Chaos Unbound (The Metis Files Book 2)

by Brian S. Leon

  Convict me.

  I laughed to myself. I had no idea what kind of legal system, if any, the fairies had—especially the Unseelie Court. For all I knew, I’d already been convicted and was awaiting the sentence. Again, I hoped that Athena was diligently working on some diplomatic way to free me. I did know that punishment consisted of one thing—death. To be fair, though, the fae could be quite creative in that respect. They might simply chop off my head, feed me to Cu Sith or some other creatures, draw and quarter me, administer the Blood Eagle, or flay me. Then my stomach growled. Maybe they were going to starve me to death. That would really suck.

  Thinking about that crap is just another path down the loony trail. My Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape training as a SEAL wouldn’t help me much in this fae abyss, but centuries of training and experience fighting the creatures would. I lay back and began to relax, focusing on every part of my body and imagining it was loose, free, and comfortable. Predictably, with an achy head, chest, butt, shoulder, and back, the process took time. What else do I have to do, though?

  My mind wandered back to June of 1673. It was dark, and the fighting during the initial push across the moat and into the stone ravelin that protected the entrance to the walled city of Maastricht during the Dutch War was horrendous and bloody. My garrison of Gray Musketeers had barely managed to clear a demi-lune fortification right inside the city, where the thirty of us who had survived were holed up for the moment. I kept watch while our scant force regrouped and tended to our injured. Our legendary captain-lieutenant, Charles Ogier de Batz de Castlemore the Comte d’Artagnan, as well as every other man there was fighting for political reasons that were beyond me. My sole concern was the Marquis Jacques de Fariaux, Baron de Mande, governor of Maastricht and leader of the Dutch and Spanish forces within. Stories suggested he was more than human, and I witnessed the result of his supernatural reputation during our push as the mere mention of his presence in the Dutch ranks caused French soldiers—elite musketeers—to flee, leading to the slaughter of many of our ranks. It was my job to remove any nonhuman influences—good, bad, or indifferent—from human conflicts.

  We didn’t have much time before the Spanish auxiliary employed by the Dutch gathered for another assault, and we would likely not survive it—especially with so many of our small force whispering that they had seen bullets bounce off the baron and that he was immortal. They were terrified, and even the great d’Artagnan himself couldn’t rally them.

  My one glimpse of the baron during our siege had convinced me that he was no mortal man. Bullets bounced off him as if he were heavily armored, though he wore only a tunic. I also recognized the foul, greasy brown-black energy that he radiated as indicative of the living dead. I had encountered similar creatures a few decades earlier in the Thirty Years War, and I suspected that, like those monsters, the baron was a Fext. I had no idea what changed them or how, but I knew the condition would spread and that only glass bullets would kill them. And I was armed with special Dvergar-made crystal bullets for my flintlock.

  I watched from inside the main entrance to the large crescent-shaped stone fortification while the Spanish forces formed ranks surrounding us. Instinctively, I began checking over my flintlock, until the stares from my fellow musketeers distracted me. I was used to funny looks from most of my comrades, because I was a mercenary and a loner. My odd weaponry underlined the fact I was foreign. Ignoring their stares and scorn, I went back to watching out for the baron. I didn’t care about their opinions, or their war, only about killing the Fext.

  Our men were all but defeated as they sat quietly in the dark stillness of the stone structure. I doubted they could even hear the forces amassing outside. There was no way I could rely on them helping me make another push if the baron showed himself. They were exhausted and scared, and we were trapped well away from the rest of our troops, who were across the moat outside the wall. They wouldn’t last the night unless I did something.

  Finally, the baron strode into view among the Spanish soldiers, swaggering around as if already victorious. I glanced back over the barely lit faces of the musketeers and their wary eyes, pulled my swords, and screamed as I charged out the entrance of the demi-lune. In the pale torchlight around the Spanish troops, I could see the whites of eyes grow among the first few ranks as I bolted across the open street between us. They were so surprised that not a Spaniard moved until I was more than halfway across. Before the first riflemen readied their weapons, I tore through the first rank of pikemen, causing men to clumsily retreat around me. Behind me, across the street, d’Artagnan led the small band of remaining musketeers out of the demi-lune in a wild assault. My crazy idea served to rally our men behind me as they drew rapiers and pistols and charged screaming across the square, while it appeared I advanced into certain but heroic death.

  They’re on their own now. My goal is the baron. I approached too fast for most of the Spanish and Dutch musketeers to aim at me effectively, and I pushed through the soldiers, bulling my way through many of them as they tried to pull swords or pistols. Most gawked in amazement as I shoved my way through their ranks.

  Eyeing me with concern, the baron began to quickly fall back into the city. There was no way he had any idea who or what I was, but he clearly identified me as a threat. As I charged forward, I could see fear develop in the faces of the Dutch and Spanish garrison around me as they recognized that their commander—a man they regularly witnessed inspire fear in their enemies, one they assumed could not be killed—was fleeing for his life. I pushed farther through the Dutch and Spanish ranks and into the city streets beyond after the baron. Meanwhile behind me, the telltale volleys from the Gray Musketeers echoed through the stone streets and fortifications as they began an offensive.

  Chasing after the baron, I returned one sword to its sheath on my back and pulled my flintlock. With a single-shot pistol, I might only get one good opportunity, and I needed to be close before I fired to make sure I hit him.

  For the better part of an hour, I tracked down the Fext within the city while a new battle raged at the city’s entrance. The sun began to rise, brightening up the narrow cobbled streets. Following the Fext wasn’t hard, because it was so heavily perfumed to cover the smell of its decay. I knew I was close long before I found it cowering in the corner of a pigsty in an alleyway behind a butcher’s shop—the pigs taking refuge as far away from it as they could get.

  As soon as he saw me, the creature threw his pistol and sword into the mud. “Ik overgeven, ik overgeven,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I am the governor of Maastricht and an officer in the Dutch Army. You cannot kill me. I surrender. Just do not kill me.”

  He may have been a nobleman at one time, deserving of such genteel treatment, but the thing had long ago ceased being a man, noble or otherwise. It was a coward and a monster that had no place among men.

  I shot it in the head from less than ten feet away. The skull shattered like a dust-filled pot, and the body shrank in upon itself. As its skin blackened, the baron became unrecognizable as anything but the rotted corpse it should have been for years.

  Making my way back through the small town, I was struck by how quiet it was. There were no sounds of musket fire or fighting. The musketeers had either been wiped out, or by some miracle, had prevailed. By the time I made it back to the demi-lune, dozens of blue-jacketed men were wandering the streets—English soldiers from the Duke of Monmouth’s regiment. Louis XIV’s ally had aided our garrison and ended the assault. The bluejackets ignored me as I made my way through the battle-stained streets littered with scores of injured or dead Spanish, Dutch, and English soldiers. The instant I spied one of the surviving men of my garrison, I smiled wearily.

  “I’m surprised you came back, traitor,” said the musketeer, fixing me with a reproachful and unrelenting stare. “He’s back,” he said, turning to shout over his shoulder at the entrance to the
demi-lune.

  Instantly, several more musketeers filed out of the fortification, one covered in blood that was clearly not his own. “Arrest that man this instant,” said the bloody man—a second lieutenant, like me.

  Three musketeers and two bluejackets, including a captain in the English regiment, approached me with their pistols drawn. For a moment, I contemplated attempting to flee then decided the only way to do that would be to kill many of these men.

  “I’m no traitor,” I said as the men shoved me toward the demi-lune and ignored me.

  “We’ll keep him here until French reinforcements arrive,” the second lieutenant said.

  Inside the fortification, brightly lit by oil lamps and torches, lay the lifeless body of Captain-Lieutenant Comte d’Artagnan in a pool of his own blood.

  By the end of the day, instead of being welcomed as a hero for charging the enemy’s front lines and rallying our troops, I was in the prison in Maastricht, held as a traitor responsible for abandoning my post, leading to the death of our Captain-Lieutenant. I waited for military activity around the city to slow for a week then made my escape before they brought me up on formal charges and shot me as a traitor.

  I would never see my duty the same way ever again. While my time with the Musketeers was far from the last time I enlisted in mortal militaries or militias, I vowed never to actively pursue rogue nonhuman elements overtly while serving. That was the first time I fully understood that what I did was best kept as far from mortal eyes as possible. At first, I told myself it was to protect them, but truthfully, it was to keep them from interfering. The majority of mundane humans were not prepared to deal with my world.

  That was also the first time I was wrongfully imprisoned. I realized then that there was no way to get justice by staying a prisoner or even standing trial under those circumstances. My only chance to clear my name, or even survive, was to escape. The only problem was that my newest captors weren’t the simple humans who’d imprisoned me in 1673.

  Chapter 8

  At some point, I allowed myself to fall asleep. I wasn’t sure when I woke up or even how long I was out. I was still in control of my faculties, but I had no concept of time at all. I doubted I’d slept long because all of my aches and pains still ached and pained. Sleeping on the cold, hard stone floor had added a stiff back and neck to the mix. I knew I needed to develop a routine if I wanted to stay sane.

  I forced myself to get up and begin some light calisthenics in order to get moving and focus on something. It felt good to get the blood flowing again and knock the chill off, and the activity actually lessened some of my stiffness. It did nothing for my smell, however. I began physically running through hand-to-hand attacks and defenses, almost like a form or kata in martial arts, only I did them slowly and deliberately, like Tai Chi, focusing on each movement. It forced me to maintain my balance in the darkness.

  In between my physical routines, I focused on fighting techniques and tactics as a mental exercise, imagining a maneuver then its counter. I deliberately and painstakingly went through every fighting style I knew, armed and unarmed, then went through battlefield troop tactics. Then I went through my own battles and various fights and considered how I might have done them differently. Most importantly, I worked on different scenarios for escaping.

  I repeated this routine sixteen times, each time I woke up, driving myself into gear. In the event the opportunity to escape came up, I continued to explore my cell, running my hands over every part of the floor and walls I could reach, familiarizing myself with my confines. In addition, it helped me fight the suffocating effects of sensory deprivation. To my surprise, I discovered a small indentation in the wall near the door, at about waist level, barely deep enough for my hand. The bottom of the little divot actually formed a bowl that was always filled with water and allowed me just enough room to scoop a handful when I needed it.

  Every so often, the door would open a bit along the bottom, and a small, heavy wooden bowl would slide in, filled with a cold, pasty substance that had almost no flavor and a texture like grits. I took my chances eating it. I kept a close count on the number of times they fed me, using it as a sort of clock. Despite my routine, the interval between feedings felt almost random, but I couldn’t be sure. After a dozen feedings, I began to watch for any sign of who or what fed me, but I never perceived anything more than a shadow. On one occasion, I tried to ram my feeding dish under the opening to prop it open, but the wooden bowl shattered like glass as the small gap closed on it without hindrance. The image of the smashed bowl kept me from jamming my hands under it. Still, I kept the larger, sharper pieces of the destroyed bowl as weapons, just in case the opportunity ever arose.

  I chose one corner for my bathroom, but mercifully, the seemingly living cell always absorbed or somehow eliminated the waste as well as the odor. I was struck by the contradiction. From time immemorial, humans have allowed prisoners to wallow in their own filth. Apparently, the fae didn’t mind driving a prisoner crazy, but they at least kept their captives clean while breaking their minds.

  As I lay down to rest, I began counting as high as I could, reciting memorized verses of literature, or singing, each time in a different language and sometimes at the top of my lungs. No matter how loudly I screamed, the odd chamber dulled the sound. I also thought about Department of Homeland Security Agent Sarah Wright—and her gray eyes. A lot. I still was hesitant about our relationship for about a million reasons, but none was more prevalent than the fact that she was a mundane. The more I thought about her, the more I worried she might eventually realize I was missing somehow and do something stupid like search for me. She was definitely capable for a human, but a mundane stood no chance against an entire fae court. She had no chance of standing with them, either.

  Despite my routines, visions began to assault me. The faces of all the friends and comrades I’d lost over the centuries, many whose names I could no longer remember, crept in from the darkness. They woke me more and more, until my sleep became fitful, at best. Finally, after I’d finished my waking exercises for the twenty-eighth time, the doorway opened, revealing a humanoid shape cast in shadow. I had been in blackness so long that even the dim light from outside the cell hurt my eyes, so I turned my back to the doorway, ducked my head, and shielded my eyes with my arm. I palmed a shard of the splintered wooden bowl in each hand. I assumed the figure would be Belphoebe, but I was wrong.

  “On your knees,” said a harsh but clear, deep male voice devoid of any discernible accent. I had to give it to fairies. They all spoke with perfect elocution and diction.

  I glanced over my shoulder, still shading my eyes, hoping to get an idea of who or what had entered the cell, but it was all a painful blur. “Make me,” I replied without thinking. I was hit along the back of the legs, bringing me to one knee. Note to self: If I survive this, I might have to work on that brain-mouth filter thing. On second thought, fuck the filter. Resist.

  “Bet you won’t do that again,” I said through clenched jaws. I was goading him to let them know they hadn’t broken me yet. Realizing I still couldn’t see well enough to make an effective break for it, I needed a better idea of my surroundings before taking off. If I got one shot at it, I needed to make it count.

  He hit me again—in the lower back, sending shooting pain down both legs.

  “Ha! You missed my legs.” I exhaled loudly through my nose, trying to control the pain.

  I braced for another blow, but all that came was a derisive laugh that was more like a pig’s snort. On the positive side, my eyes had adjusted to the dim light enough that I could make out two blurry, dark, and slender humanoid shapes at the door, but the process of trying to focus led to an instant headache. I closed my eyes and ducked my head. Patience. Wait for the right time to attack.

  I focused on listening. In addition to the two at the door, at least one other creature was in the cell w
ith me—the one who’d whacked me like I was a baseball at batting practice. Fae move so silently, they’re impossible to hear even when dancing on eggshells while wearing jingle bells, but I was sure that Babe Ruth was still standing to my left, behind me.

  For the briefest of moments, I contemplated attacking Babe Ruth. I might as well go down swinging, but some part of me wanted to know why they thought I killed Indronivay.

  “What’s the deal, Slugger?” I asked, still feeling the pain in my legs and back. “Don’t I get a phone call or something?”

  My comment elicited a series of grunts and scoffs, with a surprising one coming from behind me to my right. There were at least two fae in there with me—that made four total. There was no way I could fight my way out of the cell half-blind against four of them. I need to be patient. A smell like rancid meat marinated in bird crap wafted across my nose and made my eyes water. One of the two beings flanking me is either an ogre or the zombie version of Big Bird.

  “They’re ready for him,” said a different masculine voice from behind me, to my right. Zombie Big Bird.

  Ready for me? I squeezed my hands around the wooden shards so hard I could feel the splintered edges bite into my palms. I made the decision right there that if the opportunity to run never came, then I was going to do as much damage as possible before I went down. They would never be ready for me.

  “On your feet,” Babe Ruth said from my left, followed by a quick poke in the shoulder from something blunt.