Called to Battle, Volume 1

by Larry Correia

  “Only my gun,” she said. “I won’t use my magic if I don’t have to. I promise.”

  Narn nodded. It would be hard enough against three mages who made him ill simply by weaving their will, let alone four, and one his ally. Also, the less of the horrible magic that was used, the better. The night ahead would bring him great suffering, but if he must know such pain to end this threat to his people, so be it.

  He turned toward the village and nodded.

  Part 3: The Sacrifice

  The man’s terrified screams rose over the howling wind as his body twisted in the air, alive with green lightning. His limbs went taut, and his cries became choking gurgles as blood ran from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Then he was sweating blood—his clothes darkened, sodden amid the chill, and his exposed skin slicked bright red. The blood poured from him in plumes, infusing the whirling snow, and his body shrank to a desiccated husk in its wake. When his last gasps quieted, his body shook, then heaved its last. The withered corpse fell to the ground as the last of the blood was whipped into the pink storm.

  “Is that the last one?” Volus asked. “Oh wait! Six more!”

  The boy mage with the shock of black hair looked over the huddled mass of remaining villagers—half-frozen and terrified—and they recoiled from him, weeping and praying. Khadorans were a hardy people, and most had seen some military service and training, but against these horrible mages they might as well have been helpless lambs. The desiccated bodies of uncooperative hostages littered the square. Green lightning danced from Volus’ mouth and he licked his lips, savoring the taste of his magic and their fear. He had gathered them here, in the center of town, to fuel his magic, and though the effort of draining their blood into the storm left fatigue scrawled across his features, he looked more excited with each death.

  Her scarred face impassive, Flense turned her attention to the rugged wall at the edge of the village, where the half-cobbled road trailed off into the snow. She squinted with her one eye, then laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder to draw her attention. The leader of the three remaining mages nodded and clicked her tongue.

  “Hold, nephew.” Saerl held up a hand. “I think we are not alone.”

  A smoke grenade rolled into the square, discharging its obscuring contents and drawing all their eyes.

  “Such theatrics,” Saerl said. “Volus.”

  The storm sorcerer waved his hands as though at an annoying insect, and the smoke dispersed to reveal a lone figure in a tattered black cloak, balanced lightly atop the packed snow. Narn wore his sabers at his belt, but his hands were not near them—instead, his arms were crossed over his chest in a peaceable gesture. The tainted snow had left his face a mess of smeared blood, but his eyes burned brightly at the three mages with their captives.

  “Hail.” Saerl put one hand on the hilt of her saber, the other on the butt of her shortarm. “Have you come to your senses, Iosan? All we want is the girl.”

  Volus came to her side, hands clasping and unclasping frenetically. “So much power,” he said. “She’s still alive, Aunt—make him tell us where she is!”

  She extended a hand and backhanded him across the face so hard he fell into the snow. “Adults talking, boy,” she said. She turned back to Narn. “We know you haven’t killed Svyn. So what do you want? Will you trade her for your life?”

  Narn remained silent, considering them with his customary impassivity. They had set up their killing altar in the center of the village outpost, and the magic kept the worst of the storm at bay. He could not defeat all three of them, but then, he did not have to. Not alone. But he had to keep their eyes—just for another moment.

  “No, of course not,” she said. “I have slain two of your kind already, Iosan—well, after I tortured them for a few days each. I know all about your order of hunters. I know you will never stop hounding us, just as your fellows did.” She smiled, and her fine teeth gleamed wickedly in the magical light. “Would you like to hear how they died? Perhaps which of them was a coward?”

  An exaggeration. Narn knew no true mage hunter would part with details of the Retribution, no matter the torture. Saerl was taunting him, and he would not let her rattle his resolve. Narn put his hands to the hilts of his swords, trying to ignore the impact of her words and the growing pain in his belly. He could not keep their focus for much longer, nor could he stomach their insults. Then he saw a flash of light around a nearby building—the gleam of green magelight off the barrel of a pistol—and calm filled him.

  “Judgment,” he said below his voice, in the tongue of Shyr. Thanks to the gauze he’d stuffed in his ears his voice echoed oddly in his head.

  “What was that?” Saerl asked him. “Praying? Oh, see that you do.” She gestured Flense forward. Volus was getting to his feet.

  “Speed. Strength,” Narn prayed.

  “Enough of this!” Volus screamed. “Kill him.”

  Flense ran at him, green energy flowing around her hands.

  “Faith,” Narn said as he raised his crossbow and aimed at Flense’s face.

  The woman’s crooked mouth twisted into a caricature of a smile. No doubt she expected the bolt to bounce off her armor plating as before. Her smile evaporated when the fragile vial attached to the head of the quarrel broke and voracious acid splashed across her chest and face.

  Flense recoiled, uttering a guttural, retching sound, and Narn was moving. He ran right past her, straight at Volus. The youngest mage had exhibited the most dangerous magic, both because he could annihilate Narn with a single bolt of lightning and because the mere act of invoking his magic made the Iosan dizzy with sickness. Narn knew he could not defeat the man at range, so he had to bring the fight in close. He had memorized the path to his quarry and needed no sight, so he shut his eyes.

  Green lightning streaking around his hands, Volus declaimed the arcane syllables of a slaying spell, but at that moment a bullet glowing with red energy streaked out from among the buildings and struck something at his feet. It had appeared there during the distraction of the smoke grenade and Narn’s appearance: an incendiary grenade. For all his magical might, the sorcerer was only a man, and he had a man’s brain and nerves. Even as the grenade burst, the bullet sent out a wave of magical force, and the combined explosion shattered Volus’ senses and sent him staggering. Narn’s world deadened as the edge of the explosion caught him, but with his eyes shut and ears blocked up, the worst of the explosion left him unscathed.

  A lightning bolt streaked from Volus’ fingers toward Narn. He could feel the air screaming at its approach. And as he had done countless times in his life, he threw himself twisting to the ground, dodged the attack, and ran on. All without his sight.

  Narn fell upon Volus and opened his eyes, only to see the boy flailing at the flames that ate greedily at his leathers. He was screaming, which Narn heard only distantly, and his eyes bulged in terror. Good. Narn drew his sabers reverently, slashed once through Volus’ torso, and then cut again with the other saber. The boy sank to the ground a bleeding, burning husk.

  One down.

  He felt vomit rise up in his throat as Volus’ magic tore out of him and flowed in three directions: to Saerl, Flense, and Svyn. Narn braced himself, but the nausea grew far worse as more power was released—that of Morte, then Revane, and then Volus himself. Despite himself, he fell back a step, sabers raised. Dimly he saw Flense rushing toward him like a steam engine, her hands crackling with energy. It was all he could do to start dodging.

  Too slow.

  The shattering impact of Flense’s punch sent Narn flying, and he crashed through the already broken window of the common hall. He rolled across one of the mead tables and down onto a bench, overturning and cracking it with a groan of protesting wood. He lay stunned on the floor for a time, staring up at the ceiling. He did not know how many bones that strike had broken—it felt like all of them. But he could not just die. Svyn needed him. Ios needed him. Scyrah needed him.

  If his goddess reclaimed him this ni
ght, he would meet her on his feet. He pushed himself up by force of will. And as he did, he wondered why he had thought of the human first.

  He heard the sounds of gunfire outside—Svyn—and green energy flashed in the shattered windows. No sooner had he risen and reclaimed his sabers, however, than the wall cracked and broke open to admit the hulking silhouette of Flense, crackling with electricity.

  He had not had a good look at Flense before, but now, in the magical light, he could see her face and body in all its horror. Svyn had said she had almost killed Flense but that the others had rebuilt her. Narn had not understood at the time, but now the gun mage’s meaning became clear. Black plate armor covered Flense’s body from head to toe, containing what remained of her flesh. A thing of steam-powered pistons formed one of her arms, and her legs looked more like engines than human limbs. Burn scars streaked the remaining skin on her half-metal face. She seemed to feel no pain, and he saw his trick with the acid had done little more than irritate her.

  He scraped his sabers along one another, signaling her to approach, and she obliged.

  The woman was strong, he had to give her that, but even after witnessing her unstoppable charge, Narn had not expected her speed. He feigned a stop-thrust and danced aside, expecting Flense to crash through the thin wall behind him. Instead she drew up short, turned on her heel, and grabbed at his arm. She caught a handful of cloak instead and tore it away, then swung her free hand at his chest, sparks showering from the knuckleduster built into her hand. Remembering how hard she hit, Narn dodged instead of trying to block. It took all his training to avoid her grasp, and he danced along tables around the great hall while she scrambled after him like a hound chasing a fox. He could keep running and hope she would tire—though that seemed unlikely—but . . .

  “Show yourself, you naughty, naughty girl!” Saerl shouted outside. “You know I’ll find you. Spare yourself some pain and come out now.”

  He heard a shot, followed by Saerl’s mocking laughter, and his heart lurched. The gun mage was giving away her position.

  Narn had to attack. He had superior reach, though he wasn’t sure that counted when his opponent did not fear his blades. It would have to be trickery—something unexpected and blindingly fast. He brought his blades together for “threshing with a double sword,” then leaped as Flense shattered the table he stood upon with a downward punch. He turned around in the air, came down on the opposite table in a crouch, and sprang at Flense’s face, sabers high and together.

  She caught the blades high on her arm and they shrieked off her carapace. One saber, driven with all Narn’s strength, left a gouge the width of a thumb, while the other bounced off and skittered against the near wall. Flense looked confused, but then she looked down at Narn’s crossbow inside her guard, pointed up at her chin. He had loosed his grip on his second saber during his attack and drawn the crossbow faster than any eye could follow.

  “Faith,” he said, and squeezed the trigger.

  The crossbow quarrel thudded into Flense’s head and sent her toppling. Narn stood atop the table, cloak flapping in swirling wind for half a heartbeat, then remembered. Svyn.

  He turned, meaning to find his fallen saber, when massive hands seized his ankle like an iron fetter. He looked down and saw a horribly scarred Flense holding him. Blood and greenish pus—the gift of her vile magic, to rot her body from the inside—flowed freely from her twisted face, and her one eye burned with green hatred.

  The woman felt no pain. Her body kept pulling itself together, no matter how much harm he inflicted. How could he fight her?

  Then Flense lifted him up and slammed him with crushing force into the ceiling. The world went white for an instant as breath exploded out of his body, and his saber tumbled from numb fingers. A second body blow against the ceiling dislodged his crossbow, which bounced to the tabletop below. Narn could only watch distantly as Flense hurled him toward the kitchen. Miraculously, she missed her target, and Narn instead tumbled along the floor and came to a rest against the wall, near where Svyn’s ogrun had cornered him in that first battle. The ogrun.

  The Iosan levered himself into a sitting position, coughing bloody spittle, and traced his hands through the dust and snow. He could see only blearily as the silhouette of Flense loomed over him, her green eye burning down at him as she took his masterfully crafted crossbow and snapped it in two without effort. His vision blurred, but he could sense her coming. She took her time, and he realized she was smiling.

  He bit through his lip and prayed . . . There.

  As Flense reached for him, Narn wrapped his fingers around the haft of the ogrun’s axe and drove the weapon with all his might into the center of her body.

  For one breathless instant, he thought the axe’s mechanikal accumulator must have failed, but then it buzzed to life. The destructive force woven into the weapon flared, and it wrenched a horrific sound from Flense’s lips that was half groan, half animal yowl. She staggered, then fell onto her back, hands twitching at the axe buried in her chest.

  Narn rose, spat blood onto the floor, and went to collect his sabers—one, two—then returned and put one blade on either side of Flense’s neck. Her green eye stared up at him, and he thought he saw something like gratitude in her gaze.

  He wrenched the blades apart, and blood spurted.

  The cursed magic flared from Flense’s corpse, and Narn almost collapsed from the sickness. Through sheer force of will he kept his feet, gritting his teeth against the onslaught of nausea. He would not allow it to overcome him. The glow through the window meant dawn approached, but he knew the night was not done.

  He burst free of the hall in time to see fire erupt from Saerl’s rune-encircled hand and engulf the remaining building. The last of the villagers had scattered; Svyn must have freed them, and now her aunt had her pinned down. Another spell shot into the gun mage’s shelter, which shook under the explosion. Narn rushed toward her, and walls of fire sprang up from the wet cobbles to impede him. He reached for his crossbow—but of course it was gone. He could only watch.

  “You’re too late, Iosan,” Saerl said. “Thank you for saving me the trouble of killing Flense. If you wait a moment, I’ll be a goddess, and I’ll slay you then.”

  She spread her arms and threw her head back, black hair swirling in the snowy night. Green fire surrounded her, flowing into her from all directions.

  Flames or no flames, Narn had to get to Svyn. Bloodied, his ribs and limbs screaming in protest, he wrapped his cloak tight about his body and rolled in the snow, trying to get as much of it to cling to him as possible. This would be agony, but he would—

  A shot rang out and blood burst from Saerl’s left shoulder. She staggered back, her exultant cry become a growl of pain.

  “Not yet, Aunt.” A figure emerged from the flames, wrapped in a protective suit of black leather, rasping hard through a red-eyed gas mask. As the walls of fire died around her, Svyn tore off the helmet to reveal her sweat-soaked face and glowing green eyes. “Not yet.”

  Saerl grinned, an expression more like an animal’s than a civilized woman’s. “Good.”

  Narn knew his moment had come. Without a cry or crunch of snow, he flew at her, sabers raised. If she only focused on Svyn a heartbeat longer—

  A saber rattled out of its scabbard and swept up and back to block Narn’s charge. Green flames erupted, and he dug in his heels to leap back before they could do more than lick at his flesh. Saerl held her sword almost casually and smiled at him. “I’ll kill you first, Iosan,” she said, “since you insist so strongly.”

  Narn launched a riposte, but magic flared and he collapsed to his knees from the rotting agony in his guts. He propped himself up on one saber, which slipped and almost cut his leg. He managed to keep one knee—until Saerl kicked him onto the ground. He struggled to rise, but she put the point of her saber to his throat.

  “I can’t imagine how you thought you stood a chance against me,” she said. “You—”

  �
�Saerl!” Svyn shouted, magelock pistol shaking in her rune-ringed hand.

  Too fast. The woman reacted too fast.

  Svyn fired, and the red-glowing slug streaked across the snowy field. Almost casually, Saerl leaned aside and it cut past her harmlessly. She raised her free hand, glowing with power, and engulfed Svyn in a burning cloud of ash. The girl screamed, flailed, and dived face-first into the snow to put out her skin and hair.

  “Embrace it, child,” Saerl said. “Do not fight, and the pain will be over quickly. Give me your power, and I will be invincible.”

  Narn’s heart pounded like thunder inside him, and abruptly his own pain was gone. In her distraction, Saerl had taken her eyes off him. He could fight through the sickness her magic caused. He had to. He swatted her back with a rising slash of his sabers and rose.

  “Outstanding.” Saerl fell into a perfect duelist’s stance, sword pointed at him. “Come—”

  “No words,” he said in Shyr.

  He struck at her with all his strength, bringing to bear all his training, honed from decades spent in service to his people. He hounded her, ignored feints, and continued his attack. Any sensible duelist would attack and retreat, test his opponent’s defenses and skills, but Narn did nothing of the sort. He smashed aside her teasing sword and cut at her with enough force to hack off limbs. A dozen times her saber stung him, but he shrugged off the injuries. If he gave her a moment to work magic, he was lost.

  She would fall. He would see it done, or he would die.

  Then it happened. Driven by sickness, fatigue, wounds, and sheer hatred, Narn overstepped, and her saber stabbed into his thigh. When she fell back, he tried to pursue but faltered, his wounded leg failing under him. He fell into the snow and felt the familiar agony of her magic rising inside him.

  “Stupid Iosan.” Saerl raised one hand, glowing with green fire. “You provided a fine distraction, but now . . .”