by Dyrk Ashton
Mol cocks his ears toward the windows and growls deep in his throat. Peter probes the walls with his eyes, listening—and all hell breaks loose as a shrieking multitude of wampyr and werewolves crash through the windows.
Edgar shouts, “Fiona!” Zeke instinctively grabs up the guitar and they rush to Edgar’s side. Breaking glass and pounding feet can be heard from throughout the house. Wepwawet and Surma howl and fling themselves at Cù Sìth.
Peter remains surprisingly calm. He eyes the guitar in Zeke’s hands, then strides to a chest, knocking attackers aside, kicks it open, pulls out a guitar case and tosses it to him. Zeke ogles him, questioning.
Peter nods in affirmation, then shouts to Edgar. “Go!”
Zeke stows the guitar. Edgar whistles for Mol. They hurry toward the hall that leads to the kitchen.
Kabir grunts from where he lies wriggling on the floor. Peter frees him from his bonds with one deft cut of the spear, tugs him to his feet and rips the gag from his mouth.
“My apologies—” Kabir offers in his deep crunchy voice.
“Later,” Peter cuts him off. “Time to fight.”
Without another word, Kabir postures low, roars, and charges the ghastly host. Wamps and weres go down like bowling pins that scream and bleed.
While Mol stands guard, Edgar shoves Fi’s flute into her backpack and lifts the pack to her, but wamps and weres rush around the corner from the hall. He drops the pack and keeps them at bay with sword and shield. Mol drags others down, shredding necks and limbs. But there are too many.
Edgar glances about for another exit. More fiends clamber in the great room windows while others charge through the front door and pour in from the hall at the other end of the room. Some run on all fours, others flap on fully developed bat wings. Packs of werewolves, colonies of wampyr, males, females, in multiple varieties, shapes and sizes, nightmarish subjects of folklore from around the world made flesh. Still more shriek down at them from the balcony above.
Edgar orders Fi and Zeke back and they retreat the only way they can, along the wall past the fireplace to the corner by the desk. Edgar protects their back and flank. Mol tears at all who attempt to block their path. Edgar presses Fi and Zeke into the corner and engages the enemy.
Peter stands like a statue bolted to the floor, gazing down while wamps and weres hurl themselves against him. They don’t even affect his balance.
When he looks up, his eyes gleam red. He twirls. Gungnir’s blade slices through the surrounding host as if they're made of little more than air.
* * *
Kleron tromps from the top of a rocky hill, away from a dry riverbed that lies behind and below. Max scampers alongside, chuckling to himself.
There is no storm on this world, but a raucous clatter and hum pervades the air. Flocks of violet shadows flit over the barren landscape, cast by a bloated yellow moon in a lavender sky. Kleron and Max pay no heed.
“So, Pater has recovered,” spits Kleron in the rhythmic guttural tongue of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a clan of his wampyric spawn who once invaded ancient Ireland, long before the birth of Brian Boru. “Quite swiftly, I might add. This changes things.”
Max snickers. “And he’s got his spear, hee hee.”
“It’s no laughing matter, Max.”
Max laughs anyway.
Kleron steals a glance at him. “I’ve suspected there may be another traitor among us, but one of the Cerberi? And Cù Sìth, no less.”
Max snickers at that as well.
“What do you make of this trickery?”
Max shrugs. “We are a fickle lot, I can attest. But I’m curious to see if he is accepted, or if Pater slays him post haste.”
“As am I.” Kleron halts and takes Max’s wretched hand. He scans the ground before him and then the horizon, as if seeking unseen landmarks, then closes his eyes. Slipping can be tricky business, even for one as experienced as he.
An exceptionally rare gift, maybe two dozen Firstborn have ever been able to slip, and only a very few parvuli. Even The Prathamaja Nandana couldn’t do it, as magnificent as she was. Father has always had the ability, though it took him over an aeon to discover it. It takes an innate talent one must be born with. Then, in most cases, Father has to teach them how it is done. He showed Kleron when he was young, by accident, and Kleron took to it like—what do the parvuli say in modern English?—“like a fish to water.”
Max waits patiently, humming “Brian Boru’s March.” Kleron raises an eyelid to see him swaying contentedly with the tune, then takes a step and they slip away.
In the sky above, a thousand multi-winged horrors await.
* * *
Wampyr and werewolves continue to pour into the house, providing Peter and Kabir with a seemingly endless supply of fodder. They throw their lives away, stupid with bloodlust, or more afraid of their master than death itself. Much of the first, no doubt, but assuredly the latter. The noise is deafening, a raucous discord of squeals of agony, howls of rage, mighty blows, body falls, breaking bones, and the reckless destruction of Peter’s furnishings.
Cù Sìth pays them no heed. He has his hands full with his Cerberi brothers. All three are gouged and bleeding, but even two against one, Surma and Wepwawet have difficulty gaining the advantage. The blows they land resound throughout the room. The Master’s minions avoid them as much as possible in the press.
Droves of wamps and weres beat like waves against the sea wall of Edgar’s sword and shield. He thrusts and spins with impeccable skill, his blade trailing silver in the air and splashing blood in all directions. Severed heads clunk to the floor. Quivering bodies and limbs heap before him. Fi and Zeke huddle in a rising reservoir of red and are spattered in copious quantities of it as well.
Fi thinks she’s imagining it at first, but even in this din she hears snatches of a familiar tune. Soft and steady, while he hacks at the enemy with a stolid expression that shows no signs of fear or physical distress, Edgar is humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
Her mind fixates on it. Except for her uncle’s song, accompanied by the methodical thump of his shield and ring of his sword, all other sound becomes background noise. She watches as if in a dream.
Mol stands courageously over her and Zeke, ready to snap at any attacker who might get past her uncle, but none have succeeded so far. Corpses continue to pile around them in a gruesome bunker.
In the center of the room, Peter snaps Gungnir like a whip. A trail of fluid electricity fries several weres. He aims the spear along the hallway balcony above and an extended bolt of lightning leaps from the blade like a ragged blue laser, torching wamps and weres as they leap over in droves to join the brawl. Much of the ceiling and balcony are scorched as well.
Three flung wampyr smash through the glass hearth doors into the fireplace. Two of them lie dead and burning, but the third runs out screaming and flailing, engulfed in flame. Peter spin-kicks it to shoot out the window like a yowling comet.
Rain squalls through the ruined windows, flashed by sporadic lightning. The air grows thick with steam and smoke, the vigorous scent of ozone, coppery tang of vaporized blood, and acrid reek of burning wood and flesh.
Kabir is incredibly fast, sure-footed and assured, leaping effortlessly to snatch fluttering wampyr from the air and pouncing to crush his foes—but as effective as his methods are he appears brutish compared to Peter, who moves with nimble grace, irresistible, unrelenting, as if engaged in a deadly waltz. None appear capable of harming him, even if they manage to connect with fist or claw, nor do any within range escape his wrath.
Fi notices a rosy glint of delight in his eyes, his terrible crooked smile. He’s actually enjoying this.
Zeke’s in a similar state to Fi, anesthetized by Edgar’s tune, numb to the violent commotion. An automatic response, he thinks, to the utterly surreal and perilous situation they’ve found themselves in, to stave off life-threatening shock and unconsciousness.
Kabir throws off a dog-pile of the enemy, flips the
piano, sending it somersaulting through the crowd. It smashes wamps and weres to pulp against the wall in a cacophony of snapping strings and bursting wood. Through a brief break in the throng, he sees Cù Sìth is in trouble.
Wepwawet has him around the neck from behind and has pinned one of his arms. They go down backwards and Wepwawet locks Cù’s legs with his own. Surma stomps Cù’s free arm, then drives a knee into his stomach and punches claws-deep into the thick meat of his chest.
Kabir knows better than to tackle one of these monsters—all three together may not equal one Maskim Xul, but they’re far older than Kabir and from a particularly frightful bloodline. He tackles Surma nonetheless, just as Surma goes for Cù’s throat.
They tumble and roll. Surma shoves him off and they both spring to their feet. Kabir readies for swift retribution, but Surma only flashes him an irritated glance before sprinting back to his brothers.
Cù wrestles out of Wepwawet’s hold, blood trickling at his neck from the near fatal swipe of Surma’s claws. Surma hits them both as they shove against each other to stand. All three crash through the wall next to the arch. A section of wall collapses and they burst out the other side, through the stairs and into the foyer.
* * *
The wampyr policeman from outside the hospital smooths rainwater from his sopping hair. He sits atop a stack of kevlar cases in front of one of the white vans parked in a copse of trees that overlooks Peter’s home. Other cases, open and empty, are scattered nearby. He lifts his face to the sky, opens his mouth, prominently displaying his fangs, and catches water from the light but steady rain. Without his motorcycle helmet he looks much the same as Derek, Tod, Curt and Hedwig—handsome, pale, and brooding. He raises a set of military grade hyperspectral goggles and peers through them to see a clearly defined, magnified image of the battle in the great room.
“These things are so freakin’ cool.”
A few yards away, a werewolf in Trueface, but still wearing his overalls with Luc embroidered on the breast, grunts impatiently. “Let me see!”
“I said no. I have my job, you have yours.”
“Mine eez done!”
“Then chill out, Frenchy. Go chase a deer or something.”
Luc grunts in frustration, checks his watch. He snatches a wireless detonator from his belt, switches it on to make sure it’s operational—for the tenth time.
“Would you leave that thing alone?” the wampyr growls.
Luc grumbles but toggles it off and puts it away. “Vere are zay?!—ARRGGHH!”
Kleron and Max have materialized right in front of him. He trips and falls backwards over empty cases.
The wampyr snickers while Luc scrambles to his feet.
“Everything eez prepared, Master!” Luc reports excitedly, taking the detonator from his belt and switching it on. “Zee charges are een place, but zay are all still in zee building.”
Kleron holds a hand out to the wampyr, who immediately relinquishes the goggles. Kleron scans the house—Peter and Kabir handily dispatching his minions, The Cerberi family feud in the foyer, Edgar and Mol repelling attackers in the corner. He zooms in on Fi and Zeke huddled behind them, then focuses on Fi.
* * *
An especially determined group of fiends converge on Edgar. Two wampyr come shrieking over the heap of bodies straight at Fi and Zeke. Mol moves to block them, but they halt suddenly in mid-leap, then are yanked away and flung the length of the room. Fi and Zeke gape at the sight of the dusky half-big cat, half-human visage that turns upon them.
In Trueface, Kabir’s suit has been replaced by dark gray fur with a purple patch where the knot of his tie had been. He inspects them with gleaming copper tiger-eyes and points with a stout clawed finger. “Are you damaged?”
Zeke gawks at the single saber-tooth that juts down over his sturdy square jaw, and the striped cat tail that twitches over his shoulder. Fi shakes her head quickly, No.
Kabir curls one side of his feline split upper lip, presses his tongue into the ragged hole where his missing tooth had been and sucks on it. He regards Mol and nods. “Molossus.”
Fi would swear that Mol nods back. Kabir shrugs a werewolf off one sloping shoulder, untangling its claws from his gray lion’s mane, and returns to the fight, snapping its neck as he goes.
“Machairodus Kabir...” Zeke mutters.
“What?” Fi asks.
Zeke absent-mindedly wipes the spattered blood from his face. “Edgar called him Kabir. The Machairodus Kabir were big prehistoric cats, like saber-tooth tigers.”
“Wha-a-a-a-t?” Fi gazes at Kabir, who chomps on the back of a passing werewolf’s neck and shakes it vigorously.
“Peter called him Zadkiel,” Zeke adds. “Like the angel.”
Fi won’t believe it. “No way.”
But Zeke is beginning to wonder. “Maybe way.”
* * *
The numbers of the enemy are being depleted. Edgar has one of the last living werewolves, a particularly big and ugly beast, pinned to the bookshelves with his shield. Engulfed in flame, it shrieks and flails until Edgar drags his sword across its throat and lets it drop. Mol bites it on the shoulder and tosses its barbecued body onto the surrounding heap.
* * *
Kleron lowers the goggles. “Send in Mahisha.”
“Yes, Master.” The wampyr policeman clicks the radio handset clipped to his shoulder and relays the order.
Kleron crooks a devilish grin. “Let’s see what they make of this.”
* * *
Fi and Zeke help each other to their feet and gaze out over the carnage. The floor is slick with bright red blood, strewn with organs and limbs and piles of burst and steaming bodies. A divan burns, roasting the corpses of wampyr heaped upon it. Plaster is stripped from charred patches of wall and ceiling.
Cù Sìth comes lumbering through the arch, dragging his beaten and bloodied kin by the scruffs. He clean and jerks them over his head, one in each hand, looses a triumphant roar, and slams them down hard enough to crack marble and tremble the floor.
Edgar looks Fi and Zeke over to ascertain whether any of the blood that covers them is their own. “Shall we go?” he asks.
They nod eagerly.
Unfortunately, the respite is all too brief. Enemy reinforcements rush in from all directions, easily as many as before.
Edgar groans and readies himself for more, but this bunch doesn’t attack. They stay along the walls, clog the exits, block the windows, line the balcony above, and are strangely silent.
Fi and Zeke hold their breath once again. Waiting is almost worse than the earlier bedlam.
Suddenly the entire house is jolted by some unseen impact, followed by sounds of distant stamping footsteps and muffled destruction. Peter eyes the wall hung with guitars—which are mostly destroyed, Zeke observes with regret. The jolting impact comes again, and again, growing louder, and closer. The surviving guitars rattle nervously on their hooks. Then the wall on which they hang explodes, sending fragmented masonry, broken instruments and the ruined buffet flying.
Peter’s face slackens at the sight of the huffing, slobbering beast that stands before him amongst the rubble and dust.
Cù Sìth glares, growling. Kabir trips over bodies and broken furniture to Peter’s side, astounded at what he sees.
He mutters, “Mahishasura.”
Zeke mouths wordlessly, then out loud says, “The Buffalo Demon? From Hindu scripture?”
“It can be none other,” Edgar replies. “But...”
More weres and wampyr flow in through the fresh hole in the wall behind the Buffalo Demon and span to flank him on either side.
Peter stares up at the 11 foot tall hulk. “Mahisha?”
Enormous baleful eyes, cataracted in weak milky gray, roll down in wet sockets to regard him. “Yes.” His voice comes from the pit of him, hoarse and gurgling with phlegm.
“You’re dead,” Peter states flatly, clearly perplexed.
Mahisha has the build of a hairy thickset
man with a tumid belly, but his back is severely humped and draped in thick curling fur and his shaggy oversized head is more buffalo than human, with upward curving horns. The straggling hair of his armpits is braided and held with golden ringlets, as is the inverted peak on his chest. In one thick hand he grips a black metallic mace with rows of runes damascened in gold and silver along its eight foot length, and wicked flanges at its head.
Thick fleshy lips crook in a lopsided grin that drools into his ragged beard. “Yes.”
Wepwawet coughs up blood and grumbles, “It’s about time!” He tries to push himself up, but Cù Sìth pounds him down with his fists.
Mahisha intones, “Samavari Maya,” while lifting his mace in both hands.
Cù Sìth halts in mid-punch.
Peter shouts, “No!”
The base of the mace’s handle stamps the floor with the sound of a ponderous gong. Air ripples from it in visible waves—and now there’s not just one Buffalo Demon—there are six.
Without hesitation, the one nearest Cù Sìth swings a leveling blow. Cù reacts fast enough to avoid the deadly flanges of the mace’s head, but the handle below strikes him in the midriff, launching him as if from a catapult to bash through the balcony at the far end of the room and punch through the ceiling.
Another Mahisha says, “Samavari Maya,” pounds his mace, and there are twelve. The dozen Buffalo Demons bellow together and attack. The wamps and weres join in, howling their savage inhumanity.
Fi and Zeke huddle in their corner once again.
The Buffalo Demons are surprisingly fast for their bulk, but Peter dodges every blow, wielding Gungnir with supreme deft and confidence, reaping a leg here, an arm there. He opens the gut of one, loosing an avalanche of steaming entrails. Its mace dematerializes in a particle cloud, and as its body falls it commences to decompose. Flesh sloughs, bones crumble and it ignites in sickly green flames that burn cold. Before the Mahisha reaches the ground it’s nothing but scattered dust and a spectral whorl of smoke. Peter frowns at the sight.
