Hard Magic: Book I of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

“That ain’t right,” Lance said.

  “Those are the orders. In the meantime, we are to do nothing, not even give the oath to any new members . . .” he dipped his bald head toward the end of the table that held Sullivan, Delilah, and Faye. “My apologies. If you wish to join the Society, you will need to be interviewed by the new commander. Otherwise, you will be asked to leave our protection. It is out of my hands.”

  ***

  Faye did not know what to make of this news. She had barely known Mr. Pershing, but he’d immediately accepted her like Grandpa had. He’d even taken the time to Read her mind and share some of his own memories with her. It had been especially fun to see Grandpa as a brave younger man. Some of the other memories had been strange, and she was still trying to figure out why he’d shared some of those with her.

  Browning continued talking, answering the others’ questions. They weren’t happy. Faye could tell that they were like her. They wanted to take action, not wait around for someone else to tell them what to do.

  She looked over at Mr. Sullivan. He seemed nice. He reminded her of a mature bull, big and strong, but not with a lot of snorting and kicking up dirt. Quiet, like he didn’t need to show off. You could tell he was powerful just by looking at him. She still felt bad for shooting him. Delilah would watch him quietly every time Mr. Sullivan turned away, playing it shy, which didn’t seem like Delilah at all, but Faye didn’t pretend to understand such things.

  She didn’t like that part about not being allowed to be a Grimnoir, but that didn’t matter to her. It was just a name. She had some promises to keep, and that included avenging her Grandpa, and killing Mr. Madi and his boss. The servants brought in food, and she dreamed absently about how she was going to shoot the correct Sullivan next time as she ate. She could get used to having servants.

  When the meeting was over and everyone was dispersing and that scary German who had shot her in the heart was watching her suspiciously, she caught Lance by the arm and followed him outside. “Will you still keep teaching me how to fight?”

  He stopped, thinking hard. “You didn’t keep your promise.”

  “No murdering without good reasons . . .” Faye sighed. “I’ll try harder this time.”

  Lance grinned through his bushy beard. “It’ll be my pleasure.”

  ***

  Browning had sent a servant to have Sullivan meet him alone in his workshop. It had only taken a moment of looking into the butler’s vacant expression to realize he was a Summoned, easily the most human-appearing one that he’d ever seen, but a Summoned nonetheless. It made perfect sense considering the Grimnoir’s apparent fixation on secrecy.

  The butler-creature led him to a room filled with machinery and left him at the entrance. Sullivan paused to admire the racks of beautiful weapons. He ran his finger down a perfectly engraved Auto-5, then a polished over-under, then he stopped to gawk at what must have been an early prototype of the deadly Browning Automatic Rifle. He whistled.

  “So, you are an enthusiast?” Browning said, hunched over a workbench, a tiny part in one hand as he worked it over carefully with a round file.

  “I grew up with one of your Winchester rifles, used it to put food on the table, an 1895 that my daddy brought back from Cuba. It even had the bayonet, but he never did let me use that on any deer,” he chuckled. “You could say that I’m a fair hand with a gun. Got mighty handy with a Lewis during the war.”

  Browning did not look up from his work. “Colonel Lewis designed a fine weapon.”

  Sullivan wandered around the end of the rack to another filled with guns that he did not recognize. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Browning held up the part to the light and nodded in satisfaction.

  Sullivan picked up a short weapon, and was surprised at its weight. At first he thought it was a BAR missing its stock, but rather the action was where the stock should be, enclosed in a housing so he could mount it to his shoulder like a proper stock. There was a pistol grip forward of the magazine. He realized that his face would rest on the leather pad on top of the receiver for a cheek-weld. “Interesting . . .” It made the overall weapon about a foot shorter, but still with a barrel length sufficient to generate good velocity. “No wasted space, but dang if you don’t want to shoot that one left-handed . . . You’d eat brass.”

  “The English requested that. They called it a bullpup. Overall length is significantly shorter, plus it has improvements to the gas system and bolt. It is the BAR model of 1929, but it was never submitted since I suffered a fatal heart attack . . .”

  He hefted the stubby weapon. Lighter, no bipod, it would have been much nicer in the close confines of a trench than his massive Lewis gun, though not nearly as good for laying down sustained fire. It even fired the same powerful cartridge. “It’s weird, but I like it.”

  “This one has been personally worked over, including the addition of minor spells of durability and accuracy. Five hundred rounds a minute, feeding from twenty-or thirty-round box magazines. There is a case for it behind the counter. It has a Maxim silencer that can be attached to the muzzle, much quieter, though it does get rather hot . . . I would like for you to have it.”

  Sullivan paused. “Really?”

  Browning nodded as he took the metal part and slid it into a pistol frame followed by a pin to lock it in place. “I know that you will be leaving us shortly. I’ve known Black Jack for many years, and he wasn’t quite the cipher that he thought he was. I know that he had a special assignment for you, something so important that he did not dare tell any of his longtime associates . . . The least I can do is make sure you are as well equipped as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He watched as Browning’s hands flew about in a blur, quickly assembling a pistol. Browning may have been old, but he’d done this millions of times. He continued working as he spoke, “I hail from a persecuted people, Mr. Sullivan. My family was driven from place to place. We would build a home, only to be forced out by mobs and murderers. I’ve seen persecution firsthand. That is why I joined the Society. I became a knight of the Grimnoir because no one should have to bear such cruel treatment.” He worked the slide several times and checked the trigger, nodding in satisfaction. “Excellent.”

  Sullivan did not recognize the pistol. It looked like the old favored 1911 that he’d broken, only fatter, and with a concealed hammer. Dozens of tiny designs had been hand carved into the metal grips.

  “I have lived a very long time. The last few years have been on borrowed time thanks to magical Healing. Yet, even in my old age, I’ve yet to see the end of violence against the innocent . . . I provide the weapons to prevent such things. Whatever task Black Jack gave you, Mr. Sullivan, please do not let him down.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered as Browning passed the pistol over. He took it tenderly. It even felt like his old 1911, just thicker, which was more comfortable in his big hand. The sights were bigger and easier to see than he was used to. It felt like it had been made for him.

  “The M1921, designed for Army Brutes, except the contract was cancelled. Based on my 1908, only with fourteen rounds of .45 automatic in a staggered column magazine. It is the only one of its kind, so please do not lose it. There are twenty magazines in the box on that top shelf. I will provide ammunition, as well as any supplies you need, including money. J. Edgar Hoover has been sent a telegram stating that the Army has requested your services at the American Battle Monuments Commission. Unfortunately, the Army will require you to be out of the country and unable to communicate for the foreseeable future. If anyone asks, you are detailed to the staff of one Colonel Eisenhower. Hoover will not like it, but the General had many friends. Do you still have his ring?”

  He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “I do.”

  “I believe he would want you to keep it. You will need it as a full member of the Grimnoir Society. Should you accept, I will administer the oath to you before you leave. It will provide a small measure of magical protection.”<
br />
  “I thought that your bosses said no new members?”

  “Bureaucrats are the same in every endeavor, even Magical ones. I do not know what your assignment is, but I will not have Black Jack’s dying wish denied because of me. When will you be departing?”

  Sullivan thought about it for a moment as he inspected the pistol. He needed to get to Southunder as fast as possible, but he’d started on this quest for personal reasons, and he wasn’t the type of man who left things unfinished. “I’ve got one last thing to do.”

  Lick Hill, California

  Madi folded his arms and rested them across the roof of the automobile. The summer sun beat down on him. Across the fields of waving yellow grass and small hills sat the power plant; beyond the smoking stacks was a ravine, and then the largest hill in the area. The narrow steel-strut tower that rose from the plant seemed somehow too tall. In a way, it was every bit as unnatural as he, an aberration in the laws of physics, created from wild Cog imaginings.

  “What do you think?” he asked the advance scout from the Shadow Guard contingent.

  The young woman removed her sunglasses and studied the tower’s defenses. She did not need a telescope any more than he did, revealing that she surely wore the kanji granting the vision of a hawk. “They are complacent.”

  Her assessment matched his own. He’d studied this location carefully when the Chairman had commissioned the study of weak points in the American defenses. The fact that they were able to park so close was a testament to Americans’ foolish pride. There were half a dozen other automobiles parked along the road here as well, mostly travelers stopping to gape at one of the legendary Peace Rays. Pathetic. “Can you take it?”

  “Easily. Judging from the number of vehicles, traffic, and visible guards, I would say that they are understaffed. Even if they have any Actives, we will take them by surprise,” she stated. It was a well-known fact that the military had atrophied since the last war left the country in an isolationist stupor. After all, who could invade a country that had so many Peace Rays? “It will take at least twenty minutes for reinforcements to arrive. Their lack of fear has made them soft.”

  “We’ll have to remedy that . . .” he muttered, glancing over at the Shadow Guard. The fact that she was female meant nothing. The Shadow Guard was made up of Fades and Travelers, perfect assassins. The Chairman would never waste one, even if they were of the weaker sex, but he’d been surprised to find that she was as white as he was.

  She caught him looking, and turned her eerie grey eyes on him. Her hair was dark red. She obviously knew what he was thinking. “My parents were British missionaries in Burma when it fell. I was raised in an Imperium school. It was a great honor. As you are well aware, a Caucasian is able to do more among the Americans without arousing suspicion.” She put the cheaters back on to hide her unnatural eyes.

  She was beautiful, and she knew it. Madi was impressed with the way that her every unconscious move managed to display her perfect body just enough to keep his constant attention. The Shinobi Academy had taught her well. Seduction was a valuable tool of espionage. Even if she wasn’t a Traveler, he had no doubt that she would be an effective tool. “What do they call you?”

  “For the purposes of this mission, my identity is Gladys Mays of Toledo, Ohio. In the academy, I took the name Toshiko.” She returned his gaze without fear. That was something else he would have to fix. Madi had masters and he had followers. He didn’t have equals.

  He’d taken so many kanji onto his body that all physical sensations had become dull. He had taken to cutting himself with a razor just so he could feel. It was a rare occasion to find a woman that got his attention. Madi decided he would take her for himself when this mission was complete. He’d see just what tricks the academy had taught her, and he’d consider it his reward. Being an Iron Guard had its privileges.

  “Brief your men, Toshiko. We strike tonight . . .”

  Mar Pacificia, California

  Francis had watched Faye training for the last hour. She was learning at a frightening speed, and he found it nearly impossible to keep track of how fast she popped in and out of sight, appearing suddenly at totally unexpected directions and speeds. Lance was clearly befuddled trying to keep up. Though he knew it was impossible, the girl didn’t seem to be capable of running out of Power.

  He had needed to do something to get his mind off his grief, and his first inclination had been to raid the liquor cabinet and drink himself incoherent on his family’s finest vintages, but he knew that the General would have disapproved. Pershing had been like a father to him, far better than the man who’d spawned him.

  His father hadn’t been a bad man per se, simply weak. He was a politician first, human being a distant second. He was the type who tested the wind before stating an opinion. There were no truths, only the path that had the least economic repercussions. When he’d been appointed ambassador, and had seen the Imperium’s evil firsthand, even that hadn’t been enough to goad him into taking a stand. Francis, on the other hand, had left Japan haunted with nightmares from the things he had seen.

  He was a Mover from a long line of Movers, only he was far more talented than his forbearers. To them, it was just a parlor trick, something that could become an embarrassment should it ever become public knowledge, and he had constantly been admonished to keep his Power secret. General Pershing had seen his talent, recognized his potential, and had shown him how he could use it to make things right. Pershing had taught him how to be a man. He owed him his life, except now he was gone.

  Francis jumped as Heinrich appeared on the bench beside him. The Fade always managed to move with unnerving silence. “Sorry,” he said calmly. “I did not intend to startle you.”

  “Well, you didn’t,” Francis sputtered. “I heard you coming,” he lied.

  Heinrich was quiet as he watched Faye disappear just as Lance tried to hit her with a padded stick, only to reappear ten feet in the air over his head. “She’s too talented to just be some poor country girl. I do not trust her.”

  “You’re incapable of trust,” Francis muttered, then regretted it.

  “I’ve earned that right,” Heinrich said softly. “Where I come from, trust is an honor given to very few . . .”

  Francis was once heir to the world’s greatest blimp magnate. Who was he to judge someone who’d grown up as a homeless urchin inside the walls of Dead City? Francis had never been inside the ruins of what had once been Berlin, but he’d heard the legends. The smoking blight left by the firing of the Peace Ray had ended the Great War, but had burned the land and poisoned the air. Then it was made hell on Earth as the Kaiser’s undead soldiers had been rounded up and walled inside. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it had been like to be one of the humans trapped inside, especially as a child. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  Heinrich continued as if he hadn’t heard Francis’s apology, which was probably for the best. All the Grimnoir knew that behind his friendly demeanor, Heinrich was a pained man. “This girl . . . She is not as dumb as she pretends to be.” He couldn’t disagree with that assessment. Faye was smart, just not in a normal way. “She shows up and immediately kills a prisoner just as he is starting to talk . . . That doesn’t strike you as odd?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Then soon after, we lose the General . . .”

  “We all knew it was coming soon.” Maybe that was why he didn’t feel as sad as he thought he should have. Part of him was relieved that the suffering was done, and that made him feel even guiltier. “That big Heavy was in there when he died, not Faye.” The very thought gnawed at Francis. He’d known the General since he’d been a little boy, had become a knight under his tutelage, had forsaken his family to serve under his command, and given him a home during his final years . . . and yet it had been a complete stranger who had been there at the end. “He’s Madi’s brother, but I don’t see you getting all suspicious of him.”

  “I don’t trust him either . . . I barely
trust you and we’ve worked together for years.” Heinrich’s smile was apologetic. “I’m very sorry about your nose,” he said. “I shouldn’t have struck you.”

  Francis sniffed. Jane had fixed it, but it still hurt. “She’s not a Shadow Guard. You know. Black Jack said so.” It didn’t seem right to invoke the General’s name to win an argument, but he had, and Francis was going to be damned if his suspicious friend was going to cast doubts on anything that Black Jack had said from his death bed. “So lay off her.”

  Heinrich looked at him, raising his eyebrows. “Francis Stuyvesant . . . mein Gott. Have you taken a liking to that grey-eyed lunatic?”

  “That’s . . . that’s absurd. Go to hell, Koenig,” Francis said as he rose from the bench. He wasn’t in the mood. “I’m going to go and get completely drunk.”

  ***

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” Daniel Garrett said as his fiancée cried. “You did everything you could. Nobody blames you.”

  Jane blew her nose and wiped her bloodshot eyes. “It’s my fault, Dan. I should have been able to save him.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth. “Why? Why couldn’t I be strong enough?”

  Her pain was killing him inside. Dan put his arm over her shoulder, pulled her close, cursing his own inadequacies. He knew that all he had to do was reach for his Power. Just a little push . . . the tiniest of pushes . . . He could tell the woman he loved that it wasn’t her fault, that she’d done everything she could, that no Healer could stop a Pale Horse, and with his Power to influence minds, she would believe whatever words came out of his mouth.

  Even if it was the truth, it would also be wrong, so he didn’t do it.

  “I love you, Jane,” he said softly. He was careful not to even touch his Power as he spoke. He had no right. “It wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could . . .”

  “You’re not trying to Influence me, are you?” she asked, almost, but not quite, laughing through the tears.