of the table, his hand on the back of the chair and his eyes asking permission to sit. He was a tall man, appearing to be just under one point nine meters, slightly shorter than Kurt, but without the heavy musculature. His hair was blond and his eyes a shade of green that reminded one of a cat's. While not as imposing physically he radiated a sense of energy that the German had never felt from another human.
"Please sit, Mein Herr," said Kurt, waving at the chair. "And you are Herr Levine?"
"Ismael Levine," said the man with a nod of his head, moving gracefully to a seated position and offering his hand. "I am pleased that you could find the time to meet with me."
A Jew, thought Kurt, looking the man over and finding him to be most unJewish looking man he had ever seen. Hitler's greatest error. They weren't subhumans. They were the best of us. The bravest and the brightest of the German people. And he wasted that resource.
"And what can I do for you, Herr Levine?" said the big German, not wanting to stretch the meeting out if unnecessary.
"I have wanted to meet with you for quite some time," said Levine, giving Kurt a look that would scare most with its intensity. "Herr Strausser. Or is it Herr von Mannerheim?"
Kurt felt the chill run down his spine as the man used a name he had not used in many decades. Not since he had dropped the name and the position before others wondered at the man in their midst who didn't age.
"I think you must be mistaken, Herr Levine," said Kurt. Would he have to kill this man to protect his secret? Kurt could kill, quickly and efficiently. But he did not kill unless necessary. Could this be one such necessity?
"Kurt von Mannerheim, of the famous Prussian von Mannerheim family," said Levine with a predatory smile. "Ex Captain of panzergrenadiers of the Wehrmacht. Wounded horribly when your half-track was hit by an antitank round in the battle of Kursk."
"Who are you?" said Kurt, leaning toward the man, trying to intimidate Levine with his physical presence.
"But you quickly healed from those burns," said the Jew, meeting Kurt's eyes with not a hint of fear. "Your superiors were suspicious, and you faded away, hiding from your own army, lest they use you as an experimental animal to discover your secret. And you do not age, but continue to enjoy the health and stamina of a man in his late twenties."
"Who are you?" growled Kurt. His eyes widened as a switchblade appeared in the right hand of the man. The blade sprung open. Kurt tensed, preparing for an attack. But the Jew took the blade and stabbed it into his own left arm, cutting deep.
"Calmly, Mein Herr," said Levine, smiling at the German as blood spurted from the deep wound. One spurt of blood, followed by nothing else. The edges of the wound bound together in seconds, and a scar quickly formed. And before his eyes the scar began to fade.
"You!"
"I am one such as you," admitted Levine, giving the German a wink.
"How old are you?"
"I was born in the Jewish colony among the Greeks," said the man, "ten years before the birth of Christ."
"You do not look Greek either, Herr Levine?"
"The Greeks of that time were a very different people from today," said the immortal. "But the Romans oppressed all. I joined the Jewish rebellion, and fought at Massada. I took my own life, as did all of my compatriots." The man's eyes took on a distant look, as he saw back through the mists of time. "The pain of the sword going into my stomach was terrible. Later I awoke in the pile of bodies the Romans had stacked, with no wound. I left the fortress, sneaking through the Roman forces. And I have wandered the world ever since."
"I am sure there is more to it than that," said Kurt with a short laugh. "Two thousand years compressed into less than a hundred words."
"Much more," said the ancient with an answering laugh. "Someday I will relate the whole story to you, my friend. That which I can remember. There were many close calls."
"How could that be?" asked Kurt. "Do we not heal any wound?"
"There are several ways for us to die, Kurt," said the Jew. "Incineration is one. Several who might be here today were killed in such a way at the stake in the seventeenth century witch trials. You are fortunate you were not rendered unconscious in your armored vehicle back in the war, or you too might have burned beyond recovery."
Kurt shook his head as he thought for a moment about the point that changed his life. The flaming half-track, the smell of burning flesh, his and his crewmen's. The horrible pain as he pulled himself out of the vehicle, rolling on the ground to extinguish the flames. Crawling into the brush before the Ivans could find him.
"Why find me?" said the German, looking up and out from his thoughts. "Why now?"
"Because things are happening now," said Levine, his eyes looking far away. "The thing that we were created for, I believe. Our time is coming, and I felt the need to be near another of my kind before whatever is about to befall the human race comes to pass."
"An immortal Jew and an immortal Nazi," said Kurt with a booming laugh.
"I know you are no Nazi, my friend," said Levine with a grin. "I have followed your political career since those dark days. Even during the times of Hitler you were on the not trustworthy list of those bastards. Not like the other."
"The other?"
"There is another from that time who was not so much the humanitarian," said Levine. "He worshiped that monster and his creed. He is not in Germany at this time. He and his mercenary band fight off the continent, among the Muslims. And he still spreads his hateful creed."
"And you do not know what is about to happen?" said Kurt, looking at the fine fall sky, the bright sun, and the people walking the streets of his beloved Munich.
"It will not be pleasant," said Levine with a hard grin. "Many will not survive it. And it will only be the beginning of the troubles for the human race. But we will be there to help them to fight as they must. To survive the forces of hell that will move against them. And what higher purpose can we have?"
"To drink beer and enjoy life," said the German, lifting his mug and draining it, then holding it up for the Gasthause waitress to see that he wanted a refill.
"For now that is enough," said Levine, draining his own mug and slamming it down on the table. "Soon it will not be. I recommend that we stay together until the catastrophe occurs. We will need each other's strengths to survive. And we must survive if the people who are with us are to survive."
Kurt nodded his head as he digested what the man had told him. Was this Levine really as ancient as he said? Was that possible? He healed in a similar fashion to the German. Did that verify his claim to have lived two thousand years? Was that possible? Best to keep an open mind, wait and see, thought the German. After all, the evidence of similarity was there. As was the evidence that the world was about to have hell visit it.
* * *
Count Jerrasia Lesanderi tore into the joint of beef that had been prepared for his lunch, while the appetizing aroma of fresh bread rose from the table. He used his delicate but sharp Ellala teeth to chew a chunk of the tender meat, then gulped down some of the fine Kashana’liya ale that his villagers produced. His eyes were locked on one of his Conyastaya slaves, a beautiful female dancing for his entertainment. He thought he might bed her after his meal. She looked like she might be entering her fertile period for this year, and that made him think twice about bedding her. He could wait a couple of days, or find another slave to bed. What in the name of the Dark Gods do I care, he thought with a shrug, gazing at the slender beauty of the forest dweller. He had plenty of bastards planted on lesser races. He would sell the whelp to a travelling slaver and be done with it.
“What is this?” he asked as a small form was dragged into the room.
“We found this little slime ball stealing from your larder,” said the senior of the Ellala guards, a sergeant.
Jerrasia leaned over the table and fixed the Kashana’liya with a glare. “And what have you to say for yourself?”
The Halfling looked down at the floor, not daring to look into the face of his better. “My family was starving, my Lord,” squeaked the creature. “We did not have enough to eat.”
“And why was that?” asked the Count while his men laughed. “Maybe if you worked harder your family would have enough.”
“We work as hard as we can, my Lord,” said the man, his body shaking. “But you take almost all that we have.”
“That is my right as Lord and master,” said the Count, in a voice he might use to talk to a child. Which in his mind was what he was doing. “And it is your duty to give me your best.”
“I beg your mercy, my Lord,” said the Halfling, struggling to try and get to his feet against the pressure of strong arms pushing down. “I was only trying to keep my family alive.”
“Should we remove his lying tongue, my Lord?” asked the Sergeant, nodding toward the prisoner. “Followed by his head.”
“No,” said the Count, taking another swig of ale. “The smell of blood will spoil my repast. And it would be a waste of energy. I think he should be brought to the priests. Yes, the priests. They can harvest his soul.”
“No, my Lord,” yelled the man, his shaking almost pulling him out of the grasp of the stronger guards. “My family.”
“Don’t forget his family,” said the smiling Count, looking the Sergeant in the eyes. “Take them to the priests as well.”
All the Ellala in the room started laughing, with the exception of the Count’s son. I have to watch that one, thought the Count, looking at the younger Ellala with disdain. He is not a servant of the Death Gods.
“The time is coming,” yelled the Halfling as he was dragged from the room. “The time is coming. The time is coming.”
“What the hell was that all about?” asked one of the Count’s knights, a puzzled look on his face.
“Fear speaking,” said the Count with a smile. The smile turned into a frown as another Ellala ran into the room, concern on his face.
“We have a message from the Duke,” said the Mage, stopping in front of the Count and breathing hard. “It comes down from the Emperor.
Jerrrasia felt a chill come over him with those words. He had received many messages passed down from the Emperor. And very few had boded well. “What is this message?”
“To be prepared for invaders,” said the Mage.
“And when will this invasion come?” asked the Count. “And from where?”
“That is unknown,” said the Mage. “At any time. And from everywhere.”
“And how in the hell do we prepare for an invasion that can come any time and from any place,” said the Count with a scowl.
“The message did not say,” said the Mage.
“Well,” said the Count, looking again to his meal. “I guess we will make the appropriate preparations. When we know the time and place.”
The room again erupted into laughter, and the Count turned his mind back to his pleasures. Delusional thoughts of imaginary invasions could wait for later.
* * *
Major General Zachary Taylor sat at his desk in the huge tent, monitoring what seeme
d to be approaching Armageddon. The tent was brightly lit and was filled with clerks and communications techs, going about the business of keeping the US Third Armored Division functioning. Taylor ran a hand through his close cropped hair, feeling the bristles of the stubble, his eyes darting to the venerable M551 command track backed to a tent opening.
Won’t stop a modern armor piercer, thought the General, looking at the variation of the ancient M113 APC. But it might save my butt from a near miss by a nuke.
He wished he and his unit were still back in the states. Or even back by the Rhine River. Instead of being stuck out here on the eastern outskirts of Berlin. And of course they couldn’t be in Poland, near to the border with the Ukraine, where they might actually do some good. That might be provocative to the Russians. The Poles had demanded some kind of support, so an armored cavalry regiment and a German Panzer Division were up there with the Polish Army. Not enough to really do any good.
Damn idiots, he thought as he stood up from his camp seat and stretched, walking to the map table that displayed the dispositions of the troops around the German Capital. They actually thought that putting a few Germans and Americans in the line of fire would cause the Russians to think about what they might be doing. But the Russians were just like the Germans of 1939. They thought at the moment that the world would back down. If it didn’t back down they thought they were invincible. And if they came across that border they were about to find out how very wrong they were.
Nothing I can do about it, he thought, turning away from the map to watch a light colonel walk into the tent, look around, then head directly for the General with a sour expression on his face. It looked like another worry was about to be put into his lap.
* * *
Dirk looked out over the crowd as he hit a power cord on his Les Paul. The thousand throats screamed their approval as he launched into the lead of Day of Doom, The Tarantulas’ most popular song. Wolfgang Schrenker, the bass player, started the line that followed the lead, and a few seconds later his brother Reinhold started up the drums. An instant later Peter Steiner started in with the second lead, while Karl Wilhelm Hartmann waited for the lyrical part so he could do his stuff.
Refuge: The Arrival: Book 1 Page 2
