Called to Battle, Volume 1

by Larry Correia

  She took the bottle and poured them both another few fingers of the potent liquor. He’d already gotten the first half of his fee up front and felt fairly certain he wasn’t being set up, so the sniper took the glass, though he would pace himself in these unfamiliar surroundings. Despite her size and age, Sivasha seemed capable of keeping her wits despite strong drink, but that was expected of a Khadoran. She gulped down the second and poured herself a third.

  “I must tell you, Bailoch, I’ve dreamed of that one-eyed bastard’s death. Since his betrayal I’ve feared he may someday decide to return and meddle in my family’s business again. This worry has gnawed at me.”

  “What’s more important, the revenge or protecting your business?”

  “In Khador, revenge is business. I want Varnke to suffer.”

  Bailoch took another sip. “If all goes well, he won’t.”

  She eyed him frankly. “There are many stories about you . . . .”

  “I’d wager most of them aren’t true.”

  “If even a fraction of them are, though, I must ask . . .” Sivasha paused. “Why?”

  Bailoch leaned back in his chair and took another sip. “Why what?”

  “Why do you still do this? You have been doing it for a long time, no? How long has it been?”

  “That I’ve been shooting people for money?” He’d enlisted in the Cygnaran Army as a long gunner at sixteen. Then he’d joined the Talon Company, and that had been fun while it had lasted—until they’d been branded war criminals. He’d been freelance ever since, drifting from war to war and taking on various jobs. “I don’t know. Coming up on thirty years, I guess.”

  “You must be wealthy now.” Sivasha nodded at the sack of gold coins on the table between them. “You command a substantial fee.”

  He reached over and hefted the bag, as if he could tell the value of the coins just by the weight. Bailoch had made fortunes and lost them. Gold was necessary to live, but he was prepared to leave it behind without hesitation in order to get out of a situation alive. He dropped the sack back on the table. “Man’s got to work. I’ll earn what I can, until I run into somebody better than me and I die.”

  Sivasha chuckled. “Why, you’re an amoral, pragmatic fatalist. Are you sure you’ve not got Khadoran blood?” She shook her head, already more serious. “I understand. I am kayazy. My family rose from peasants to businessmen with the power of nobles because of our hard work and cunning. And now the business is mine to protect. I did not ask for this life, but when my family was butchered like pigs, this became my life. I had no choice.” She finished her third drink. “‘Earn what you can, until you lose to someone better.’ I like that.”

  Bailoch shrugged. It wasn’t often that he pondered philosophy with an employer.

  The approaching figure was humanoid, dressed in furs, and approximately five hundred yards away. The drifts weren’t deep enough yet to call for snowshoes, but the footing along the narrow, rocky pass still had to be slippery. Regardless, the figure was moving quickly and confidently along the tall rock wall.

  Lying prone in his insulated furs and water-resistant leather armor, Bailoch slowly removed the canvas lens covers from his telescopic sight and moved into his shooting position. Silence’s handguard rested gently on top of a fallen log. He never let the barrel rest against anything, as extra pressure from hand or rest could change the tension on the barrel and affect accuracy. The steel butt plate he set firmly against his shoulder. His cheek rested on the stock. The cold glass of the telescopic sight had been coated with a special alchemical mixture to keep it from fogging up once it was only an inch from the warmth of his face.

  The magnifying scope seemed to enlarge everything a dramatic seven times, but it offered an extremely narrow field of view. It was like trying to look down a long, dark pipe to find a pinhole of light at the end. An inexperienced shooter with an inconsistent cheek position would have to fumble about to find what he was looking for. Bailoch found his potential target instantly.

  The figure turned out to be a human male with a thick, black beard. Long, dark hair hung out from beneath his fur hat. Sadly, that description could fit much of Khador’s northern population, and Bailoch wasn’t being paid ten thousand koltinas to murder some random hunter. The optical quality wasn’t sufficient to allow him to pick out any of Malko Varnke’s distinguishing features at this range. He settled in to wait for the man to get closer. His finger would remain indexed outside the trigger guard until he was ready to fire, but the simple wire crosshairs continued bouncing back and forth across his view of the Khadoran’s chest.

  Four hundred yards.

  The man was making good time. Fit and strong, the sure-footed woodsman moved quickly from rock to rock, avoiding the wide white spots that could be concealing crevices. He looked to be somewhere in his forties; they were about the same age. The man was dressed like a Kossite, in grey and black furs, and carried a long rifle slung over one shoulder.

  Three hundred yards.

  The Kossite paused on top of a jutting stone lip to survey the rest of the pass. He was wary. As he turned his head side to side, Bailoch confirmed that he wore a black patch over his left eye. That matched Sivasha’s description of the target. If there was another Kossite hermit in the area with one eye, he was about to have a very bad day.

  Satisfied that the pass was clear, Malko Varnke hopped down from the rock and continued on at his swift pace.

  Bailoch could easily take the shot now. The sun had peeked over the mountainside, and with the light-amplifying properties of his telescopic sight, he could see clearly enough. The wind was strong, though. He glanced at the pine trees around him, watching how the branches rippled. Then he looked back across the pass, watching the patterns and eddies on the surface of the snow. Five miles an hour eastward at his position, with gusts ten miles an hour across the clearing to the west. Nothing he couldn’t compensate for.

  Two hundred and fifty yards.

  Silence was one of the most accurate firearms in western Immoren and Bailoch was one of the best shots. He was deadly with the most cumbersome of blunderbusses; a precision instrument like this simply increased his potential. His rifle was a magical marvel, capable of shooting a two-inch group at one hundred yards. He could take Varnke from here but held on, having memorized the layout of every rock, bit of plant life, and patch of ice in the pass. The Kossite was moving between some tall rocks, which would provide him easy cover in the case of a miss. Bailoch picked another spot: mostly open snow atop grass, with no real cover for ten yards in either direction and a two-hundred-foot tall, icicle-covered rock wall as a backstop. If he missed, he’d still have time to get off a follow-up shot.

  Ever so slowly, Bailoch moved his right hand to his mouth and pulled off his leather glove with his teeth. Then he returned his hand to the firing position on Silence’s stock. It was ice-cold to the touch. The sniper shifted his body slightly, so as to not put as much pressure on his chest. His breathing was slow and easy.

  Two hundred . . .

  Malko Varnke walked into the chosen clearing.

  Bailoch placed the pad of his finger on the trigger. Half a pound of pressure was all it would take.

  The crosshairs were no longer on the man but above and ahead of him. It took time for a bullet to travel through the air, so you had to lead the target, allowing the bullet to intersect with it. Bailoch automatically and instinctually adjusted for the wind and elevation as Silence’s muzzle tracked just ahead of Varnke’s path.

  One ninety . . .

  Malko Varnke froze in place.

  Bailoch did the same.

  At this range the Kossite’s frown was clearly visible through the seven-power magnification. Somehow he knew something was wrong. A sound, a smell—it didn’t matter. Something was off, and that meant danger. Varnke turned, lips moving, and there was a shimmer in the glass of the scope as glowing runes formed around the arcanist’s hand.

  Bailoch pulled the trigger. All the snow in
the clearing exploded upward.

  Silence made no sound, but the recoil still thumped his shoulder, and the scope lifted. A wall of icy wind crashed down the canyon, blowing snow and dirt everywhere and obscuring his target. Cursed magic! Bailoch calmly broke open the action and began extracting the ashen paper debris. He shoved another round into the chamber and closed the breach. Now, where are you?

  The wind died off and most of the snow fell back to the ground. There was no sign of Varnke.

  Now came the tricky part. If he’d run, Bailoch would have a shot, which meant Varnke wouldn’t run— he’d take cover. If he’d taken cover, he’d have his own rifle out, and he’d be searching for his attacker. The first one to bolt would be seen and would die.

  Careful to move only his eyes, Bailoch searched the pass. If he were a Kossite with ice magic, where would he go?

  The shimmering of magic runes drew his attention. Not in the open—Varnke was far too clever for that—but Bailoch caught the reflection in a sheet of ice hanging from the cliff above. He tracked it back and found the rocks Varnke was hiding behind. Damn. He didn’t have a shot, and the Kossite was casting a spell.

  Energy crackled in the air. Suddenly the world turned white, and an unbelievable cold struck his flesh. It was as if he’d been plunged into the heart of a blizzard that was trying to rip the life right out of his body. He needed a new angle to get a shot around those rocks. There was no time for hesitation. His body didn’t want to respond, but Bailoch leapt up and staggered through the hammering wind. Despite the magical attack, he felt calm. He would either die or he would win. Fretting about it seemed pointless. His hiding place was elevated, but a good sniper always had an escape route, and he forced himself toward the side of the bluff.

  It was a ten-foot drop, and he hit hard and rolled through the snow, careful not to let his precious Silence strike the ground.

  The compact blizzard above him tore his hiding spot to bits. Gasping for breath, he realized it was clear here, and that meant Varnke had a shot. Bailoch scrambled for cover. The Kossite’s rifle bullet tore bark from a nearby tree and pelted him with splinters, but then Bailoch was running through the trees.

  The lingering magical cold made thinking difficult, but he knew Varnke would have moved too, and now he’d be looking for another shot, because that’s what Bailoch would do in his situation. He went low, hugging the ground, crawling through the dead underbrush. Bailoch pulled up alongside a thick tree and scanned, but Varnke was already hiding as well.

  He’d left his glove in the blizzard. His right hand was bright pink and quivering uncontrollably. Dealing with frostbite could wait, though. He had a sorcerer to kill. When Varnke didn’t get a shot, he’d use more magic to flush out his quarry. That meant time was on Varnke’s side.

  Bailoch had to push him, get the Kossite to reveal himself . . . and he had to do it fast.

  He sank back down, deeper behind cover, and shrugged out of the heavy bearskin. Now the cold really hit, but if this worked he’d be able to put it back on in a moment, and if it didn’t—well, either way he wouldn’t be cold for long.

  He found a sturdy stick, placed the fur over it, and then shoved it past the side of the tree. A second later the Kossite spotted the movement of the fur and fired. The bullet pierced the skin. Bailoch spotted the flash and the smoke before he heard the gunshot. He moved the stick, letting the coat sway, and then hurled it out of the trees and down the cliff side.

  Varnke reloaded as he came around a boulder at the base of the cliff, runes of magical power swirling about his body, ready to finish his wounded attacker, unaware he was chasing an empty fur.

  He realized his mistake as Silence’s muzzle poked past the tree.

  He’d prepared a defensive spell, and snow and wind exploded outward again, strong enough to deflect a bullet. He wasn’t about to fall for the same trick twice.

  The crosshair danced across the icy sheets at the top of the cliff, far above Varnke’s head. Over two days Bailoch had memorized every nuance of the surface. The sniper picked out an icicle, big enough to cause a shower of debris but thin enough to be broken by a single heavy round. His heart hammered, but he felt only cold so deep it burned. His breath shot out in painful clouds of steam. He was in an awkward improvised position.

  It would have been an extremely difficult shot on a nice day in the sun.

  The bullet wants to hit the target. That is its destiny. It’s the shooter’s weakness that stands in its way.

  Kell Bailoch was a consummate professional, and he wasn’t about to thwart the destiny of a bullet.

  Adjust for distance. Compensate for wind. The crosshairs shook across the surface of the icicle. Hold over. Exhale. Squeeze.

  Silence made no noise as the recoil thumped his shoulder.

  CRACK.

  The icicle broke free and spun downward into a suspended sheet of ice. It shattered, taking snow and rocks with it, and that all fell in an ever-growing cascade of destruction.

  Malko Varnke’s ice storm died off, just in time for him to look up into the rushing thunder.

  The young, reluctant leader of a kayazy faction poured him one last drink.

  He’d had too much, but the fire was nice, the room was warm, the chair was comfortable, and it had been a long time since he’d enjoyed the company of a beautiful young woman.

  “Is that all there is to it, then, Bailoch? Survival? Money? Power? Is that all there is in life?” Sivasha was a little drunk herself. “We do a job that makes us important and vital, and maybe we’re good enough at it that we get to live longer. Is that it? You kill people, over and over and over. You’ve assassinated generals, and politicians, and priests—so many, for so long . . .”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “But why? I’m stuck. You’re not. One job, that much gold, you could walk away, be a farmer or a gunsmith or something. You could choose another path. Why this one?”

  That was a good question.

  Malko Varnke had been struck by the rockslide. His legs were crushed. He was bleeding from a gash in his head that had opened clear to his skull. His beard was soaked red and he was coughing blood.

  The sniper limped up to the fallen man. He’d retrieved his coat and had Silence cradled in his arms. This job was almost done.

  The Kossite looked up, confused when he didn’t recognize the man who had ended his life. “Why you?”

  Kell Bailoch brought up Silence to finish the job. “Because I’m the best.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Larry Correia is the New York Times bestselling author of the Monster Hunter International series, the Grimnoir Chronicles trilogy, and the military thrillers Dead Six and Swords of Exodus. He has been a finalist for the Campbell award and the Julia Verlanger award and won an Audie Award for Hard Magic. He is published by Baen Books. A former accountant, military contractor, firearms instructor, and machine gun dealer, Larry now lives with his wife and children in the mountains of northern Utah, where he has moose in his yard.

  JUDGMENT

  BY ERIK SCOTT DE BIE

  Part 1: The Hunter

  Brone’s Point in western Khador, late autumn 604 AR

  “Judgment.”

  Wind howling in his ears, the mage hunter knelt in the snow, arms crossed before him. He murmured his blessings in the melodic tongue of Shyr, invoking the goddess Scyrah, in whose name he hunted. He crossed his arms over his chest and prayed for judgment, the first and most important virtue of a mage hunter.

  “Speed. Strength.”

  He drew his twin sabers—the edges of which he kept honed nearly to invisibility—and laid them in the snow like two crescent moons on either side of himself. Over these, he whispered a blessing to Scyrah. But weapons were subordinate to judgment: talent with a blade meant nothing without direction, and strength of arms meant only death if mind led body into overwhelming odds.

  “Faith.”

  He drew his crossbow from its sling by his side and held it to his fore
head. It was the symbol of his crusade: to strike out at the humans who had dealt a mortal blow to the Vanished. But even faith was secondary to judgment. Any fool could speak the words of faith, the Retribution’s maledictions against those humans who would wield magic, which ate at the hearts of his gods and his people like a cancer. Too many hunters fought and died needlessly because they underestimated a target, driven by their furor to hunt, and did not take the necessary precautions. They did not plan and move only when victory was assured.

  “Judgment before all.”

  Narn, who had killed many human mages in his century of service, had never made such a mistake. He knew when to move and when to wait and watch, when to strike and when to stay his hand. The Retribution of Scyrah demanded he work to slay without mercy the human arcanists he discovered, and he earnestly believed in the cause. But Narn was not the soulless killer Nayl was, whose every kill was a lesson in efficiency and ruthlessness, nor did he share the same dogmatic rage that blinded so many of his students. He moved in his own way, and he had never failed. Only Eiryss, his greatest student, was of a like mind to him, even as she developed her own distinct techniques.

  Narn put these thoughts from his mind and surveyed the windswept border outpost at the edge of the western cliff, perched over a hundred feet above the crashing waves of the Khardic Sea. The setting sun painted the snow and the crumbling stone walls pink and orange, but these faded as color drained from the world. The keep on the ledge was the legacy of a forgotten time, its builders lost to legend and the subject of debate in scholarly circles far away, yet it remained despite its age. The weathered walls offered shelter to a host of prospectors, hunters, and square-jawed commoners struggling to eke out an existence under the harsh conditions. Among the soft folk of western Immoren, the Khadorans had always struck Narn as hardy to the point of stubbornness.