by M. T. Miller
The Nameless closed his eyes in an attempt to savor the kill. The spoils of this sacrifice to himself were almost tangible, but still just outside of his reach. As if to mock him, this cloud of magic hovered in the air around him like food over Tantalus.
The curse-bag. Now or never! The Nameless peeked out of the tent, checking if anyone had seen Greg’s body. Having made certain that the coast was clear, he grabbed it by the legs and dragged it in.
He felt around his belly, rolling the bloody tabard to the side. The bag wasn’t difficult to find: it was hard, out of place, and so, so cold. Getting it out would be a horror, but it was an absolute necessity. He breathed in deep. The sooner I get it done with, the sooner the pain will pass.
The Nameless cut into himself, not paying any attention to his spilling guts. His prize was in the air, waiting to be claimed. Whatever damage he did to himself, it would fix. The pain seared his insides and the shock blurred his vision, but there was no going back. He’d started cutting, and there was nowhere to go but forward.
He reached the lump and grabbed it firmly, pulling it out along with the attached intestine. He cut around it to make sure it was no longer attached to him, then tossed it at the opposite end of the tent. Gasping in pain, the Nameless prostrated himself on the ground, closed his eyes, and inhaled.
Slowly at first, then picking up speed, the Nameless’ guts slithered back into his body. Though he expected the process to be painful, his agony became more and more bearable with each passing second. By the time he was strong enough to straighten himself up, not only were his innards back inside, but he didn’t even have any scars.
On impulse he felt his face, learning to his relief that his lips had grown back. The fact that he was still shaved bald came as a slight disappointment, but that was irrelevant. A lot of work was before him, and he needed to get on with it.
After hastily removing the bloodstained tabard, the Nameless opened Kenneth’s locker. He changed in a hurry, putting a fresh hood over his now-whole face. Then, after arming himself with a sword and longbow from the weapons locker, he took the grappling hook and rope, put it into a backpack, and put it on his back.
As he crept out of the tent the Nameless looked left and right once more. The murders had gone unnoticed and no one else was out of their tent. The way for him to proceed was as clear as it would ever be.
The first problem with having a fanatical army is that the men tend to trust each other, he thought as he set course toward the engineering camp.
***
Crouching, the Nameless snuck from one tent to another, circling around the catapults. His goal was clear: he was to get as close as possible to the rider before making his move.
Positioned some twenty feet behind the mounted Knight, he took off his backpack, quiver, and bow. Still on one knee, he took the weapon, held an arrow against the string, and drew. He aimed at the head of one grounded Knight, then the other.
First, the farther one. He released, immediately going for another arrow. There was no need to check if his aim were true. It always was. He drew the bow again, noticing his first target fall with his peripheral vision while he held the next one in his sights. The rider was beginning to move as well, but his turn would come later.
The second arrow was on mark as well, and it was time for the Nameless’ next move. Having grabbed the sword and pulled it out of its scabbard, he dashed toward the rider at full speed. The rider spotted him, albeit with one eye. By the time the second caught sight of the Nameless, the man’s head was already separated from his body.
With the limp body sliding off the horse the animal was on the verge of panic. Grabbing its reins with both hands and letting the sword fall, the Nameless steered it toward the catapults before it had a chance to flee. He tied it to the closest fence, knowing full well he would have need of it soon.
A sledge, quickly! He scanned his immediate area, noting several large boxes of tools. Any one of them should contain what he needed. He yanked one open, immediately grabbing the heaviest hammer he could swing. Rustling sounds started coming from the surrounding tents. Little by little, the camp was waking up.
Like man when he first discovered the club, the Nameless went wild. He smashed, dented, and otherwise made useless every metal part of the catapults. Wood split and metal sparked, and he kept going. It took an arrow to the forearm for him to drop the hammer. Enough.
Getting low, the Nameless scuttled up to his backpack and took it before turning around and getting on the horse. With stealth out of the window, there was nothing to do but speed toward the pyramid and hope for the best. He forced the animal to turn as quickly as possible, thankful that the few arrows that flew toward them missed.
Go! He flicked the reins, ignoring the pain in his forearm. The horse moved and the ache worsened. He was on the back of a panicking animal, speeding between countless rows of white tents, while being fired on from multiple directions. Pulling the arrow out would have to wait.
The arrow fire became more frequent. A sane man would have pressed himself against the animal’s back, but the Nameless had a different idea; he rode upright. He could endure a stray arrow or ten—the mount, not as much.
Criss-crossed between the tents and any rising Knights, the Nameless rode out of the camp. Now! Full speed ahead! He flicked the reins again, this time as hard as he could. The horse neighed, charging forward with all its speed. Arrows flew near and far, some hitting the ground, others going far beyond. One embedded itself in his back, causing a momentary lack of coordination that nearly brought him to the ground. Luckily, he regained control in time and managed to remain on the animal.
At least until the pyramid opened fire.
Initially the hail of bullets hit nothing but the ground, but as the long seconds passed and the Nameless neared his goal, the shooters’ aim improved. A bullet grazed his shoulder, missing the mount. Another shooter wasn’t as merciful and hit the horse’s upper leg, thankfully not damaging it enough to prevent further movement. Still, the Nameless knew what would inevitably follow, and was ready for it.
The mount lasted much longer than expected. On one hand, he was thankful for this. On the other, he was insulted by the men’s sloppiness. I thought they were trained better. By the time the animal’s body went limp, the Nameless was within running distance of the pyramid. The Nameless tensed up, then relaxed, allowing himself to fly forward so he rolled on the ground.
He rose but a split second later, zigzagging to prevent any attempts at predicting his pattern. Additional shots hit him, none in crucial spots. The points of entry hurt, but he didn’t slow down. If he stopped moving, he would stay still forever. Their aim is bad. No point in playing games. Straight line!
The Nameless sprinted toward the pyramid with all the speed he could muster. He took some more shots along the way, how many he didn’t count. After reaching the city’s smooth wall, however, the gunfire stopped, and he could proceed. Dropping the bag, he opened it up and pulled out the grappling hook. To his relief, he found that the rope was undamaged.
He stepped back, just enough to get a better glimpse of the air vents. With one in view, the Nameless steadied his breathing, revved up his body, and tossed the hook up. He was successful on the first try. Pulling to make sure the rope was steady, he pressed his legs against the wall and began to ascend. On reflex, he looked toward the Army’s camp, and noticed a formation of horsemen riding forward at full speed.
I will have to cut the rope, he realized as he ascended toward the opening. The grill covering it was large, almost six feet by six. Moving it would require effort.
The Nameless grabbed the bars with his left hand and dislocated the hook from them with his right. Still holding the grapple, he approached the spacing between the panels to his left and stuck the hook there. He rocked the rope hard, only proceeding to fasten it around himself once he was certain it was stable. Beyond the length he needed to keep himself up there, he cut the rope with his knife.
; He grabbed the grill, forcing himself not to look down, and pulled with all his might. The angle was well thought out and allowed him to apply sufficient force without dislodging the grappling hook and plummeting to his death, and the grill gave way without much trouble. He let it fall down without regard for the panels. Most of them were damaged anyway.
With movements resembling that of a lizard, the Nameless crawled into the vent and exhaled in deep relief upon finding his feet on solid ground again. He cut the rope around his waist, and without looking back ran down the air duct with his head lowered. Along the way he broke the butts off the arrows that stuck out of his body and pulled them out. Those that hadn’t gone through him had already been pushed out, along with the bullets.
How much more can I recover before needing to kill again?
There were intersections, but he went straight ahead, reaching another grill. There was no hesitation—he kicked it open immediately, let it fall down, and noticed to his relief that the air duct opened right above a hanging mansion on the ground floor.
These always have rope ladders, he remembered as he landed on the roof then slowly descended onto the terrace. His assumption was correct. Wrapped right next to the Nameless, a bundle of ropes and sticks awaited being kicked down. Not wanting to deny it its purpose, he did just that, and proceeded to descend.
He wasn’t alone when he touched the ground.
Ten people, none of them in uniform but all bearing some sort of weapon, had formed a circle around his touchdown point. His eyes skirted over their hands, and he noticed a total of four rifles. Are these gang members? Militia?
“Arms up!” a rifle-bearing man said.
“How many more are coming?” another rifle bearer, this time a woman, asked.
Of course. I still have my hood on. The Nameless did as he was told, but pointed both thumbs at his hood. “I am not a Skull. Remove my hood, and you will see,” he said in a theatrical manner. It was the way he had talked when he wore another mask.
A man reached out, but another made him stay his hand. “Don’t touch him! Want to be taken hostage?”
“I can take it off,” the Nameless said, keeping his tone. “With one hand, if necessary.”
“Do it,” the man who spoke first said after a moment of consideration.
The Nameless pulled the hood off in a single motion, but still did it slowly. He didn’t count on anyone recognizing him, but the hope was still there. Must try.
“You do not see it because of my shaved head and lack of mask,” he said, “but my voice should clearly tell you who I am.”
A few exchanged glances, but the rest were not as easily persuaded.
“Again, how many more are coming?” the rifle-bearing woman asked, shaking her weapon.
There is little time. “Again, I am Lord Nameless, returned. You know it is me, and I can see it in your eyes.”
This time, everyone showed signs of doubt.
Yes. Just a little bit more. “Lay down your arms. This concerns the safety of the city, and even the continent.”
“Why wear their uniform, then?” another man asked.
“Do you not see the blood?” the Nameless asked. “I had to kill my way here. It was a ploy, a tactical move to learn their secrets—and it worked. I now know how to drive the Holy Army back, and you will too. All you need to do is lower your arms.” This last part was, of course, a lie, but no one needed to know that.
A long and unpleasant silence ensued. The only thing that disrupted it was the Nameless’ restless heartbeat.
“If you are who you say you are…” the rifle-bearing woman mused out loud, still in thought.
Yes! The Nameless all but smiled.
The gunshot that tore through his forehead and exited out the back of his head told him that his joy was a bit premature.
“Then you should have no problem with this,” the woman finished her sentence as everything went black.
***
The pain in the back of his head was monstrous, but that was no reason for worry. If anything, it let him know that he still had a head.
Burying his fingers into the filthy soil, the Nameless struggled to straighten himself up. He opened his eyes and winced at the corpses that seemed to spin around him. What the…? He stood with his legs spread for stability, drifting in and out of a persistent haze.
A series of gunshots shattered that state and pulled him back to his senses. He turned toward the source, just barely preventing himself from kissing the ground again.
No!
The madman that was Malachi stood no more than twenty feet away, laughing and shouting. Holding a rifle in each hand, he showered the nearing militia with lead while their own gunfire harmlessly bounced off his body.
The Nameless looked around, desperate for something, anything he could use to stop this monstrosity. A knife here, a handgun there, even a stray rifle held by a bloody corpse; all equally useless.
I need something bigger. He turned toward the houses on his left. Tall and rickety, they offended the eyes almost as much as they did the other senses. One was particularly bad, in essence little more than several large pieces of tin stuck to the side of a large wall.
Better than anything else, I guess. The Nameless took a knife from a nearby corpse and took a couple of steps away from Malachi to check his coordination. After making certain that he was back in control of his body, he tossed the knife in the man’s general direction, turned away, and started running.
He was just about to successfully reach cover when a bullet tore through the upper part of his leg. The Nameless hit the ground face-first, dug both hands into the dirt, and crawled to safety while the gunfire raised a cloud of dust around him. The tin to his right clanged as it bent from the shots it took, reminding him of what he was to do.
Now in cover, the Nameless pressed his back against the wall and measured Malachi’s response. He didn’t need to wait long. The incoming footsteps were almost as loud as the man’s bellowing.
“I had my doubts, you know?” Malachi shouted as he neared. “But it’s you, isn’t it?” He fired a single round, hitting the wall. “The Nameless demon! The immortal spawn of Satan!”
He tried again, this time a short burst. The Nameless retreated deeper, huddling between the torn pieces of metal.
“No use denying it!” Malachi shouted, still advancing. “Even if we didn’t face each other so many times, your brains crawling back into your skull like that is a dead giveaway!”
The Nameless remained silent. He had even slowed down his breathing. He’d only get one shot at this, and risking it for idle chatter would be stupidity.
“Come out and face me, coward!” Malachi roared as he leapt to where the Nameless was moments ago, firing off another burst and weakening the blocks even further.
Now! The Nameless forced himself up, despite his injured leg, and pushed against the wall with every last bit of strength. Its wish to crumble denied for so long, this last remnant of a building long gone came down like a ten-foot domino. Dumbstruck, Malachi didn’t even get a chance to scream as the thing came down, smashing him against the ground and burying him completely.
***
“You sure of this?” Rush asked as she paced restlessly along the ruined slum-street.
“I’m not,” Dick said, following in her footsteps. “There’s been some casualties, so eyewitnesses may be in shock.”
“Oh, I’ll give ‘em something to be in shock about,” Rush growled, still in motion.
If reports were to be believed, some kind of monster was on the loose. News had travelled upstairs fast, and Rush was quickly called in to stop it. However, by the time her elevator touched down, the sound of gunfire had died away, and so had the screaming. But the few who survived the event were insistent that she checked it out, so she was about to do just that.
“We getting’ close?” she asked without looking back.
“It happened near this wall, yeah,” Dick said, pointing forward. “Onc
e we get beyond that row of hovels, we should be close enough to see.”
Rush picked up her pace, causing Dick to lag even further behind. He was a large man, but not quick or full of stamina. They went past the next row of slum-houses and found themselves witnessing an unexpected sight: bodies left and right surrounded a collapsed wall. Atop it was yet another pile of debris, sat upon by a bald man in a bloody white tabard.
He raised his gaze upon hearing them come, and his eyes immediately found Rush’s. He was far away and looked different, but it didn’t matter. She immediately knew who he was, and practically forgot to breathe upon realizing it.
“Bones?” she muttered before running forward. Her head was getting light, and it wasn’t due to not taking her drugs. The man was supposed to be dead. Then again, when did that stop him?
“It’s me,” Bones said tiredly, still sitting. It wasn’t just the lack of hair; he appeared genuinely older. His face had no expression. “Glad to see that you are alive as well.”
“Yeah, we both have a gift for putting ourselves back together,” Rush said, now standing on the collapsed wall. She was just about to help Bones up, feel him up for injuries, maybe even give him a solid punch or two, when her ears caught the sound of a strong heartbeat. It was coming from below the wall.
“Just what did you bring home?” she said in a confused tone. “And no, you can’t keep it.”
“I will explain everything,” Bones said as he tried to rise. He stumbled, though, and Rush had to catch and keep him up. He was shivering, and colder than any living being she’d ever touched.
“I have a plan,” he whispered. “But first I need something.”
“Shoot,” Rush said.
“Bring me a prisoner. The worst you can find,” Bones said. “And a very, very sharp blade.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Holy Army was frozen in place. Its commander and field leader, the First Skull reborn, had charged out toward the pyramid in pursuit of an apparent enemy infiltrator. Accompanying him was the entirety of the Holy Army’s cavalry, all of which were now dead.
