Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  The Nameless leapt off the rock, landing several feet lower on solid ground. As he waited for the scouts to arrive, he pondered what was to come. The only real way for the Church’s army to get the better of him (at least in the short term) would be to not fight at all; go widely around to the south hoping for a better pass through the Sierra Nevada, and proceed to directly siege Babylon. But this would take weeks, and he’d be notified in time. If that happened, he would have no choice but to admit Azarian was right.

  But the chances of the enemy doing that were miniscule, at least from what the Nameless had learned about modern warfare. The logistics of keeping a large number of people fed and sated were difficult in Babylon, and the city already had an existing infrastructure. Stretching the trip by additional weeks would knock the wind out of the first real operation of the Church’s new war machine. They will want to crush me on the first try, the Nameless concluded. They most certainly had the numbers to do it. What they didn’t have were guns. Or me.

  Besides, the success of that tactic was not guaranteed. If the Nameless turned and attacked the Holy Army from the back, they’d be stretched thin and caught in a pincer hold. Despite his forces being outnumbered, that tactic had as much of a chance of success as the Nameless’ original one. No, evading the mountain would not be that much of a good move.

  The scout came in, reporting nothing. He had met with his counterpart from up ahead, who also had no updates. The enemy was moving slowly, which was as good as it was bad. On one hand, the Nameless’ band would have more time to get comfortable in their position. On the other, the opposing army would be better rested for the fight. The Nameless looked at the rifle that hung off his shoulder. Whether the shooter is exhausted or not, bullets tear through flesh all the same.

  As the sun came down, so did the camp take shape. Tents stood one next to another, lit by numerous campfires. It was getting cold, so the Nameless sat near the closest one. Some five men shared the same flame, all visibly unnerved by the presence of their god-commander. Serving on the battlefield with him was one thing, but extended contact was another. Before yesterday, not one of them had ever seen the Nameless dine, let alone sleep. A lot were confused by the sight.

  Rations were served, and dinner commenced. The Nameless was halfway through his beef portion when someone finally willed up the courage to speak to him.

  “Lord Nameless,” the man said. He was young, no more than twenty. “Are you really a god?”

  The Nameless raised both eyebrows, stopping in the middle of a bite. The two guards nearest to him tensed. They expected him not to take it well. Willing to march beside me, but still completely terrified.

  “Yes,” he said, his stare hovering over the mask at his side. It reflected the image of the moon and stars in a distorted, but still beautiful, fashion. “I am, and so were the members of the old Management.”

  The young man seemed to weigh the words. There were rumors, but to have it confirmed so blatantly had to come with at least some surprise. The other guards’ stares were lost in the flame.

  “Then what about…” the young man obviously wanted to say something, but hesitated.

  “Speak your mind,” said the Nameless.

  “What is it with all the gods?” the young man asked, too afraid to look the Nameless in the eyes. “Back when I was little, no one like that was running around.” The other men leaned in to hear the answer.

  I wish I knew that myself, the Nameless thought, but said something else entirely. “That, soldier, is not something for mortals to know. However…” He flashed a half-smile. “Give me your best in the upcoming battle, and I will see if I can shed some light on the matter.”

  The young man’s eyes lit up, as did those of many others. The Nameless was pleased. Morale was crucial, and he intended to keep it high.

  The following three days were an extended, boring practice in idleness, at least for anyone not tasked with scouting. The Nameless spent most of his time overlooking the horizon for incoming riders, with only the occasional sparring match to break the monotony. Bit by bit, they were eating through their supplies as well, and the sound of stomachs growling in anticipation of the next ration became commonplace.

  Curious, the Nameless thought as he bit into his meat while sitting by a campfire. According to the reports, the enemy army had indeed been moving, but slowly and certainly. Are they trying to wear us out? The fights he organized helped the morale, but it was nevertheless starting to deteriorate. Tonight, no one had questions, not even the young guard sitting opposite him. Very little time passed between dinner and sleep.

  The Nameless dreamt of things he would never have again. He lay in Lydia’s embrace, content for the first time in months. She was soft, her hands warmer than anything he’d ever touched. Smiling, she played with his hair. He played with her other parts. Her voice was silkier than the bed they shared.

  “Let go,” she said, her palms resting on his cheeks.

  The Nameless had no idea of what he said in response. Whatever it was, it was drowned out by the sound of shouting.

  “What the—“ he leapt to his feet, stepping on the toes of a nearby guard. He turned around like a cornered animal, unable to make out anything. All around him, the men rose with the grogginess of someone who was just waking up. He lifted his gaze briefly, reassuring himself that it was still night. The moon was no longer full, but it was every bit as sublime, and no less ominous.

  “Enemy forces incoming!” several of the men kept shouting. “Enemy! Forces! Incoming!”

  The Nameless shoved a few men to the side and leapt back onto his rock. He didn’t need to look around for long. The not-too-distant mass of men easily numbered in the thousands. They had advanced almost halfway to the mountain base, turning the plain white with their robes. How?

  He leapt down, just barely avoiding landing on a guard. Completely ignoring the man, the Nameless’ eyes moved frantically in search of an officer. Finding him in all the commotion was difficult; doing so at night proved impossible.

  “How did this happen?” he roared. “Where are our scouts?”

  Some of the racket died down then, and the Nameless was finally able to see the men’s expressions. A good portion of them were one step away from panic.

  “Missing in action, Lord Nameless,” a baggy-eyed guard said, sprouting from between a pair of his colleagues. They were both in the process of re-arming, while the speaker was in full combat gear. He seemed to be in his late 40s, his goatee showered with grey hairs.

  “Were you on guard duty?” the Nameless shouted with fury in his voice.

  “Yes, my Lord,” the older guard said. “The scouts were late, so we gave them the customary hour-long wait. But then instead of our riders, this appeared.” He waved toward the direction of the enemy. “We raised the alert immediately.”

  The Nameless’ forehead wrinkled. Scouts not reporting? He considered the cause. Were they captured or killed? The likelihood of it happening to all of them was ridiculously low. No, something was off here, and he would learn what. But that would have to wait. Right now, I have a battle to win.

  “Well done,” he said, trying to sound confident. The old guard’s expression told him that he was not doing a very good job. He breathed in deep, preparing to shout. “You heard the man! Take your positions! This is what we prepared for! The fact that it came unannounced means nothing at all!”

  Some of the men seemed to cheer, but as far as the Nameless knew, it might as well have been murmuring. Not even I believe me. How can I expect them to? he wondered as he went for his own gear.

  Now fully armed and with his mask back on, the Nameless perched on the rock once more. Down on the plains, the incoming army seemed to be upping its pace. No longer groggy, he started making out details: spears, white tabards, and… face-covering hoods? He almost smiled. Trying to be ghosts, are they? I will grant their wish.

  He rose, pointing his finger toward the white mass. “Men! Stand our ground! The enem
y might be vast, but their position is inferior and their armament archaic! Take hold of your rifles and get ready! This will be a long night!”

  He turned toward the old guard, looking at the marks on his shoulders. “You are a sergeant?”

  “Yes, Lord Nameless!” the man said, standing at attention while everyone around him rushed to claim a firing spot.

  “Get me an officer, and do it quickly,” the Nameless said, turning around and looking at every direction. His thoughts raced more quickly than the scenery turned. Reports matching up, then all scouts disappearing? He looked down the road they’d taken to ascend, every bit of it obscured by inky darkness. There certainly were a lot of side-paths down there…

  The voice of another man broke his train of thought. “Lord Nameless! Your commands?”

  “You are to proceed with the plan,” said the Nameless. “Constant barrage. Escalate to explosives when the enemy gets close enough. Can you keep this defense going without my presence?”

  “I can, my Lord,” the officer said, now looking at his feet. He paused. “Do you plan on leaving us?”

  “No. I intend to do a little bit of scouting myself,” he said, turning to the officer. “Tell me, how many men can you spare?”

  ***

  Minding his step, the Nameless led a group of twenty men down the winding mountain path. The moon and flashlights did their part at pushing back the darkness, but he still barely managed to see further than thirty feet.

  “Keep your eyes wide open,” he said, rifle at the ready. “If you see anything move, you let everyone know immediately.”

  The men voiced their agreement, but the Nameless barely registered it. He was busy with listening for other things, as well as wrestling with his own thoughts.

  Azarian’s instructions had been clear and precise. The sheriff knew the area well, in contrast to most of the guard. Before the disaster, he used to be a ranger, and had been trying to keep order even before coming to Babylon. This unique combination of experiences made him a logical candidate for the position. Now, the Nameless was not as certain.

  These paths are long, and can lead anywhere. Even to the other side of the mountain. The Nameless checked a surface for stability before he signaled for the others to follow. Most of these men he knew from before. From memory, they were reliable. A lot were willing to follow him into either victory or death, dazzled by his displays of heroism. If anything was rotten here, it wasn’t his unit.

  The same cannot be said about the forward scouts. His legs went slightly numb at the thought, so he shook them in between steps. The idea that he had been betrayed was not a pleasant one, but the possibility was there. Worse off, it was the only explanation he could come up with. In all likelihood, the forward scouts lied about the enemy’s position all this time, then eliminated their counterparts during their scheduled meeting tonight.

  For once, the Nameless was grateful for his mask. Had the guards seen his expression, they’d have run screaming into the night.

  The chorus of the first barrage echoed from up high, letting them know that the enemy was close enough to shoot. A number of the Nameless’ entourage twitched, but quickly regained their composure. This will make it difficult to catch anyone sneaking, the Nameless realized. He picked up his pace, and the rest followed. Being quiet was no longer relevant.

  For an excessively long half hour, the group kept going downhill, mindful of their step as well as anything else they could see or hear. As the gunshots became more frequent, so did the roar from the plains grow louder and louder. Every once in a while, the Nameless checked the faces of the guards without turning his head. Their expressions showed determination. Focus. An arrow sticking out of an eye. What?

  He leapt to the side, landing behind a moss-covered boulder while screaming at the top of his lungs. “Ambush! Take cover and fire!”

  The air sang, cut by the arrow fire from below. Two more guards fell while the rest dispersed, taking shelter behind trees, stone, dirt, whatever could prevent imminent death. Rifles started responding to the melody, overtaking the rhythm without any trouble. The Nameless didn’t bother to aim, and neither did anyone else. Gun set to automatic fire, he squeezed the trigger and kept showering the darkened path with lead.

  He used up his clip. A loud thumping told him to hurry up as he reloaded. The enemy was not idle, and there was a lot more to go. He considered resuming what he’d been doing, but then he remembered the main advantage he had: explosives. Still hiding behind the rock, the Nameless reached for both grenades, pulling the pins out with his teeth.

  One. The guards started firing again, preventing him from keeping track of the attackers’ positions. Two. He contracted his legs, preparing to spring into action. Three! The Nameless stood up, propelling the pair of grenades as far down as they’d go. A hint of a scream managed to reach his ears before the sound of explosions overpowered it completely. For a second or so, it was as bright as day. The Nameless smiled. Apparently, at least one more of his men had tossed his own grenade.

  “Break them! Break them completely!” He grabbed his rifle, pointed it downward and squeezed the trigger once more. He didn’t release until he was completely out.

  About ten guns clicked, signaling their emptiness. As the Nameless reloaded, so did he try and make out what he could about his group. From what he saw, about half were still standing.

  Another set of thumps reached his ears then, causing the Nameless to turn downward. Those of his men who were still standing did the same. He strained his eyes, unable to make out a thing. However, his hearing still did its job: it told him it was the sound of one person running.

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted, extending his left hand. His right kept the rifle pointed into the darkness.

  The thumping intensified.

  “Give up now, and your life will be spared!” Having someone to interrogate will help with this brainteaser.

  It didn’t stop.

  “Fire!” the Nameless roared, lighting up the path again. What he saw made him question his sanity: somehow, a gigantic lug of a man was running up toward them. His clothes were shredded or burnt off; all he had on were some rags around his hips. He didn’t try to avoid the gunfire. Instead, he dashed through it at top speed. There didn’t seem to be any blood.

  Am I on drugs again? the Nameless thought as he let his rifle drop. There wasn’t any time to reload. The man kept getting closer with each breath. Keeping himself steady, the Nameless pulled his coat to the side, took out the revolver, and aimed at the nearing forehead. No hair, he realized as he pulled the trigger. His aim was perfect, yet all it produced on impact was a bunch of… sparks?

  He fired two more times, once in the chest, then in the stomach. Both bullets ricocheted off the man’s musculature, apparently not leaving a single scratch. Who is this? The god of steel? Now almost face to face with the juggernaut, all the Nameless could do was leap to the side. He straightened himself as quickly as possible, but by that time, he found himself short one guard.

  A broken body lay on the ground right behind him, gasping for breath and bleeding into the grass. His limbs were twisted, his face caved in. Above it, the bald man stood tall and proud, holding in his hands the rifle he’d pilfered from the dying guard.

  “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” someone kept screaming as they ineffectively showered the bald man with bullets. Their target laughed, turning around in a half-circle and responding in kind. It took only a couple of seconds for five men to turn into fountains of blood.

  No! Wasting no time, the Nameless ran up to the bald man, letting his revolver drop and going for the sword. Screaming in an attempt to grab his attention, the Nameless swung the blade in a wide arc, going for the neck. Another series of sparks ensued, amplifying the Nameless’ disappointment when the force of resistance shattered the blade.

  The bald man finished his turn, ending the lives of the remaining men. Now face to face with the Nameless, he seemed to smile, or perhaps not. It was difficu
lt to tell with the Skulls’ mutilations.

  “Asian crap,” he said, referring to the broken sword. He swung the rifle like a club, going for the Nameless’ head. His voice was like the cracking of a boulder. “Breaks easily.”

  Invulnerable? The Nameless ducked under the swing, taking a quick step back. Were things different, he would have instead hit any of the man’s exposed spots, sentencing him to death. But given that he’d just laughed off bullets, that didn’t seem the best idea.

  The man stepped forward and swung again, his bared teeth glinting in the moonlight. The Nameless retreated once more, evading the attack without significant trouble.

  Perhaps I can drive him off a cliff? The Nameless moved away, considering his options. For as long as he was more mobile, he reasoned, there was still a chance. As if to mock him, the air started to sing again. No! No! No!

  This time, he leapt to the side, avoiding several arrows as he slammed against the ground to his right. The burning sensation around his left shoulder blade told him that he didn’t manage to dodge them all. He looked up as he started to rise, his gaze meeting that of the advancing bald man. The eyes! If I can get the gun…

  The Nameless turned around quickly, fumbling for his revolver while he looked for a shine in the grass. Instead, he got the sound of bows being drawn. Damn! Instead of back, he leapt toward the bald man, letting a few stray arrows hit him instead of the Nameless. The fact that they all broke on impact immensely diminished the small satisfaction he got from that.

  There it is! the Nameless thought, noticing a glimmer of silvery metal sticking out from a mound of dirt. Ignoring the pain the way he always did, he forced himself back up, taking three rapid steps and landing on his stomach just in case. As he wrapped his fingers around the cold steel, he rolled himself on his back and closed one eye. The bald man did not hesitate; he charged forward, holding the rifle by the barrel, ready to smash.

  The Nameless pulled the trigger, aiming for the softest of soft tissues. His aim could not have been more perfect: the bullet ended up right in the middle of the attacker’s right eye. And then it flattened, covering the socket like a mockery of a monocle. The way that the bald man’s brow contracted over it gave the impression that he was in on the joke.