by Jack Conner
But what was he to do? Back out now and lose everything? Disgrace himself before his troops?
No. He’d committed himself to this battle, and too many of his people had died already for him to consider signing in his resignation. He only hoped that, somewhere along the way, Malie would find herself again and everything would work out alright. A just war he could handle.
The procession hit the wreckage the nuclear missile had caused in the Castle, and Raulf called a halt.
“We need to assess the damage and find a way through,” he said.
“Of course, sir,” said an underling, then opened his mouth to say something else, perhaps some suggestion. Raulf never knew, as just then a hail of gunfire and missiles struck out from the heaps of wreckage.
D’Aguila dove behind cover as a missile passed through the place he’d just been standing.
Although he didn’t know it, it was from among the ruins that the thirty reinforcements sent to aid Col. Hernandez had been lying in wait. Their ambush proved tragically ineffectual.
“Collages!” Raulf shouted. “Forward now! Attack!”
The surreal beasts loped toward the wreckage, their big and unevenly placed limbs carrying their gruesome bulks swiftly, and proceeded to carry out their orders with glee. The Collages tore through the ruins, ripping apart the Castle soldiers’ places of concealment, then grabbed up the soldiers and either squeezed them till they popped or stuffed them in their mouths.
“Ain’t that somethin’?” muttered a soldier to Raulf’s right, and the Captain had to agree. He’d always wondered if the victims of the Collages were incorporated into the beasts after being devoured, because after each feeding the Collages always seemed larger. Also, there were no anuses on any of the things, nor could Raulf ever determine whether or not they had stomachs. Hoping to get an answer, he studied the creatures as he picked himself up, lit the stub of a cigar and waited for the monsters to finish it.
In the end, all the Castle soldiers were killed. Unfortunately, one of the Collages, the bigger of the two—the new one with the demented priest as its mouthpiece or brain—must have been seriously damaged by missile fire, as it toppled into a pool of blood.
“What the hell?” said Raulf, coming up.
A few of the thing’s limbs twitched sporadically, and its three-pronged tail gave a thump, then went still.
“Well, shit,” Raulf said.
He was surprised to find himself relieved that the other Collage, the one from which Sonia spoke, was still up and walking.
She, or it, sported a few blacked scorch marks, and some of the bodies that the monster was fashioned from were truly dead or at least moving very slowly. But she—Raulf couldn’t help but think of the Collage as a female—was still alive. To hell with the mad priest, even if his Collage had been bigger and better-equipped. At least Sonia had made it.
As if sensing his thoughts, she popped out of that strange blunt limb and gave him a salute and smile. He returned the gesture, and she disappeared back into the Collage. Yes, good thing it’d been Laslo that had bit the big one. Still, Raulf felt a twinge of pity for the dead Collage, remembering how Junger and Jagoda had thrown about the head of the priest with laughter and mockery. They’d called him their jester, and Raulf remembered feeling a twinge of reluctant sympathy for the pathetic thing.
“Well,” Raulf said, staring up at the heaping mound that comprised Laslo’s Collage, “at least you got to get in a few licks before you went. Too bad they weren’t directed at the fuckers who made you.”
He turned to a subordinate and told her to report the recent battle, and the loss, back to Malie, who waited on her litter near the rear of the procession. Within minutes, the woman returned and told Raulf, “The Mistress says, and I quote, ‘Too fucking bad about the monster. Now tell the good Captain D’Aguila to get on with it, already!”
Raulf grinned. “Very well. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Flicking the ash from his cigar onto the floor, he ordered the ten remaining zombies to scout ahead and find a way through the maze of fallen floors and debris to the other side. Soon the deaders returned with the needed route and led Raulf and the rest of the Libertarian procession onward. At last they reached a flight of stairs and traveled further up into the Castle.
* * *
When they were gone, Laslo laughed. He/it climbed to his/its many feet and shook away the dust and blood. The ruse had worked. The Libbies could have their fun, but his lay elsewhere. Sooner or later, he would find Ruegger and carry out his masters’ instructions. The big Collage laughed through its primary mouth, licking the skin around its lip-less maw with its three slavering tongues, and Laslo thought, Oh, yes. What a joy it is to be the Word of God!
* * *
After combing the Castle floor by floor, searching for pockets of resistance, the Libertarians concluded that the battle they’d been prepared for was not to come, courtesy of Junger and Jagoda and the stolen nuke. When the army finally reached the top floor, Maleasoel summoned D’Aguila to her litter.
“What do you think, Captain?”
Raulf shrugged. “I’d still keep our eyes open. Maybe the nuke didn’t kill them all.”
“Of course. After we deal with whatever resistance we find outdoors, though, I want to make sure you and your troops understand my new instructions.”
He nodded uneasily. “We wait for Subaire and her soldiers to meet us in the Courtyard, then kill them all.”
“That’s right, dearie. You do your job right and you may just find yourself at my side on the throne.”
Sure, he thought. Doing your fucking nails. “Is that all?”
“Just so you’re in agreement.”
He hesitated.
“What is it, Captain?”
Do it, he told himself. Be a man. “Well,” he said slowly, “what if I wasn’t?”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“Just curious.”
“Save it for dead felines, Captain. Anything else?”
He started to reply in the affirmative, then held himself back. Now was not the time.
“What about prisoners?” he said.
“I suppose we can take some, providing that Subaire herself has been killed and at least half her troops with her. Any more than that and they might still pose a threat, especially if she’s brought along a second-in-command.”
He nodded, realizing by the flat tone of her last words that she no longer considered him her second. He hadn’t really expected any different.
“Slaves,” Maleasoel mused. “Yes, I’d like to see Subaire’s troops groveling like dogs at my feet.”
At your feet? That’d mean you’d have to come down from your litter.
“Understood,” he said.
“Then lead the way, Captain.”
He gave her an almost imperceptible bow, spun on his heel and marched back to the front of the procession, where he told his troops the new rule concerning prisoners. Without much further ado, he led the Libertarian procession into the blackened wasteland of the Upper Courtyards, the Sonia Collage and zombies with them.
He strained his ears, but there was nothing to hear except the whistle of wind ghosting in through the cracks in the walls.
All else was black and dead. Apparently the nuke had done its job. Leaving his own second to keep the front of the procession in line, he pushed back through the lines of soldiers and small dunes of radioactive ash toward the litter borne by Maleasoel’s lackeys. Malie was looking around at the wasteland, and he realized he could read nothing on her face—not anger, not sadness. Nothing. He used to be able to read everything.
“Well, Captain, I guess we give a little look into towers, what’s left of them, just to make sure, then we sit tight for the moment. That is, until Subaire—”
From the cracks in the walls and the windows of the ruined battlements, Francois Mauchlery and his eighty-four survivors unleashed their arsenal.
“Ambush!” roared Maleaso
el in scandalized anger. Immediately, she began yelling out orders at the top of her lungs. Raulf was at least gladdened to see some color in her cheeks. No longer was her face placid, but livid.
He ran toward the front, shouting at the top of his own lungs, “Blow those damned snipers to hell!”
* * *
When Roche Sarnova, still the reigning Dark Lord, had begun circulating rumors that the dragon that killed Col. De Soto was acting under Subaire’s influence, he spelled the doom of his coven’s attack on the mountaintop.
For, when the twenty shades in the attack helicopters rose to fight Subaire’s Half, who they believed to be responsible for the destruction of the Red Light Outpost, they saw a bunch of dragons shooting fire down on the mountain. Immediately they realized that their lord must have been right, that somehow Subaire did have control of dragons, and that even now she was using the beasts to annihilate the last survivors of the Outpost.
So it was only with the most loyal thoughts in mind that they launched their missiles on the dragons and their own much-beloved leader, Roche Sarnova.
* * *
Though the coven, the eight dragons and Ladrido saw the birds coming, it didn’t occur to them until too late that the Castle helicopters wouldn’t be on their side. They were completely unprepared when the first volley of missiles shot from the choppers, traveling at much higher velocities than the rockets from the hand-held launchers, and without mercy drove themselves into the dragons.
The first one hit Damara in her side—not a fatal shot, but it caused a great deal of pain, as well as blowing off half her wing. With Ladrido clinging to her long neck, she spiraled down toward the battlements of the Castle. Immediately upon seeing his amour so wounded, Gethraul (giving no heed to Roche’s frantic orders) dove after her.
Venator, Nakara’s friend and another black dragon, received three rockets, all in his flank. Perhaps mortally wounded, perhaps just too stricken to maintain flight, he veered off and headed back west, likely hoping to find the lake and his lair in time to heal.
Ruegger’s steed, Montalvo, was also hit three times. The first two, blasting into his ribs, caused him to roar in pain, but otherwise the great red dragon seemed prepared to shrug the damage off. However, the third rocket struck him just a few feet behind where Ruegger was sitting, in the middle of his thick armored neck, and savagely beheaded the proud wyrm.
Shocked, Ruegger continued straddling the disembodied neck for several moments. Further up, Montalvo’s head still twitched from side to side, his mouth gnawing, trying to breathe fire. They plummeted a hundred feet before Ruegger recovered enough to launch himself into the air, where he levitated. He glanced down to see the massive carcass of Montalvo strike Gethraul’s back and pitch the green dragon into a roll from which he almost didn’t recover; thankfully, Roche Sarnova had managed to stay on, still trying to goad Geth into flying back up into the fray. Ruegger looked to see what other damage the rockets had done.
Majestica sported a scorched hole in the center of her chest and seemed weakened, but alive. With a trembling heart, Ruegger saw that Danielle was fine.
The flaming pink dragon Yazback, upon whom Sophia rode, was missing a foreleg, but was still functioning, if a bit dazed for loss of blood. Two scorch marks, and plenty of blood, marred Draekshar’s white flank, but the pale dragon and Jean-Pierre both lived. A large wound marked Shalung’s backside, which served only to make him surlier and harder for Kharker to manage, but he would live, feistier than ever and probably much to the Hunter’s chagrin.
Meanwhile, the coven had recovered themselves and were successfully batting away the helicopters’ volleys, as well as those launched by Subaire’s Half, who had received a reprieve. Ruegger knew the coven couldn’t fend off all those missiles forever; sooner or later, and probably sooner, someone would get in a lucky shot.
He rose, flying through the cold, snow-whipped air and headed for the helicopters.
He chose the lead one, still firing its deadly cargo at his friends. He flew right up in front of the windshield so that the pilots could see him for who he was and pounded on the windshield with his fists. Glass splintered under his blows.
“Just what the fuck are you dumb bastards doing? This is Ruegger, your fucking Heir! Those dragons aren’t your enemies, they’re your friends. They were trying to blow Subaire and her fucking army off the face of the earth. Stop firing and order your buddies to stop firing or I’ll kill you all.”
They immediately quit firing. Seconds later the other nine birds did, too.
Pounding on the windshield once again, Ruegger said, “Now get your asses up the mountain and kill that bitch!”
He floated away a few feet. Sure enough, after a moment all ten birds flew up toward the crest of the mountain, and Ruegger sent out a telepathic signal to the dragons and their riders, telling them not to harm the machines or their pilots. As it turned out, he could’ve saved his psychic breath.
Once Subaire realized the helicopters weren’t going to attack the dragons anymore, she ordered her soldiers to put them down. Missiles flared down from the ridge of the mountain, exploding the big black attack helicopters in one bright violent bloom of fire after another.
Ruegger swore and rejoined his coven. He saw they were more ragged and beat up than he’d thought from below. In fact, they all pretty much looked to be on their last legs. None had ever tasted immortal blood, at least not since becoming kavasari, and what with all the energy they’d been expending, they were growing weak rapidly. Ruegger felt it, too.
The dragons, broken bones and muscles gleaming in the starlight and from the lights of the fires on the mountain, appeared too weary to maintain flight for much longer.
This looks grim, Ruegger thought.
Nevertheless, he greeted Danielle with a smile as he settled behind her on Majestica, and bade the others to begin circling the mount once more. Unspoken was the fact that, without the presence of Sarnova, Ruegger was their new leader.
“What do you think?” he asked Danielle, leaning into her.
She grabbed one of his hands and squeezed it. “I don’t think this is going to end well,” she said.
Chapter 10
Cloire whooped as she fired down on the Libertarians from the top of one of the ruined battlements. She loved this. She glanced over to Harry, who, like herself, knelt in a niche in the wall, a rifle to his shoulder, and said, “Give ‘em hell, Harold!”
She turned back to the Libbies. They were alternately trying to return fire and also to find nonexistent shelter. Three other shades shared the battlement with Cloire and Harry, two armed with rocket launchers, and Cloire was enlivened to see one of the rockets blow apart a Libertarian fleeing back toward the empty arch where those big oak doors had been. The coward erupted like a frog with a firecracker stuffed up its ass and Cloire wished she had one of those damned launchers. Ah, well. At least she had an accurately sighted automatic rifle. Maybe not so spectacular as those launchers, but she dealt out her fair share of pain.
Then, all of a sudden, things took a twist.
A pastel purple dragon set down in the far northern courtyard, a wing badly wounded and carrying a skinless demon on its back. A few moments later a massive red-scaled carcass of another dragon fell several yards in front of the first wyrm, startling the pastel one and its ghoulish rider. In fact, the impact of Montalvo’s carcass actually split the stone where it hit and nearly caused the floor to cave in.
For a brief instant, all gun and missile fire ceased, everyone and everything caught in disbelief by this sight. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the cease-fire ended, and the courtyards broke out once more into a field of wanton slaughter.
* * *
Try as he might, Roche Sarnova was unable to convince or even psychically manipulate Gethraul into abandoning his rescue attempt on Damara; if anything, Roche’s constant prodding only made Geth more determined to resist.
Then the great red carcass of Montalvo struck Geth on the
back, nearly breaking his spine, and spinning both dragon and Dark Lord around in frantic circles.
“Level out, damn you!” Sarnova said. “Level out!”
“I’m trying.”
Finally Geth pulled himself out the spin … only to continue downward.
“The others need our help,” Sarnova said.
Geth didn’t bother answering. He landed next to Damara and Ladrido, just to the north of the massive mound of flesh that had once been Montalvo.
Even as Gethraul craned his neck to speak in reassuring tones to Damara, Roche studied the bloody ruin and wanted to cry. He’d been the one to recruit these dragons, these great wryms he’d worked so hard to save, protect and keep hidden—and now he was getting them killed.
He wrenched his gaze away, turning to regard a shell-shocked Ladrido instead.
“How are you?” the Dark Lord said.
“No complaints. But you’ll excuse me for saying—Jesus, look up ahead.”
Roche couldn’t see anything of the southern courtyards because of Montalvo’s carcass, but he heard the popping of gunfire and missile eruptions and surmised what Ladrido must be referring to. The Libertarians were here, and somehow Francois had organized a defense against them. For a moment, Roche was torn. Should he fly up to oversee his coven or lend aid to his old friend and usurper?
Before he could answer this question, Gethraul said, “Roche, hop off.”
“What?”
“Damara can’t fly. If that battle comes this way, she’ll be vulnerable, in as bad a shape as she’s in. I’ve got to bring her back to the Lair. Also, I think Montie broke something in my back. I, too, need to heal. Once I’ve seen to Dami, mayhap I’ll return to aid you. Now get the hell off my back before I throw you off.”
