Queen Killer

by M. H. Johnson

  You have embraced your wrath! 20% Added potency to all attacks! Let your savagery consume you and embrace what it means to be a true Reaper of the Dead!

  Mason's frustrated shouts skittered across John’s consciousness, and perhaps some part of him felt a certain cold satisfaction in knowing his partner wasn't a completely callous shit. But most of his awareness was consumed with a furious need to kill the abominations before him, feeling exquisite hot pleasure as his blade blasted through the closest ghoul's skull in a shower of crimson.

  Perception check made! Quickness check made!

  Before falling into a roll as wicked claws slashed the air where he had been standing moments before, John then leaping to his feet and exploding forward in a furious charge. The nearest horror howled its frustration as he shield-slammed it off its feet before whipping his blade around in a powerful overhand blow, showering the field with putrid bits of gore and silencing the abomination forever.

  John flashed a fierce smile as he instinctively thrust his straight blade at the howling revenant he could now sense dropping from above. Not that it did him much good, John thought as his opponent forced him to the ground. The sword that had blasted through its sternum didn’t bother it any more than the scattered bursts of laser fire all the revenants had ignored. Whether sword thrust or laser, piercing attacks were all but worthless against these abominations.

  Contest of skills: Grappling Rank 3 plus rage-boosted strength vs Black Queen Spawn - Success!

  Massive elongated jaws snapped for his face. John snarled, tucking his feet under the horror before kicking the creature off his blade, right hand wrenching free his sword as he did so, lurching to his feet just in time for another revenant to crash into him.

  John was glad he had trained with Mitch for enough hours on the mat to spring to his feet without the use of his hands. With strength and quickness now surpassing 90% of his fellow high school seniors, not even armor slowed him down. Which was a damn good thing, he thought, his left arm positioned to smash his shield into snapping jaws before his sword cleaved through its skull.

  Then all thought was replaced with a predator’s fury as he embraced the hot wrath of his dual nature once more, the stench of infected, rotting flesh as responsible for his frenzied state as the panicked cries that had originally compelled him.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air. "To the captain, men. Form up around the captain!"

  Wrenching his blade free of the ghoul that had nearly disemboweled him, arms throbbing with the furious pace he had been keeping, John found himself jogging back to the reforming men, receiving nods of respect from what were now brothers in battle, for all that a few wide, frightened glares made it clear his pitch black orbs had not gone unnoticed.

  "He's one of them, gut him now!" one man shouted.

  John blinked, caught off-guard by the hate and fear in the man’s voice before a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a pair of silver bars on her Dominion breastplate smacked his jaw. "Silence, Jox! I don’t care what he looks like. If he's raising his blade in our defense, he’s welcome as a brother-in-arms. Now brace yourselves, men, they're going to swarm!"

  And that they did, John suddenly grateful to have men at his side as the remaining dozen revenants charged, and it was all John could do to keep from getting overwhelmed as a flood of teeth and claws focused on him almost exclusively.

  You have dodged disembowelment! Your blade has critically struck Revenant. Foe expires! Experience earned!

  But even fighting as fast and furiously as he ever had, the revenants, now working in concert, managed to bring him down.

  You have taken 10 damage from Revenant Barrage! Dominion chest plate ruptured! You have taken 30 damage and 1 Light Wound from Revenant Barrage!

  John snarled, looking into what were now glowing yellow eyes as the largest monstrosity atop him began to speak in a discordant howl that grated his bones like fingernails scratching a chalkboard.

  "Is this the best our enemies could do? You? My sister was wrong. You are filth worthy of nothing! My pawns will claim your broken body, and I shall enjoy savoring your flesh, drinking your marrow, prying the meat from your bones!"

  Hideous laughter filled the clearing. "My sisters have forgotten what we once were. I have not. My pain vat awaits your agony, pawn of my enemies. I shall enjoy watching you all squirm for eternity!"

  John roared as the pair of revenants pinning his arms tore off his mail-lined gauntlets before chomping into his hands, the speaker cackling on his chest now going utterly silent as it dove for John's throat.

  John twisted and thrashed with all his might, somehow managing to tear his fingers free and clenching them into fists before he lost them, though he felt jagged teeth ripping into the flesh of the back of his hands. He tucked in his still helmeted head, still able to feel the maw of his enemy tearing at the gaps between helm and throat.

  You have suffered 30 damage and 3 Light Wounds from Revenant Barrage!

  A howling John lurched to his feet, throwing off his assailants and racing forward, feeling the hot breath of the pack just moments from bringing him down.

  He heard the captain's whistle, forcing himself to think past his terror and pain.

  Pivoting around and smashing past the startled revenants the same way he would break through a defensive line playing football, he raced for the waiting soldiers split up in double rows, their shields and sabers held at the ready.

  He was startled by the sudden burst of the captain's thoughts.

  -Race through the gauntlet! My men will cut open their flanks as those horrors try to bring you down!-

  John jerked a nod, sensing the moment his foes were about to spring for his back, roaring as he poured all his energy in a desperate sprint, feeling his enemies close just as he sped past the two groups before triumphant shouts and alien howls filled the clearing once more.

  Only then did he spin about, suddenly so exhausted he could barely stay on his feet.

  The coordinated strike had turned to a mad melee once more, but the Dominion soldiers now held an ever-growing advantage, less than a handful of ghouls now upright and lasting long seconds only because of their unpredictable ferocity.

  But Dominion discipline and their rough shield wall held.

  Still, John didn't hesitate to yank free his saber, for all that he was still shaking on his feet, right hand blazing with pain as raw flesh made contact with the three bar hilt of his blade.

  And Mason was there, grabbing his arm, glaring coldly at him.

  "Just had to play the hero, didn't you? You could have gotten yourself killed, idiot! And what the hell were you going to do now? You got no shield, and you're stumbling on your feet. Now back the fuck up, and let the professionals do their job!"

  John blinked, swallowed, and lowered his blade, realizing that Mason was right. He would have collapsed if he dared, but settled for just standing there, taking deep, shuddering breaths, suffering the effects of stamina depletion and perhaps shock as well. He gave a grateful nod and took deep gulps from the wineskin Mason passed him, the pair sharing a grim smile when the last of the revenants went down with a bat-like shriek.

  "How many of those fuckers do you think we took down?"

  Mason frowned. "Maybe a dozen. You were tearing through them like a fucking berserker. If I didn't already know you were a bitch boy scout who had risked his sorry ass saving my girl, I'd be saying sayonara right about now."

  John smirked. "Guess not being an utter hardass has its perks."

  The other man shrugged. "Just don't get us killed with your bullshit, John."

  "I’ll do my best not to. Where's Sophia?"

  "I had her 'chute out. No way was I risking her in this madness."

  John nodded. "I'm glad she's okay."

  "No thanks to you," Mason snapped. "I told you to hang back."

  John gazed coldly at his companion, no longer willing to back down. "People were dying. I don't care what bullshit is going on between advent
urers, Contenders, and Highlords. When good men and women are being cut down by abominations, I'm going to lend a hand. Period."

  Mason glared and spat, then looked away. "Whatever. Let's just hope the captain gazing our way right now doesn't decide we're what she's after. Mercenary accords or no, half the Highlords want us as their own personal lackeys, and the other half would love for us to fight and die in their battles for the throne. If you ever run across a Highlord wanting to hire you, be careful about the thoughts you let echo inside your head, and try not to meet their gaze."

  John felt a chill with those words. "What are you talking about?"

  Mason smirked. "Even though we're Synths and supposedly immune to their shit, sometimes I wonder. If the eyes are fucking windows to the soul, I'm leaving mine closed." He then turned and scowled. "Shit. The captain's heading straight for us. Way I see it, you played boy scout, I helped cover your ass. The rest is on you. I'll see you at the save-point in four hours, and if she gives you a reward? I expect a fair cut. Later, kid. Parachute!" he said, disappearing with a smirk.

  John blinked. The asshole had ported out before any trouble could come his way, having the gall to demand a cut, even as he fled from any possible heat. "What an asshole," John said with a rueful chuckle, before grimacing as hard gold eyes met his own.

  "Name's Captain Greenfield. I understand I have you to thank for the timely intervention."

  John bowed. "Happy to help, Captain Greenfield. I hope your men are okay."

  She smirked, her husky voice washing over him. "Hardly, boy. Six are dead and another half dozen seriously wounded. But I think things would have been a whole hell of a lot worse if you and your friend hadn't struck them from behind." She tilted her head. "I must say I'm impressed. One hears stories about some of you Terran adventurers trying to emulate ancient paladins, which gives me hope that not all you monkeys are savages. No offense. But the majority of you seem to be treasure hunters interested in nothing more than dwarven artifacts and rubbing your favored merc status in our faces whenever you get the chance."

  The captain took off her helmet, lustrous blonde curls flowing down her armored shoulders. "That's better."

  John's heart skipped a beat, the captain's smile captivating him. Though her features were a bit too hard to be considered a classic beauty, John still found her appearance striking. She was handsome in a way only tough, capable, self-sufficient women could be.

  Captain Greenfield's eyes lit up, gazing at him as if he had just paid her a compliment. She flashed a warm smile, just for him. "I'm glad you're proving to be the exception, not the rule. We already have power-mad adventurers and coin-hungry mercenaries aplenty. We could use more genuine heroes here in the South. So, tell me, what's your name?"

  John swallowed, losing himself in her golden gaze. "John," he said.

  She nodded. "It's a pleasure to meet you, John, and I have to confess, it's rare that I meet a Terran as... open as you seem to be." She gave a curious tilt of her head. "So, what compelled you to charge headlong into superior enemy forces?"

  John scowled. "A girl's scream. I don't care if she was an innocent village girl or a hardened warrior. I wasn't going to just stand around and let her get killed. And when I saw your soldiers getting cut down by those horrors, I knew it was time for me to act."

  Greenfield flashed an approving grin, and John couldn't help smiling back. "Thank you, John." Her brows then creased in concern, surprisingly soft hands gently clasping his own. "Your hands are covered in blood, and I know I saw those bastards chomping into you. But you're looking remarkably whole for someone I could have sworn had lost at least a finger or two."

  John shrugged. "One of the perks of my fucked-up class. I heal pretty quick, if I survive the fight."

  He blinked, suppressing a shiver, realizing how open and freely he was speaking, now that the captain's warm hands were holding his own.

  She tilted her head, catching his gaze once more. "So tell me, John, you're not working with these horrors, are you?"

  John boldly held her stare. "No, I'm not. And you don't need your Highlord powers to compel the truth from me either. I hate those things, and nothing fills me with greater satisfaction then cutting them down."

  Captain Greenfield's gaze hardened. She gave a curt nod. "I believe you. Be glad I do."

  John blinked, only then noting the needle-thin dirk she had pressed against his kidney, easily slipping through the otherwise exceptional shirt of mail. She slowly sheathed it, her gaze never leaving his own. "And whatever your suspicions, some things you don't say aloud. Are we clear, John?"

  John jerked a nod, belatedly realizing he had just committed a major breach of etiquette.

  "Now I have another question for you. What gave it away?"

  John smirked. "You mean besides your hypnotic gaze and the shouted command you gave me with your mind when I was trying to escape those horrors? You stand tall and proud like a noble would."

  If anything, she looked more guarded than before. "I had hoped you might hear me, even though that’s normally impossible for Terran adventurers."

  An iron-hard grip held tight to his arm. John blinked, stepping back, surprised to find her hand still holding him, belatedly remembering Readit tales that Highlords, especially female Highlords, were supernaturally strong. And Captain Greenfield had no doubt spent years training herself with a degree of dedication found only in the best officers.

  One thing was for sure, she was no weakling.

  "Did you even need my help?"

  She jerked a nod. "You're damn right we did. Your cleaving blade, along with multiple layers of armor and a decent shield, were the perfect counter to their ambush. My gear is that of my troopers, and the straight sabers our regiment now uses for lancing on horseback were piss-poor tools for the nightmares we faced."

  John gave a sympathetic smile. "I know historically there was always debate about whether straight or curved blades were better, for infantry and cavalry both. Back when Napoleon was conquering Europe, straight bladed sabers were called wrist breakers among cavalry for a reason.”

  The captain chuckled. "It sounds like those fools never learned how to give point properly. And when diligently forged, these new sabers—estocs, really, can pierce most rebel armor during the charge." She sighed. "With the increasing electromana surges, it won't be too long before we stop with the pretense of blasters and mecha this far south altogether, and kit up with proper lance, plate, war hammer, and shield, just like our ancestors did."

  John nodded. "But right now, your regiment is in a transitional stage, and those straight sabers, no matter how well made, weren't doing shit against those zombies."

  Greenfield scowled. "We're well-trained, and none of us are fools. Even with their limitations, we did well enough against those bastards when you kindly led them into our trap. But if you hadn't arrived when you had..." she peered at him carefully, nodding to herself. "My clan owes you. And I'll make damned sure our superiors permit us the use of both curved and straight saber for all future engagements. It never hurts to have a backup blade, after all. But answer me this, John. Why didn't you just 'parachute' out?"

  John flashed a bemused smile. "I think you already know the answer."

  "Which is?"

  "I'm really here."

  Her brow furrowed. "Which puts me in a bit of a bind. An acquaintance of mine made it clear that a cleanup mission did not go as planned. That someone tainted with a Terran plague threatening our planet might have jumped through. For all that he blew it off as men jumping at shadows when I asked him why he was without his regulation saber—the kind of curved saber that would have stood us in good stead in that woodland skirmish—he refused to answer my question."

  She gazed pointedly at his hip. "Much like the one you're wearing."

  John's heart was hammering. "I'm glad to hear that he was alive to tell the tale. Because if there was any truth to his ridiculous rumor, no doubt the unarmed survivor of their massacre, given no
chance to plead his case or even speak before being forced to flee for his life, would have certainly cut him and his lover down in a righteous rage while the pair were entwined under the tree he was hiding in. He certainly wouldn't have taken pity on the young lovers, nicking only a saber to ensure his own survival.”

  John patted his hip, eyes never leaving the captain's. "But it sounds like he and his lover are perfectly fine. He probably lost it under the same tree he lost his dignity under."

  Greenfield gave an approving chuckle. "Certainly a youth of that caliber would be just the kind of fresh recruit we need beefing up our forces, needing only the chance to prove his worth. Now I don't suppose you're carrying any horrific plagues we should be worrying about?"

  John slowly shook his head. "Can you keep a secret?"

  The captain tilted her head. "It depends."

  John gazed at the now shriveled corpses all around the clearing. "They're the plague. And I think... I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think I'm supposed to be the cure."

  Greenfield furrowed her brow. "What the hell does that even mean?"

  "Let's just say there are a lot more of us half-blood bastards out there, unclaimed by our parents, than anyone's talking about. Especially on Earth. And maybe some of us had been designed with a specific purpose. A very bad purpose."

  John squeezed tight fists now free of all injury, staring at the ground. "And some of us were designed as a counter to those trump cards and pawns and queens that Highlords playing dark games have been working on, in secret, a world away, for a very long time. And what the hell all that even means, I'm not entirely sure. But I promise you this: I'm not infected with any damned plague."

  Greenfield whistled. "If you're being straight with me, you're dancing around secrets that could cost you your head, if mentioned to the wrong people."

  John flashed a cynical smile. "Which would be about as smart as killing the cats that killed the rats carrying the fleas responsible for so many plagues back on Earth, centuries ago. And hysterical idiots ended up doing just that. So, I'm guessing it's best that neither of us mention it to any puffed-up popinjay that could order our heads plopped in a vat, just like all the Readit rumors suggest."