by Myke Cole
The newly erected guard tower had collapsed, igniting the magazine of the Mark 19 grenade launcher. The crew’s remains were strewn about the wreckage, hands, half a torso, smoldering boots.
Two SOC Terramancers crouched in the wreckage, calling up a shelf of earth that provided much needed cover from the sea of goblins surging beyond. Bookbinder hadn’t known that so many of the creatures existed in the entire Source. They trooped forward, many mounted on enormous, snarling wolves.
Their sorcerers came with them, skin painted chalk white, hands crackling with magical energy. The horde hummed with rage, a drone so loud that it competed with the steady stream of gunfire mounting from the defense. Clouds of arrows, javelins and gunfire erupted from the goblin throng, undisciplined bursts of fire that were effective through sheer volume. A woman beside Bookbinder coughed blood and collapsed.
A SOC Aeromancer streaked overhead, lightning arcing from his fingers and plowing into the goblin mass, setting scores of them alight before a roc crashed into him, sending him spinning catching him in its beak, cracking his spine.
The rocks in the earth barricade glowed red-hot as a goblin Pyromancer arced a pillar of flame across it, sending one of the Terramancers and three other defenders screaming, beating at the flames.
A Stryker crested the rubble behind Bookbinder, the gunner letting off a brief stream of rounds from the fifty cal, then pausing as Colonel Taylor appeared, climbing the Stryker’s standoff armor and yelling at him, waving frantically.
And then Taylor’s eyes widened. He dove off the turret just as the gunner tried to duck below. A massive chunk of a barricade wall, rebar jutting from its jagged edges, knocked the turret clean off, sending it tumbling through the defenders, eliciting a chorus of screams. The dull thudding of approaching helicopters was momentarily drowned out by a roar of rage.
Taylor scrambled to his feet as Bookbinder turned.
Two huge creatures advanced through the goblins, each taller than any of the FOB’s low buildings. They looked much like the goblins that barely reached above their shins; the same brown, gnarled skin. The same pointed ears and hooked noses. But there the similarity ended. Where the goblins were lean, these things were as thick as iron girders.
One of them roared again, swinging an oddly shaped club.
Bookbinder realized it was the shorn turret of an Abrams tank.
One of the helicopters swooped low, miniguns opening on the creature, then began to spin as a summoned wind knocked it in a tight circle, a goblin Aeromancer rising over the creature’s head. The giant snatched the helo’s tail boom, stopping it in midair, leaning dramatically to avoid the spinning rotors. The pilots and crew tumbled out the side, screaming, disappearing in the horde of goblins beneath them. The giant roared and cast the helicopter into what remained of the Terramancer’s barricade, flipping it over and tumbling into the defenders, who fell back.
“Come on!” Bookbinder shouted, striding forward. He leveled his pistol and squeezed off a few rounds, certain he wasn’t hitting even the massive targets presented by the giants. “You scared of a couple of big goblins?” You sound like an idiot. A
scared idiot.
But a small company of soldiers looked up at him, shamefaced, then took to their knees, finding cover in the broken rubble, firing into the approaching mass. An arrow whizzed close enough that he felt the fletching cut across his cheek. Get down! his mind screamed, but he forced himself to walk among the defenders, shouting encouragement. What would Patton say at a time like this? Oh Christ, he had no damned idea. “Pour it on, people!” he tried. He was terrified, but the wooden feeling in his limbs was gone. Well, at least if the goblins kill me, I don’t have to face Taylor.
Pillars of flame erupted in the goblin ranks as SOC Pyromancers secured positions in the wreckage. A figure rose out of the ground and wrestled with one of the giants, some Terramancer’s automaton, taking the drubbing from the swinging tank turret, but re–forming just as quickly, its rock fists giving as good as it got.
Bookbinder tried to keep his shoulders back, his chin up. He fired more shots in the enemy’s direction. “You’re going to let a bunch of pointy-eared rats overrun your position? Show ’em what you’ve got!” Could they hear the quaver in his voice?
Around him, knots of defenders were coalescing. Here was a group of Suppressed Marines setting up a belt-fed grenade launcher. There was an army sniper team, picking targets quickly, the need to aim obviated by the enemy’s clustered formation.
Were they actually taking heart from his theatrics? He heard Taylor shouting at some unfortunate soldier. “Conserve your ammunition, damn it!”
Conserve ammunition? In the middle of this?
Suddenly the world spun around him. Something slammed into his head, rattling his teeth. A moment later, he realized it was the ground. The stink of ozone and blood filled his nostrils.
Sound vanished, replaced by a ringing-whine.
He scrambled in the mud, his vision gone. Was he blind? No, he could see light, make out shapes. Get up! Get up! But his limbs moved as if through thick water, and he was hot . . . so very hot. The brimstone smell gave way to the acrid stench of burning plastic and hair.His vision returned, and he rose to his knees, bringing one arm into view.
It burned brightly. He was on fire.
Bookbinder screamed, rolling on the ground, beating at the flames.
“I’ve got you, sir,” someone said. He saw a navy sailor running toward him, shouldering his rifle and pulling a water bladder off his back. There was a whoosh and a blazing ball of fire caught him in the chest, sending him tumbling in a heap.
The heat subsided as Bookbinder rolled in the mud, until he bumped against the shins of a goblin. It was painted entirely chalk white, it’s wizened features contorted with hate. It bent over and gripped the front of his smoldering body armor, hauling him to his knees. The goblin’s magical current eddied out from it, so strong that it nearly overwhelmed him.
Well-done, he thought. You were the only one walking around while everyone else was taking cover. You were so brave, you managed to attract one of their Sorcerers.
The creature’s fist ignited in a ball of flame. It spit something in its own language, raising its hand.
Bookbinder’s current surged forward, borne on his panic. It interlaced with the goblin’s. Where it tugged at other magical currents during testing, now it wrenched, and Bookbinder felt the creature’s magic break free, funneled away from it. The goblin’s eyes shot open in terror, and it dropped him, jumping backward, its fire fizzling out. Bookbinder felt its current passing into him, threatening to tear him apart. He pushed with everything he had, channeling the foreign current out of him, forcing it into a chunk of concrete barricade that he was braced against.
And then the current was gone. There was an odd silence.
The goblin stared at him, its expression horrified, as if to say How could you?
Bookbinder raised his pistol and shot it.
For all his lack of practice, he caught the creature in the middle of its forehead. Its look of horrified violation turned to surprise, then emptiness, then it fell over on its side, shuddered, and was still.
Bookbinder looked down. The chunk of concrete he had leaned against now smoldered with Pyromantic fire. It began to flake apart, the rebar inside glowing a dull red. Magical flame danced across its surface, dusting the air with black smoke.
Bookbinder could feel the dead goblin’s current, now coming from that chunk of wreckage. His own tide vaguely flickered through him, pulsing toward it.
He furrowed his brow and rolled the tide back. A moment later, the sense of the goblin’s current ceased, the fire flickering out, until it was just an ordinary chunk of masonry again.
And then Bookbinder noticed that the tide of battle had turned.
An avenue of gore opened through the goblins, wide as a two-lane road. The ground churned to mud beneath a carpet of lead, chunks of earth the size of a man’s fist bouncing s
kyward to mix with the shredded flesh of goblin, wolf, and giant alike.
The sky was dark with summoned clouds and drifting smoke, but Bookbinder knew that an A–10 Warthog had gotten airborne and begun its strafing run.
The withering fire added to the mounting defense, raining bullets on the attacking horde. At last, they began to buckle.
First in ones and twos, the goblins sprinted back into the fields, falling under carpets of Aeromantic lightning. Bookbinder could practically feel the fear sweeping over the attackers. In moments, the trickle became a flood as the enemy fell back to the cheers of the defenders, fleeing.
Bookbinder watched them run. He lightly patted his hands over his body. His gear and clothing were melted and smoldering, but apart from what felt like a bad sunburn, he didn’t feel too badly hurt. He turned back to the barricade chunk. What the hell happened?
You stole that goblin’s magic. You siphoned it away from him and funneled it into this concrete and rebar. You’re not a Latent Grenade.
What sort of parasite Latency stole the magic of others? Did Bookbinder truly have a school?
You have a school. It’s just one nobody has ever seen before.
The scuff of boots in the dirt in front of him brought him back into focus. He looked up at a battered Marine staff sergeant, his gear streaked with dust and blood.
“You all right, sir?” The man asked.
“Um, I think so. How do I look?”
The man smiled. “Like a steely-eyed dealer of death, sir. Oorah.” He saluted, then headed off.
Bookbinder stared at his back. A real Marine, the kind that ate nails for breakfast, had just complimented him. After a battle.
Bookbinder’s mind swirled, the smoke, the terror, the goblin standing over him, all threatened to overwhelm him. Later.
But a notion was leaping in his gut. Colonel Alan Bookbinder, fit only for processing spreadsheets and pay statements, just fought in a battle and held his own.
Taylor’s voice cut through his thoughts. The colonel held an army private by the collar and shook him vigorously. “Full auto!” Taylor screamed. “You’re firing on full fucking auto! Did I not expressly order you to conserve rounds? Is that how you treat government property? Is that what you do with the taxpayer-funded ammunition entrusted to you?”
The scream was not the low growl of rage Taylor had confronted Bookbinder with before. It was high, bordering on hysteria.
Bookbinder was amazed at Taylor’s lack of control, amazed at his revelation about his ability, amazed he had survived a real battle. Another amazement overshadowed them all.
Bookbinder was amazed that he no longer feared this man who was big but thick around the middle. Who was angry, but screaming with the whining hysteria of a man succumbing to panic.
Before he knew it, Bookbinder had crossed the intervening distance. “Colonel Taylor, I think this young man has had quite enough.”
Taylor turned to face Bookbinder, hysteria yielding to surprise.
His eyes widened as he let go of the private, who immediately saluted, grabbed his weapon, and jogged away.
It took a moment for Taylor to put on an authoritative expression.
“Just what in the hell are you doing here?”
“Same as you, rallying to the defense of this base.”
“I thought I told you . . .”
“You told me a lot of things. And now I need you to tell me something else. What the hell is going on here? There’s some kind of supply issue, and all I know is that it’s sudden and severe. We’ve got sundries issues at the DFAC, and you’re shaking down a private, a fucking private, instead of leaving it to his first sergeant.
And for firing on the enemy? Now quit fucking around and tell me what’s up.”
“I fucking warned you . . .”
“Then do it!” Bookbinder screamed, mashing his forehead against Taylor’s, driving the bigger man back a step. “Go ahead and kick me in the blood piss, or whatever stupid shit you were going on about before. But you better fucking kill me, because if you don’t, I will keep coming back until you won’t be able to get a lick of work done because you’ll spend every hour of every day fighting me.”
Taylor gaped. Some predatory instinct deep within Bookbinder surged, carrying the magic with it. He struggled as he fought it down. Taylor stood in shocked silence.
“Now, there’s two ways we can do this,” Bookbinder began again, anger yielding to fatigue. “You can bring me into your confidence, and we can try to solve this problem together. Or I can order a complete inventory of all ammunition reserves, which is well within my authority as the J1 here. This will tie up all ammunition distribution. Nobody will get a single round without my say–so. That won’t be a problem if new stores are inbound, but they’re not, are they, Colonel Taylor?”
Taylor’s shoulders sagged, the fight totally gone out of him.
I can’t believe it. I was so certain he would crush me. Is this all he is?
“Are they?” Bookbinder asked again through gritted teeth.
Taylor looked at the ground. When he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “No, Alan. They’re not.”
The predatory sense of victory melted away at the sound of that voice. Bookbinder the alpha male was gone, replaced by Bookbinder the father and husband. He put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder.
“Why?” Bookbinder asked. “What’s going on?”
“We lost contact three days ago,” Taylor said. “I’m not sure if it has to do with Oscar Britton’s escape or not. All I know is that Billy’s not opening the portals anymore. We’ve got no comms with the Home Plane. Nothing is coming through—no food, no ammo.
“We’re cut off.”
Taking Home
When you took Chatto, you thought you’d finished us, cut off the snake’s head. I won’t lie, it hurt. Chatto was a great leader, a great man. But he was just a man. The Reawakening has brought our gods back to us. The Gahe of the mountains, the gods of the four directions. They remember their children and they will lead us to victory.
—“Jimmy” Dahana
Tribal Council, White Mountain Apache
Chapter VII
Last Rites
The “goblins” (the colloquial term the military uses for them) call themselves Heptahad On Paresh “Flow Children” or “Current Born.” They believe that the magic essence of the Source has created all life. Life is born from the magical current, some at the heart, some on the edges. The current itself has a source (the source of the Source) that goblinkind envisions to be heaven, but not in the Judeo-Christian mode. It is viewed as a recycling back into the wellspring that feeds the world. They don’t have a reincarnation concept, but death returns you to the current and connects you to all existence, fueling its resonance and wonder. Goblins believe that the dead have a hand in the sunrise and the glow of the grass.
—Simon Truelove
“A Sojourn Among the Mattab On Sorrah”
Britton stood in the goblin village. He’d fled here, and defeated the SOC team that pursued him, but the center of the village was a smoldering ruin. Corpses lay tangled together in the helicopter wreckage, goblin, human, and wolf, butchered so badly that Britton couldn’t tell if they were from the assaulting force or the fleeing refugees. Of the original group he’d led here from the SASS, only Therese, Swift, Peapod and Tsunami remained.
Pyre lay dead where Fitzy’s bullet had punched through him.
Downer and Truelove, Britton’s former colleagues in Shadow Coven and now technically their captives, stood nervously apart.
The goblin villagers ringed the ruined ground. They were one of the Embracer tribes, friendly to humans, but many of them were clearly furious at Britton and his friends, blaming them for bringing destruction to their home. Britton and his companions would never have escaped the SOC without Marty’s help, and the little goblin continued to protect them, hastily assembling a cordon of guards to keep the crowd back. The goblin villagers hiss-whispered in
their own language, pointing with long fingers and staring with wide, yellow eyes. Britton saw shock in some of those eyes, confusion in others, rage and hatred in far too many. The scorched ground was a testament to what the goblins had suffered from the battle Britton had unwittingly brought to their village.
Britton assessed the situation. They’d won the battle but were unprepared for the aftermath. They were cut off in a village of creatures they didn’t know or understand. Marty was the only goblin any of them had ever truly met, and only Britton, Downer, Truelove, and Therese knew him at all. Dead soldiers sprawled all around them, but there were many more where they came from.
This was his fault. Britton had freed the Witch Scylla, duped by her in his desperation to save Marty. Instead of helping him, she had slaughtered hundreds and set off the chain of events that had put them all here. Everyone knew that, most of all Therese.
Every time he tried to meet her eyes, she looked away.
It wrenched his heart, but there was no time. The SOC would even now be learning of the defeat of their team and plotting another attempt. Many of the goblins around them were hostile.
He had to make sure his people were safe.
Your people? How can you call them that?
The SOC had robbed him of his of his career, friends, and family. These were the only people he had left.
And he would take care of them.
Therese hadn’t had time to use her Physiomancy to heal everyone. She’d done a cursory healing of Swift before moving on to Downer, still cradled in Truelove’s arms, her chest smoking where Swift’s lightning bolt had struck her. Downer was beginning to revive under Therese’s ministrations, the second time the Physiomancer had saved her young life.
“Not her!” Swift shouted. “Don’t you help her!”
Britton could feel his current gathering and moved to intercept him.
Therese whirled on Swift. Her beautiful hair had been frozen off in clumps by the spy Wavesign’s magic. She’d killed him, using her healing magic to Rend though she’d sworn she never would. “What?” She said, “You expect me to let her die?”
