Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  The rough chuckle of sandpaper scratching rock rolled from Stromgald’s lips. “I lead them? Yes, I lead them. I lead them into danger, time and time again. Not a day goes by that I wonder who among them will die.”

  “John.” Mykel waited for the ranger to meet his gaze before continuing. “They know the risks. They would still follow you, as I would in their place.”

  His face quickened into a smile, though mixed in sorrow and hope. “After this mission, I intend to quit.”

  “Quit? Why?”

  John’s fingers dove into a fur-lined pocket and returned holding a square box. Within it a diamond sparkled, outshining every snowflake. “I love her so much. She is my dawn and my dusk. I have never met a woman with such will, with such passion. She is a force of nature.”

  Mykel grunted. “All women are a force of nature. In a hundred years, a thousand years, they will still have us twining their little fingers.”

  Stromgald laughed. “Such is the fate of men.” The ranger’s fingers, not used to handling anything but a weapon, flexed and spun the box from end to end. “Ten years I have waited to offer her more than death and blood and steel. Now that the time nears...I’m nervous. What if she says no?”

  “She won’t, John.”

  “But what if –”

  “John, I’ve seen the love in her eyes when she is with you. I have never seen the like before. She loves you. And besides, I think you two are already married. You don’t need rituals or words to know it. I know it, and so do you. She will say yes.”

  John smiled. “I have never spoken of these things with anyone. Thank you, Mykel.” His eyes flicked to the sky; fast becoming velvet. “Now go get some sleep.”

  He tried. He really tried. Sleep had never been a kind mistress, letting Mykel sway to the edge of dreams, just to have a loud noise shatter his vigil, too-large eyes darting about in fright. It was a jest that sleep favored; tonight, she seemed to be content with abandoning the librarian.

  A slender thread of hay dug into his neck, and he half-turned to see a looming shape, too specific to be a shadow, ghost its way past the stable roof, blotting out light. One, two, three, four...Four seconds. More than one intruder...“Orson...” He squeaked. Like a mouse. “Raptor...”

  “Shut up,” Orson replied. More than one! Meaning danced on the mind’s edge, faceless and smothered in terror. Shadows slipped by the front as another demonic figure passed by, followed by three more, all intent. A quad of them! And another on the roof. Hunting. Mykel clamped his teeth shut till his cheeks were blue. By the gods! One shadow paused as if hearing the thought, then peered in.

  Raptor dropped like a stone, snatched the demon into the shadow. A dull crack whispered in the air, followed by a gurgling sound. Scarlet spilled forth from the shadows in weak tendrils. Mykel wanted to vomit.

  Three more Versi clogged the entrance, and then three more. Growling, they lunged forth fluidly from the shadows that cloaked them. Mykel dodged the first by a narrow inch. Ifirit came alive for the counter-stroke, cleaving downward to hack the demon into two. The second went by him, but the third came flying with tapered fingers, red beady eyes seeking death. There was something joyful to drive Ifirit right between the damn thing’s eyes. It took a moment to recognize the silence as it was; there were no more demons to kill. The rangers added further proof of that; wiping their steel clean with what cloth they could find. All about them there was a welter of dead Versi.

  It was Raptor who noticed it first. “Damn, man. Where can I get one of those?”

  One of—Damn. Mykel called himself a fool for forgetting to sheathe Ifirit. Now all he could do was hide it in the cloak’s long left side. ““Lazarus gave it to me. It was his weapon when he was younger than I.” he explained, making the lie as smooth as he possibly could. “Said he couldn’t make use of it anymore, so I might as well keep it.” Fortunately, they nodded in satisfaction; Mykel was not sure how he might respond if they started asking questions. He bid Ifirit to sleep, and again came the slight resistance. I must keep it quiet. It will only attract more Versi. Mykel felt the gauntlet’s hesitation, as if it were a living thing. No. It took an effort, but finally the khatar retreated into the bracer’s iron casing. This was not the time for petty mysteries.

  “We know you’re out there.” The voice of thunder, crackling with sadistic pleasure. “You can make it easier on yourselves and surrender. There are plenty of versi left.”

  There was hasty tangle of footing as the world grew smaller. Stromgald was dragging the librarian by the collar. “What are you...?”

  “Quiet,” the jord whispered. Deeper and deeper into the mound they delved, until the cold bite of winter wind welcomed them with open arms. Mykel was shocked to find the horses waiting for them. No one else had followed them through the haven. Did they walk the path themselves?

  “Get on.” Mykel struggled to keep pace with the ranger, wondering why it was only the two of them running. They’re staying behind to let us escape. And then he noticed the sun was rising. Only it was far too early for sunrise, and even then, it was rising in the wrong direction. Sunrise was west; sunset was east. “Fire,” Mykel whispered. Realization crashed down on him. The fire was roughly where the others made their stand. They’re at the heart of the blaze. “We have to go after them.”

  “If we do, we will die.”

  “If we don’t, they will die!”

  “They knew the dangers when they joined.”

  “B-But –”

  “Go, if you think you can help. Spit in their eyes of those who would protect you. Or come with me, and honor what they do.”

  I’m sorry. Mykel blinked away the tears as they thundered down the road. I’m so, so sorry.

  V

  Sylver couldn’t believe it. The two creatures...they’re the reason we’re stalling for John’s escape? Them?

  The first one looked more a bundle of twigs than a man. Emerald-green eyes peered from the creases and bulges of bronzed, gnarled skin. A stray wind caught up his ragged clothes and made a white banner in the night, a white more piercing than even the snow about him. He had two fingers cut off from his left hand and three on his right. There was no way he could wield a weapon. It can’t be that easy. Can it?

  The second one was even stranger. His face was so lean he resembled a stork. A very drunken stork; he fumbled every other step and his eyes were so bloodshot that at first glance it looked as though he were weeping blood. Both just exuded pity.

  “Enough of this.” Orson burst towards the pair in a flash. A heartbeat spent bounding across the gap between them. A heartbeat to unlimber the twin swords already an extension of his hands. The blades catching the snow-glare, glowing in white fire...and...

  The scarecrow vanished. It was there one moment, and the next Orson was stumbling from the sheer momentum of his attack. Aside her Raptor cried out a warning but too late; the scarecrow was behind Orson, scoring a quick lash against his back.

  “Ah brother you’re breaking the rules. No enhanced abilities, remember?”

  “Forgive me. It has been so long since I used my powers.”

  “Try harder. You’re taking all the fun out of it.”

  “Oh, very well.” A simple gesture and the wounds on Orson’s back dissolved. “There, mortal. Now we are matched.”

  Orson rose, the very picture of rage. “How are you called, demon? I need something to tool into your grave.”

  “My, how grossly barbaric. I am Ymir, father of the gods.” A gesture, and a purple rift twisted into the night air, from which glided out a sword with a serpentine blade. Grinning Ymir twisted the hilt, and the single sword became twin sabers, narrow and lethal. “Brother! Let them fight me al
l at once!”

  “It would make things interesting. Very well. But do not kill them. It has been far too long.”

  Sylver burned at the thought of being a pawn. And yet this was the best chance any of them had of surviving the night. Through brief glances the three assumed a triangular formation around their opponent. The bastard smiled – he smiled! – as he took in the tactic. Rage burned hotter even more when Ymir returned the sabers to eldritch scabbards at either hip. It’s our best chance. And obviously, a trap. Better to die fighting than being gutted like a fish.

  Sylver and Raptor attacked from either side. Ymir’s steel materialized from nowhere, blocking the opening feints. The giant’s eyes glowed with excitement, made all the unnerving with braying laughter.

  Let’s try something different. Raptor and Sylver danced in overlapping circles, stepping in and out of Ymir’s reach. Storm Crash Upon the Rocks. White Lightning Blinds the Eye. Thief and His Shadow. Ghost’s Cold Touch. Disrupting the Meridian Lines.

  Each strike of the Lines was aimed at vital points of the body, where a surgeon’s precision struck hidden weaknesses in the joints and muscles. Ymir shrugged it off with a broad sweep of the sabers, missing only by inches thanks to hardened instincts on the rangers’ part. Sylver flicked a glance to the bloodlust in Ymir’s eyes. Now.

  Ymir saw the glance but too late. Orson was already descending, sword cutting the air. Two bloody welts cut diagonally across the right cheekbone, one a mere inch from the right eye. Ymir shook as though struck by a seizure. Incredulously two massive fingers came up and away. He’s not seen his own blood drawn, Sylver realized. Aside her Orson smoldered with rage. He put everything into that attack. And that one attack drew only a glancing blow. Sylver’s heart sank.

  Ymir’s face was beyond thought, beyond reason. Great, rasping breaths came from him, massive chest heaving. No one had wounded him for a long time, Sylver realized. Maybe no one had wounded him before, period. Sylver felt the compulsion for disbelief. If it were any other man, any other opponent, she wouldn’t believe. Not this one. Not this time.

  Ymir’s eyes flashed sky-blue, and every snowflake trembled slightly and then shot directly at the three rangers. Instinct more than anything else threw the rangers clear of the miniscule attack; the rage was clear as day on the other two, boiling that they scurried like rats. Heaving, ranting, Ymir attacked again.

  Only the attack wasn’t miniscule. During the flight towards the rangers, the snowflakes clumped together, bit by bit. In a heartbeat’s time, the snow was the size of hail. In an eye blink’s time, the hail grew needle-thin points. In a breath’s time, the winter sky was full of these icy daggers, each one thirsty for the rangers’ blood.

  The assault pushed the rangers back, back, back. Some daggers spiked through the trees, while others twisted sideways to slice the trees in half. The rangers ghosted from dust cloud to dust cloud, flickering ever so slightly so that Ymir hurled his spells at nothing.

  “DAMN YOU MAGGOTS! I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL KILL YOU ALL!”

  The voice of thunder again. Stupidly Sylver glanced from a wayward tree and clamped her teeth on an oath. Where Ymir once stood, a giant had taken his place. Crystalline horns sprouted sideways from the helm’s temples. Twin cords of icy white hair spooled from the helm, tipped with azure, resting gingerly upon the hips. He wore a white cloak chased with a series of small, overlapping diamonds, which in turn were held in place by a pair of moonlight-shaded spiders upon the shoulders. Close examination revealed the spiders as living, wriggling creatures, going so far as extending from the shoulders to hiss and snap at the unwary. The blue jewel at his belt blinked, revealing a crystalline eye, from which cragged threads of white chased down leg and boot in a pattern that eerily resembled the veins of the human body.

  “I am Ymir!” The sabers transformed into great-swords, both longer than a tall man and heavier than ten. Almost too late Sylver realized the shapeshifter’s spell exploded from the blade’s tip. She dodged the attack, but the winter wind breezed across her jerkin, leaving a clump of crystals in their wake. Frost isn’t supposed to burn! Then again, things were never normal when manna was involved.

  Orson did not take his failure well. With the roar of his people, the ranger brought down his twin swords with such speed Sylver could see the air flowing past the blades. Ymir spared a glance in Orson’s direction and snorted. Time was sluggish as Ymir dropped the great-sword – it dissolved into mist after leaving its wielder’s hand – and raised an open palm. The world went deaf as suddenly everything in a mile-long radius became clumps of crystalline diamonds. Orson found himself bound in an icy cocoon, his swords dissolved into frozen metallic puddles. Sylver blinked as suddenly Ymir was face-to-face with the Northborn ranger. An icy tendril of Frost grinded slowly about Ymir’s clawed fingers.

  “Brother! Remember our agreement!”

  Though there was no face within the icy helm, Sylver detected a hint of frustration in his slouch; even more so than his surly reply of “Yes, Joozu.” The little brother caving to the command of an elder sibling. Were it not for the dire circumstances Sylver would have laughed.

  “Release him, Ymir, and make him a pair of swords. Let them have the same chance.”

  “And after that?” The giant became a mass of snowflakes that melted off Ymir’s now-spindly frame. “Then can I kill them?”

  “Yes, Ymir. Then you can kill them.” Damn it all that Ymir bounced in anticipation. “After I have my turn.”

  “Not fair, brother. Not fair.” A boy, Sylver realized, if not so much in reality as in spirit. For all his muscles, he is a child. And why not? Invincibility did foster arrogance and impatience alike. Don’t even think that. Succumbing to doubt means losing the fight before it begins. John’s words, and now she embraced them for warmth and strength. Would that the act could bring him here; they needed all the help they could get. He wouldn’t have left us if he didn’t think we had a chance. We can’t disappoint him. We won’t disappoint him.

  Ymir stepped back, busied himself with the re-forging of Orson’s blades while Joozu stepped up. He smiled, but it was empty of emotion. It made it all the more chilling, all the more unnerving. He even tossed Orson’s new swords to the Northborn while his brother finished his task.

  Then the battle began.

  Where Ymir was brute force, Joozu seemed more skill. The short sword-long blades that slid from his elbow pads were arranged in a classic daggerman’s stance; one arm folded in front of the body, and the reverse low at the hip. His fight was finesse, as evidenced by his graceful katas.

  Hawk Launches from Branch. Gossamer on The Wind. Panther Speeds Through Tall Grass. Sylver dodged them all. Elbow blades are meant for stabbing and sweeping, Sylver realized. Thus, reaction and speed is essential. A horizontal slash could mask the advent of a vertical blow, and vice-versa. Drunken Man’s Dodge. Prayer to The Sun. Crack-The-Whip. Somehow Sylver made it inside Joozu’s defenses and stabbed at the bastard’s heart...Only to gasp, too late, at the cords of lightning rushing down to the steel of her blade to meet her.

  Agonizing pain, slamming into her like a sledgehammer, spiking briefly at intervals until everything just stopped. Don’t get up, a voice whispered. She was floating in something. Honey, maybe. All that mattered that it was cool and calm. She felt more buoyant than she had in years. You can’t win. Not against these monsters.

  Like hell I can’t. The world returned to cold and hard and pain. Her eyes blurred like a mirage, and she could barely believe them when they cleared. A ribbon of churned dirt spread forth into the horizon. I made it. The Weirwynd bastard employed an attack that sent her skipping like a stone tossed across a pond, her body the shovel that tore the road asunder.

  A howl of pain returned her focus. Raptor. Standing up was a mistake; h
er knees melted under the force of the nausea. Get up. Another scream. Orson. Her vision shimmered into fuzzy dots of color, but she could still decipher who was who and what was what. The cords of gold could only be the lightning Joozu sent to her.

  Get up.

  Get.

  The hell.

  Up.

  An adamantine will pulled Sylver into a fighting stance when every inch of her wanted to collapse. A plume of dust slashed into her cheek, and another at the opposing leg. Raptor and Orson, flung as she had been flung, dragging two more furrows along the road.

  Joozu rolled under Sylver’s opening slash. For a moment, the bastard just stood there, his back broad and mocking. Sylver put everything she had in the deathblow. Instantly lightning jarred her wrists so suddenly that the sword was damn near twisted from her grip. Sylver fought through the pain and saw the shapeshifter’s own blade staring at her. The weapon could extend indefinitely in every direction, giving it the flexibility of a whip. Dammit. Why can’t these bastards be mortal?

  A lazy gesture and Joozu’s weapon whipped about with a serpent’s grace, biting shoulder to shin and everything in-between. The final blow sent the blade entwining the ranger in a horizontal spiral, ripping great rents in armor and flesh alike before spinning Sylver to the ground. Then Raptor and Orson came out of nowhere and lashed out their mortal steel with one thunderous crash.

  “Mortals. No smarter than animals.”

  John. More time. He needs more time. Quaking fingers took hold of the lengthen pockets sewn into her cloak. A bundle of sticks, like Ymir in his human skin. Only these sticks unfolded to form a longbow, and other bundles unfolded into arrows. Sylver drew the arrow to the cheek, closed one eye for better accuracy.