Hard Magic: Book I of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  Faye was confused. “Like what? We’ve got to start looking for Jane, so we don’t really have time for a funeral or nothing.” The arrangements for Grandpa’s funeral had seemed to take forever, and that was even after he’d been burned to near nothing with the haystack.

  He gave a sad little shake of his head. “Nothing like that. We must see to the living first, though I’m afraid that it is too late for Jane. No, afterward, I will dig Delilah’s grave myself. I have much practice at digging graves.”

  She leaned on a big porcelain sink and waited for him to continue. There was a rusty drain hole in the floor and the idea of what it was for made her uncomfortable. Heinrich rubbed one hand over his face and she saw that he had his Luger sitting in his lap. “Why the gun?”

  “Because sometimes when a Lazarus creates undead the effect can linger for awhile. Sometimes if the Active is strong enough, it can last for hours, and anyone who dies in that place could have their spirit trapped . . . When I followed the orderlies down here with her body, I thought that I felt a tingle of magic.”

  “You think Delilah could be a . . . zombie?” she asked, incredulous.

  He shrugged. “Probably not, but if she is, I will deal with it on my own and spare her dignity. It is a terrible fate, and one that I would never willingly have fall on another. I have known of people waking up as much as twenty-four hours after their death, and they do not even realize it.”

  He sure does know a lot about zombies. “I heard that you grew up in Dead City.”

  The silence was long and uncomfortable. A sink was dripping. “I do not wish to speak of it . . .” he said.

  “Okay,” Faye answered, not really knowing what else to say. “Would you mind if I helped you . . . keep watch?”

  Heinrich didn’t answer then. Seconds passed into minutes and he had a faraway look in his eyes. Faye grew bored, and started counting the drips coming from the faucet, but Lance and Francis were busy, Mr. Browning was medicated asleep, and Mr. Rawls had had to leave to place a telephone call.

  “It wasn’t always Dead City. It used to be called Berlin,” he said finally, sighed, and then it was like a ditch had broken and memories spilled out. “It seemed like a magical place to a young boy. My family lived on the outskirts. Father fixed pianos, and he would often bring me along with him into the city. Many of the pianos were in old churches and schools, and while he worked, I would play. I would climb the towers, find the crawl spaces in the walls. Those places became my kingdom, and I was the valiant knight that defended them. There were so many people, always moving about, and then the war came, and all of the men went to fight, including my father.”

  “In the Great War?” she asked.

  “Ja. We did not know to call it that then. To a little boy, I only knew that I missed my papa very much, and there was not so much happiness anymore. Many of the other boys received letters, saying that their fathers had died, but I knew that mine would come home. Food was scarce, and we were often hungry. It got worse, but I got older. I took care of my family, even if it meant stealing the food we ate. Finally so many of our soldiers had died that the government could not keep up with the letters, and all of us wondered if the war would ever end.”

  “But it did end . . .” Faye said. She was no student of history, but she listened to the radio. Everyone knew the brave Allies had beat the dastardly Kaiser.

  “Ah, yes, it ended in a flash of light. When I woke up, my home, my town, was rubble. Berlin was ruined, all of the old places crumbled, and in the center was nothing but a smoking hole. I spent days searching for my family, but they were all dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Do not be sorry. They were the lucky ones. Were you ever taught in school what happened next?”

  “I never went to school.”

  “Good, you’re not missing anything . . . History is mostly lies. The Kaiser had grown so desperate that he had used his wizards to keep his soldiers alive. As they were killed, he had their spirits chained to their bodies, so that they could continue to defend the Fatherland. When the war was over, there were still nearly a million of these poor wretches. They could not die, but the process of this false resurrection had left most of them too dangerous to send back to their homes. The treaty left us bankrupt and unable to care for them. But the Kaiser had a perfect solution. He had a dead city, so why not fill it with his dead subjects? A great wall was raised around the ruins, and the undead were herded inside.”

  “What about the alive people, like you?”

  “The survivors were supposed to rebuild. It was our duty. We were to be caretakers for these poor soldiers. When the wall went up, there were several thousand of us . . . at first.”

  Faye was aghast. “That’s terrible. They just left you?”

  Heinrich fingered the Luger. “Do you know what happens to the untotten? The undead? The pain of death is upon them still. They never heal from the wounds that sent them there. The pain never lessens. It only grows as does their hunger. Most of them keep their wits, for a time, but soon it becomes too much to bear. They lash out in a rage at anything available, including each other . . . We were caretakers at first, then we were merely . . . food.”

  She covered her mouth, but a little yelp slipped out anyway.

  “Koenig is not my real name. It means King. That’s what they called me after a while, because I was the last man alive in Dead City. I was the King of the Living. I survived by my Power, by my cunning, by my stealth. The old places where I’d hid and played as a child became my sanctuaries. I spent my days in the walls, in the tunnels, hunting for food, killing the undead that tried to hurt me and my friends. Then after several years, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I Faded through the Berlin Wall and never looked back. I was fifteen years old.”

  And I thought that I’d had it rough . . . An Oklahoma shack might as well have been Francis’s mansion in comparison. Faye reached over and touched Heinrich gently on the shoulder. “Why’d you stay so long?”

  He watched Delilah’s sheet for movement, but there was nothing moving there except bad dreams. “Because not all of them were mad. Many of the dead remained true to who they were in life. My family never got a letter from the front, but . . . he did come home, most of him. Together, we found a working piano in an old school. He played it every day. The sound gave the other sane ones hope. Finally, I made him stop, because the sound attracted the hungered. After that . . . he had nothing to survive for . . . but I stayed with papa until the end.”

  ***

  “Son of a bitch . . .” Harkeness said, peering through the corner of the window into the hospital room. “What’s he doing here?”

  If he links us to Pershing’s death, it could ruin everything.

  The Pale Horse watched Cornelius Stuyvesant as he followed his grandson, still shouting useless orders at his functionaries. He had come as soon as he had heard Isaiah’s panicked voice inside his head.

  Stuyvesant brought a fast blimp. Francis intends to go after the Tokugawa with it. It must not be delayed.

  “I will not let him ruin everything,” he muttered under his breath. Harkeness awoke his Power. To him it was a dark, malevolent cloud that swam in his lungs. He could still feel the connection to Stuyvesant, lips under poison fingertips, the beating of his heart, the electrical firings of his brain, the pumping of blood. They were inevitably connected by death magic. He’d never thought that he would need to do this to the pathetic old man, but they could not afford the interruption. Not now. The Healer might slow him, but nobody could stop the full focus of his Power at this range. “Reap the whirlwind, you bloated fool.”

  ***

  Dan Garrett moaned as the hole in his arm hissed and steamed. Visible bone was coated by rolling muscle and sprouting veins, then finally by bright pink skin. The Healer’s hands were glowing as he took them away. He paused to wipe his sweating brow on his shirt. “Next?”

  “Browning is on the third floor,” Lance sa
id. “Come on.”

  “That’s the one with the punctured lung?” the Healer asked. “Very well.”

  “Hold on there, Howard,” Cornelius ordered. “How much Power do you have left?”

  The Healer was a surprisingly tubby man with bushy sideburns. “Truth be told, not much, sir. After this I’ll need to rest for a few hours before I give you your daily checkup, especially after I help this other man.”

  “Then you will do no such thing,” the richest man in the world commanded.

  Francis had known that this moment was coming. He could only keep up the momentum for so long before his grandfather’s inherent stubbornness was sure to raise its ugly head. He looked around the room to see who was going to be witness to the coming argument. He had the surly Lance, and the semiconscious Dan, neither of which would be of much assistance, one hospital doctor, and then six of his grandfather’s functionaries, hangers-on, and bodyguards. It was standing room only.

  “Grandfather, could we speak in private?”

  He thought about it for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Everybody out!”

  “But I work here,” the doctor said, but a guard grabbed him by the arm and yanked him effortlessly through the door. Lance helped Dan from the room. His friend was obviously disoriented. It was too bad, because he sure could have used Dan’s Influence right then. The last one out was the Healer. He closed the door behind them, leaving Francis with his grandfather. The only remaining witness was a white skeleton that was bolted to the wall.

  “Why are you here?” Francis asked.

  “I told you. I was concerned for your safety. You are family.”

  Francis shook his head. “That’s not what you said the last time we spoke.”

  Cornelius lowered his gaze, studying the shine on his shoes. “What would you have me do? Apologize? That’s not my way.”

  He laughed. “An apology? You think an apology makes up for all the terrible things the Imperium has done? That you’ve helped them do so you could turn a coin?”

  “Don’t you dare lecture me, boy!” Cornelius shouted so loudly that it seemed as if the windows shook. “It is a competitive world, and if I didn’t do the job, then somebody else would have. I did what I had to do. I always make sure the family interest comes first. Your father understood this, why can’t you?”

  Francis ripped the skeleton off the wall with his Power and hurled it across the room. Cornelius cringed before the sudden fury. “My father was a coward. He saw what the Chairman was doing to people, and he looked the other way. I saw children being butchered because they weren’t up to snuff! I saw people, horrible distorted people, broken and re-formed by magic! They kept Actives in cages like animals while they tortured them!” A bottle came off the counter and shattered against the far wall. “My father killed himself with opium once he knew I’d found the truth. He died rather than face it. He was a filthy coward!”

  The door opened and his grandfather’s guard stuck his head in. “Is everything—”

  “Be gone, you oaf,” Cornelius said. The door closed. “Francis, the world is what it is. The best you can hope to do is read the current so that you don’t end up dashed against the rocks.”

  Francis did not have time for this. “If you really consider me family, then you’ll grant me this one thing. I need—” he stopped, scowling. “What’s wrong with your nose?”

  “What?” A thin trickle of blood was streaming from Cornelius’s nostrils. He touched it, and his glove came away red. “Why . . . Why . . . I don’t rightly . . .” The trickle of blood turned into a torrent, rolled down his chest and splattered across the floor. He took a step, and Francis caught him as he fell, calling for the Healer.

  Howard scrambled in, hurrying to his meal ticket’s side. The rest of Cornelius’s entourage was right behind, staring over their masks. His grandfather began to convulse in his arms, splattering blood across them both. “What’s wrong with him?”

  The Healer’s hands turned to molten gold and he placed them against Cornelius’ chest. “He was recently cursed by a Pale Horse, but I’d seen no sign.”

  “What? That can’t be.” Just like Pershing. “Why?”

  “Nobody knows,” Howard said. “Let me concentrate.”

  After several seconds of direct Power, the shaking stopped, and Cornelius began to breathe again, exhaling great rasping gusts that stank of corruption. The calculating part of his mind said that he should only feel disgust at watching this man die, but all Francis felt was alarm. Howard removed his hands and they returned to normal. “I can’t believe it . . .” he said, shaking from the exertion. “It’s as if everything is going wrong at once. Give me a moment to regain my strength.”

  His grandfather’s hand closed around his sleeve. “Francis,” he heaved. “Listen.”

  “Save your strength, Grandfather,” he cautioned.

  “No . . . Curse him. If this is to be my death bed, you must know . . . the truth . . .” When he opened his eyes, Francis cringed at the sight of the blood tears flowing from them. “I . . . I had Pershing cursed . . .”

  What? He couldn’t believe it. He’d known his grandfather was a crook, but he’d never . . .”Why? Why would you do that?”

  “For you . . . To avenge your father . . . Forgive me.” He spasmed as a terrible cough shook his ribs. Howard gritted his teeth and laid his hands back on Cornelius. “Oh, please, I did it for you . . .”

  Francis couldn’t respond. The words would not come.

  The Healer rocked back. Visible heat waves bent the air around his hands. “I can’t . . . It’s like the Pale Horse is counteracting everything I do . . .”

  The Power had bought him another few seconds. Cornelius dragged Francis close. “The Pale Horse . . . He made me do him a favor . . . Mod-Modify the Chairman’s ship . . . Nonsense design . . . Nothing . . . He used me . . . as a fool . . . I’m a fool . . . But I did it for you.” He closed his red eyes and his breath was coming in rapid, shallow gasps.

  “Can’t you do something?” Francis shouted, turning to the crowd. “Any of you?” But there was no answer.

  Cornelius’s eyes flashed open, and he spoke with force, making sure he would be heard by all. “Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant . . . you are my heir. You’re the only one worth . . . a bucket of warm piss . . . in . . . in the whole lot. Howard, Raymond, Kirk, all of you . . . as my witnesses, Francis is my sole heir. Take it all . . . as an . . .” His voice trailed off to a whisper and Francis had to press his ear against his bloody lips to hear his last word. “. . . apology.”

  The richest man in the world died in his arms. Francis took a moment to gently lower the heavy body to the ground before rising and stumbling over to the sink. He turned it on, as hot as possible, and washed his hands, then scrubbed his face until his skin was raw. He tore his shirt off and threw it on the floor. The scalding water felt good as it sent the blood down the drain.

  Pershing died because of me. Father killed himself because of me. Mother drank herself to death after father’s death, also my fault. Grandfather died, making a deal with the devil, for me . . . The Peace Ray was fired at Mar Pacifica because it was my home . . .

  He had to steady himself on the sink. The UBF men were all watching him. None of them wanted to remove their masks now. The water dripped down his face and he watched it run in a stream from his nose. They’d always said he’d inherited his grandfather’s nose. One of the retainers stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m your grandfather’s senior attorney. There will have to be an immediate—”

  “Shut up,” Francis whispered.

  “Sir, really, there will be an inquiry, and the board will—”

  What would Black Jack Pershing do?

  Every loose item in the room rose a foot off the ground before dropping in a terrible clatter. “I said shut up!” he screamed. They did. He pushed away from the sink and used a towel to dry his face. When he spoke again, his voice was as calm as he could make it. “You heard the man.
I’m in charge. Now I want my airship ready to fly immediately, with fuel enough for a transoceanic voyage. Which one of you is in charge of security?” A Brute raised his hand. “What kind of weapons do you have aboard?”

  “Other than sidearms? A few Springfield rifles and a Thompson,” he said hesitantly.

  “Not good enough,” Francis snapped. “Go down to the local outfitters. I want trench guns, accurate rifles in heavy calibers, automatic rifles, and machine guns, lots of machine guns. And ammo, piles of ammo . . . and explosives . . .”

  “Uh . . . Explosives, sir?”

  “Dynamite, or something better if they’ve got it,” Francis snapped. “Take my friend Heinrich, he’ll know what to buy. If you’re useless, leave now; if you’re willing to go kick some Imperium butt, come with me. This is going to be dangerous and most of us will probably die, but if you do . . . Grandfather was bound to bring an accountant. Which one of you is the accountant?” A tall man raised his hand. “Any volunteer who dies. Make sure his family receives double, no, triple his salary every year for the rest of their lives.”

  “Can do,” the accountant promised.

  Francis scowled at the group. It would have to do. “Let’s go . . . And take those stupid masks off.”

  ***

  After telling his story, Heinrich had gone back to his stony morgue vigil. Faye watched him quietly. She had not liked the German at first, but she decided that that was just because he had shot her to death. He was nice too, in his own way.

  Each of the Grimnoir had his own burden. All of them had been beaten by the world, but rather than give in, they’d committed to making that world a better place. She really did fit in here, and she amended her promise accordingly. She would kill the Chairman, not just for revenge, but because as long as he was around, the world was going to stay a bad place, and maybe even get worse. She was sick and tired of mean people hurting others, and she was going to put a stop to them.

  It felt good to put everything into black and white and to pick a side. It filled her with a sense of purpose.