Refuge: The Arrival: Book 1

by Doug Dandridge

  “These civilians attacked us sir,” said the Sergeant, pointing a finger at the three mages. “They tried to take a vehicle away from us that was to be used for military transport.”

  “They lie,” said Schneider, stepping forward while holding a hand up to his charges. “It was our vehicle, and these men tried to commandeer it.”

  “That’s a lie,” said the Sergeant, his face turning red.

  “He’s the liar,” said another soldier, walking up. The Sergeant started to tell the newcomer something and stopped when he noticed that the man was a medical officer.

  “And why didn’t you interfere, Hauptman?” asked the MP Leutnant, looking over at the other officer.

  “I was on my way over to handle these hotheads,” said the officer with a smile. “When these exceptional young people took the matter into their own hands.”

  “They were witches was what they were,” said the Sergeant, who shut his mouth as the two officers sent him warning glances.

  “And Doctor Schneider,” said the Hauptman, looking over at Gunter. “What are you a doctor of?”

  “I am a psychiatrist,” said Schneider, nodding at the Hauptman. “I work at the Charite Campus Benjamin Franklin Klinic fur Psychiatrie.”

  “I have heard of you,” said the Hauptman, looking at the mages. “And these are patients of yours.”

  “They were,” said Schneider, nodding toward the three. “This place has cured them, and given them powers.”

  “Then you will be needed at the refuge,” said the MP officer, looking over at the medical officer, who was nodding his head. “The General has asked that anyone of special talent be moved to the valley as rapidly as possible. I think that all of you qualify. We will see to it.”

  “What about us?” asked the worried looking Sergeant, glancing at his men.

  “What about you?” asked the senior MP in return. “It sounds to me like you caused more trouble than you could handle. We will discuss the matter with your commanding officer and let him decide on your punishment.”

  The Sergeant hung his head and turned away. Schneider started to say something but the Leutnant raised his hand. “Do not worry, Doctor Schneider. The Sergeant and his men will not be jailed. We have too much need for fighting men, and hotheads like he and his men can lead the way on future missions. Now let me see about your transport. Why don’t you and your people get your things out of the car, and we’ll let some of the people walking by have a new ride.”

  Schneider nodded and looked back at his people, smiling and thinking it might not be such a bad idea hanging with these ex loonies of his.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “So these are the prisoners?” asked the Emperor Ellandra Mashara, walking into one of the large courtyards of the Imperial Prison in A’atapona. A line of men and women stretched down one long wall of the courtyard. The emperor looked them over as he walked the line. Many of the faces looked down into the ground, trying to avoid his gaze, while some glared up at him with defiance. He turned a stare to one of those, a beautiful Ellala woman. His fiery gaze brought the deep fear to the surface of the woman, and she turned her head away quickly as terror swept across her face. The emperor laughed and walked on.

  “These are some of the prisoners, your majesty,” said the officer in charge of the prison, smiling proudly at the catch he was presenting his ruler. Even if he had nothing to do with the actual apprehension.

  More than half of the prisoners were human. Ellandra could tell from the flat ears and rounded eyebrows of the beings, as well as the course features. But they were different from any humans he had ever seen, with skins of varying shades of brown, from one light skinned woman to a chocolate skinned man.

  He knew of three basic races of humans on his world. Mostly he knew about the red skinned humans that lived in the land bridge subcontinent of K’ellusis, the majority of which was held by his empire. Their skins ranged from an orange to a deep red. And he had seen representatives of the yellow humans who lived to the south, who had skins the colors of lemons. And he had even seen some of the black skinned humans who lived on the land bridge from this subcontinent to the large continent of the former Tarakesh Empire, with their skins of deepest jet. And none of these humans looked like those humans at all. Which meant they were a different race altogether.

  Do they have different life spans and constitutions as well? he thought as he reached the end of the line, counting over a hundred prisoners. Are they like the Ellala, Conyastaya and Delefini?, he thought, remembering that the underground dwelling people of jet were of the same species as his sunlight loving people, much as his own folk wished to deny it. So were these humans longer lived than the ones he knew of, and so possessed of more life energy for the taking?

  The Emperor stopped in front of one of the humans when he made his way back up the line. He looked down at the man, who wore one of the strange cloth uniforms he was told was favored by their warriors. The man looked away from the Ellala, shivering at the unnatural power of the Emperor.

  “And these are of the ones known as the French?” Asked the Emperor of his chief jailer.

  “Yes, my Lord,” answered that man. “They were caught up in the sweep that bagged these traitors,” he continued, gesturing at the Ellala and Conyastaya who also stood in the line. “They were conspiring about armed resistance to the crown, they were. And we found them and brought them here.”

  The Army found them, you mean, thought the Emperor, and brought them here to your keeping. But you attempt to take credit for something you didn’t do. I will remember.

  “Were they much bother?” continued the Emperor, looking at the blood splashed onto the clothing and uniforms of some of the prisoners.

  “Those of our people and the forest people were trouble enough,” said the warden, nodding toward the non-humans in the group. “The French used their weapons to slaughter ten times their number before they were captured.”

  “Ten times?” said the Emperor, who growled deep in his throat as he looked over the humans. They had come into his kingdom without his permission and disrupted the balance of the Empire. And they were killing his soldiers when those worthies attempted to restore that balance. They would pay for that, with their lives and their life force if he had anything to do with it. And they could use an example of that right now.

  The Emperor walked back over to the first Frenchman he had stopped in front of. He glowered at the man for a second, feeling the stink of fear that was pervading the courtyard. He whispered a spell of taking under his breath, one he had well practiced. As he raised his voice to call out the last word he pushed the fingers of his hands into the man’s forehead, the digits moving through flesh and bone as if they were immaterial. The man gasped in horror and agony as he felt the ice cold projections enter his skull and his brain. The eyes widened as his mouth fell open with a gasp. He reached up and grabbed the wrists of the Ellala half lich. To the Emperor it was as if a small child were fighting against him.

  The half lich Emperor felt the life force of the man through his ethereal fingers. He could feel it and he could taste it, and it tasted strong. He let the man’s fright grow for a moment and then let himself feed on the force. The Emperor could feel the energy course up his fingers, through his arms, and into his core. It was a different energy than he was used to, probably flavored somewhat by the world that the man developed on. But it was pure enough to bring a sigh of ecstasy to the Emperor’s lips as he pulled the life force into his body.

  Time stood still for the feeding Lich. It could have been hours or minutes, but he knew from experience it had to be minutes. He felt the last flickering bits of life leave the man’s body and flow into his own, strengthening his own force. He knew that his life as a powerful mage would burn much more quickly than that of a human soldier. Still he must have added at least a year to that life.

  The emperor opened his eyes and pulled his ethereal appendages from the forehead of the man. He looked down onto the wrinkl
ed, leathery skin of a man in the last stages of a long life. The eyes stared into his with the complete horror of one who knew his soul had been taken, that there would be no afterlife for him. The body tottered for a moment, then fell forward as the Emperor stepped out of the way, to crash onto the paving stones of the courtyard. Desiccated flesh crumbled and bones fell into powder. Within a second the Emperor was looking down at a pile of dust blowing in the pre morning breeze, and the deflating clothing of the soldier as what had held it out blew away.

  The Emperor drew himself up to his full height, feeling wonderful with the new life force mingling with what he already held. His eyes swept the line once again, cowing the prisoners. Most of the humans attempted to make themselves invisible to his notice, shrinking in on themselves. A few continued to glare at him, and he had to admire their courage.

  “You will be damned to hell, you foul thing,” called out one of the Ellala prisoners, an elderly man who was undergoing the swift, decade long spurt into old age and senescence that his people underwent at the end of their days.

  “I may just be, grandfather,” he said with a smile, beating down the gaze of the man with his own. “I plan to be here forever though, if I can. Not that your little remaining bit of life would help me there.”

  The Emperor looked over at the warden of his personal prison and made sure that all of the prisoners heard what he told the man.

  “Keep the humans here in your darkest cells. I will come for them until I have all of their energy. The Ellala and Conyastaya can be executed in front of the people. Spread them around the region so the most will be able to see. And sacrifice them to the Gods, so that their deaths may do us some good.”

  “I don’t fear your foul Gods, monster,” called out the same old man. “I have ministered to my people in the name of Arathonia for a thousand years, under your slimy face.”

  “And your soul will serve the Gods of Death after you pass into the afterlife,” said the Emperor with a predatory smile. “That I will guarantee old man. That I will guarantee.”

  The Emperor turned his back on the prisoners and walked quickly from the courtyard, his eyes taking comfort in the solid stonework of the walls of the prison. None of these would escape, except in death. And as he said, their souls would either feed him or feed his Gods, and would be trapped for eternity in service to the deities they hated and feared.

  * * *

  “We’re almost out of fuel,” said Peter, who was this hour’s designated driver of the car.

  Dirk swore as he leaned over the seat and saw the fuel gauge stuck on empty. Anni put a hand on his shoulder and leaned over with him. He felt like smiling when she touched him. She had been a good lover, even after he had told her she owed him nothing. She had disagreed.

  “What do you think we should do?” she asked, looking back at the step van that was following them.

  Dirk looked back at the van as well. Wolfgang and Reinhold were manning that vehicle, the brothers preferring to stay together. Karl Wilhelm slept in the front seat of the car, too stoned to do anything useful, like driving.

  “I think we need to refuel the car from the van,” said Peter, looking back from his driver’s seat. “Get all the gas cans full and go on from there.”

  “We can’t do that,” protested Karl Wilhelm, perking up from his seat and opening blurry eyes. “That’s all our equipment.”

  “Our lives are more important than our equipment,” said Peter, shaking his head. “I don’t know about you, but my stomach has never been this empty. We ate the last of the candy bars yesterday.”

  And Karl Wilhelm has to be as hungry as any of us, thought Dirk, looking over at the stoned lead singer. He’s got to have the munchies to the max. Dirk had been tempted to get stoned himself, while there was still some hash to use. But this was a survival situation, and Dirk was the leader, and so felt that he had to keep a clear head, much as the oblivion of good drugs would be welcome

  “OK,” he said after a moment’s thought. “We’ll fill the car and all the gas cans, then transfer the instruments to the trunk, and a couple of changes of clothes.”

  “There won’t be room,” complained Karl Wilhelm. “Reinhold will be seriously pissed that you won’t be able to take his drums.”

  “What about that top of the car thingy?” said Peter, glancing back at the step van again. “We’ve never used it, and it cost us enough for something we’ve never used.”

  “Ok,” said Dirk with a nod. “That’s a plan. And there’s no saying we have to leave the van behind right now. It should still have enough fuel to get another hundred kilometers on this dirt track.” And thank god we thought to put that oversized fuel tank in the van. Sometimes Karl Wilhelm’s paranoia is useful. “Stop here, Peter, and we’ll go ahead and get things moved and the car topped off.

  The too bright sun was shining down on them while they syphoned fuel and moved equipment. Sure enough, there wasn’t enough room for all of Reinhold’s drum set, and he did complain, but not too much. They had just completed all they were about to do when trouble stepped out on the path.

  “Well,” said the leader of the dozen skinheads coming toward the car. “What do we have here?”

  “Looks like a nigger to me,” said a short haired woman wearing a black jacket with SS runes on the collar. “And he has his German whore with him.”

  “What can I do for you gentlemen,” said Dirk, his hand feeling for the butt of his pistol before he remembered he had put it under the front seat due to the discomfort of carrying it. He resolved at that moment to make sure he carried it always, discomfort or not, so that if there was a next time he wouldn’t be caught unarmed. He looked at the hard faces of the neo-Nazis and wondered if there would be a next time.

  “The monkey talks,” said another of the skinheads, and the entire group started laughing. “Wait a minute. I know this guy. He’s that damned nigger guitar player, playing the white man’s music and fucking the white man’s women.”

  The speaker brandished a tire iron. All of them were armed with some kind of blunt object, and several large knives came from hiding.

  “I think we went to heaven, boys,” said the largest of the men, who appeared to be the leader. “We found us a nigger and his nigger loving friends to stomp, and some working vehicles to take.”

  What the shit, thought Dirk, looking at the car and gauging his chances of getting to his pistol before the skinheads closed the distance. He didn’t like the chances his calculations were giving him. And the rifle was in the trunk, and it was less suited for close in work than the revolver. He looked over at Anni and a smile creased his face, for he could see the outline of the shotgun under her jacket where it hung by her side, and the barrel protruding beneath. At least one of us is thinking like a survivor, he thought.

  “Now take it easy,” said Dirk, walking forward and keeping his hands in sight. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “In the immortal words of Mick Jager,” said the leader, stepping toward Dirk and bringing the piece of pipe he was holding back, “we can’t always get what we want. But I’m about to get what I need.”

  The big man swung the pipe at Dirk, aiming for the guitar player’s head, an obvious killing blow. Dirk stepped into the man and brought both hands up to block the blow, aiming for the man’s wrists in an X block. As soon as his hands contacted the opponent’s arms he brought his leg up and brought it down in a side kick on the man’s knee, putting all of his force into the strike by yelling at the top of his lungs. The man screamed out as well, but his was of pain, not force. Dirk dropped the block and brought his left hand up into a double jab to the man’s nose, then performed a backspin that delivered his right hand to the side of the man’s face. He then leaned back and brought a full force side kick into the neo-Nazi’s knee, the same one he had hit before, yelling at the top of his lungs. He still heard the popping of the knee as he destroyed it, and he smiled at the damage he had given to a man who was trying to kill him.

/>   He was happy that his dad had insisted on the martial arts lessons while he was growing up, and his keeping up his practice. His dad had always insisted that as a multiracial child he would have trouble with both worlds. And that he needed to know how to take care of himself. Well, dad never saw this coming. Fighting Neo-Nazis on a new world.

  “Get him,” yelled the big man after he dropped to his ass, looking up at Dirk with tear filled eyes. “Pile on him and stomp him into the ground.”

  The other men yelled and started toward Dirk. They stopped in their tracks as a shotgun blast filled the air. Dirk looked back at Anni, who held the shotgun up. She jacked the pump and the spent round flew out, then pulled the pump back.

  “You sorry bitch,” yelled one of the Neos, reaching under his own jacket, hand grasping at something.

  Anni pointed the shotgun at the man and pulled the trigger, her face a mask of fear and disgust. And the shotgun clicked on empty. “Oh shit,” she said, jacking the shotgun again and seeing that nothing came out.

  “Oh shit is right, bitch,” yelled the Neo, pulling an automatic from a shoulder holster and taking a two handed aim at Anni that showed he knew what he was doing.

  Dirk held his hands up and stepped in front of Anni. “Now everyone calm down. There’s no need for bloodshed.”

  “A little late for that, don’t you think,” said the gunman, stepping forward. “I’m going to cap you, then the bitch. Then we might let the others go their way.”

  The man pulled back the hammer and sighted in on Dirk, aiming for his head. Dirk said a quick prayer, knowing that this was it. There was no way he was going to survive a head shot, and probably not even a chest shot. Especially as the man wanted him dead, and could shoot him as many times as necessary to make sure that he was.

  He wasn’t sure who was the more surprised. His surprise would last a bit longer than the gunman’s, who had the long shaft of an arrow sticking through his neck, the bleeding end of a steel head protruding from one side, the feathered fletching from the other. The man choked up some blood and the pistol fell from his hands, just before he fell to the ground.