Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

  It was hard to see details in the dark from half a mile away. It was vaguely man-shaped, but wrong: four arms, two legs—all bending with extra joints—creaking and clacking as animated earth ripped from the river bed and filled with demonic smoke meshed together into the semblance of a body. It had taken on the color of the void it had torn itself from, with skin an empty black that seemed hungry to absorb the light. It stood, spread its arms wide, and roared at the city, nearly as loud as the crashing of the temporary waterfall from a few minutes before. Despite its vast size, it was quick, and it lurched over to where the bridge was still burning. A police car was tossed through the air and another was kicked into the river.

  Faye rubbed her eyes. It was incomprehensible. Nothing alive could be that big without squishing itself under its own weight. Except Summoned weren’t really alive like we thought of living, now were they? How could it even move? She didn’t know that either, but it was over there tossing police cars like baseballs. Despite what some folks said, she knew she wasn’t crazy. This thing was real. She just couldn’t wrap her brain around it, and her brain was extra good at wrapping around strange concepts.

  Sullivan spoke up first. “I’d say seventy feet tall.” As usual, he seemed calm, and Faye was surprised just how much that helped her stay calm.

  All the other knights were shocked, standing there with their mouths open as they watched the spectacle across the Potomac. John Browning turned to their Summoner. “Your estimate, Mr. Wright?”

  “There’s nothing like that out there. That thing can’t exist.”

  “Apparently it can. Is size always proportionate to the difficulty in banishing a Summoned?”

  “As far as I’m aware, yes.”

  “So, how difficult will it be to defeat such a beast?” Browning snapped. Ian mumbled an inaudible response. “Spit it out, man.”

  “It would be impossible. The bigger they are, the more smoke they hold, and the harder they are to hurt. That thing? Christ . . . I don’t know. If you killed its Summoner, it would weaken it; eventually it would just fall apart and dissipate on its own.”

  “I already killed him,” Faye said. “Except Crow’s different. What would happen if the Summoner couldn’t die, like if he was stuck inside his own monster?”

  Ian was clearly in over his head. “I’ve got absolutely no idea.”

  “What can we do then?”

  “Let the Army handle it,” Ian answered sheepishly.

  Faye knew that the Army was in the city already. They’d been called up just in case the antimagic marchers turned into rioters, though Mr. Sullivan said they were keeping a low profile because of how awful they’d looked last year when they’d dispatched the Bonus March. She really doubted that the Army would be ready for anything like this.

  Gunfire echoed across the river as the police shot at the monster, but it didn’t show any reaction. The knights were silent as they watched the demon attack the homes along the river. It just ripped through houses like they were made of paper. It was nearly three times as tall as the two-story homes along the riverfront. It hadn’t turned so they could see its face yet, but it paused and crouched for a moment, hands moving from the ground to what she could only assume was its mouth. It repeated that process several times, snatching things up from the torn apart houses as it went. “What’s it doing?”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Jane whispered. “It’s eating people.”

  The demon lifted its head, and they were finally able to see a face straight out of nightmares. There were two eyes on each side of its head, glowing red as the fires of hell. Two long horizontal gashes bleeding smoke bisected the head, one on top of the other, that had to be mouths. It noticed the lights of the Lincoln Memorial, opened both sets of jaws, roared a challenge, and thundered toward the south.

  “Knights,” Mr. Browning raised his voice, “we must act. There are tens of thousands of men, women, and children camped on the mall tonight. We must help kill this thing or distract it until they can evacuate.”

  “Those ten thousand came here to protest us,” Ian snapped. “I don’t think you understand what a Summoned that size should be capable of. Fighting it is suicide!”

  Browning ignored him. “Faye, do you have the strength to ferry individuals across?”

  She checked. Even with Traveling a motor boat full of people a quarter mile in one hop, her Power felt great, not as strong as it had gotten aboard the Tokugawa, but much better than it had been. “Sure thing.”

  “Good. Start with the most combat capable first and work your way down. The rest of us with magic not suited for fighting can still fire a gun. Someone tell Dan to interrogate the Coordinator quickly. He may have information that we can use against this thing.” Browning was good at taking charge. “Any other ideas?”

  Sullivan tossed his partially finished cigarette in the river. “If you’re on speaking terms with the Almighty, start calling in favors. Take me across first, Faye. Toru, you in?”

  The Iron Guard was standing apart and had not yet spoken. “You would die defending those that wish only to destroy you?”

  “Among others.”

  “You are a fool. Such compassion for the stupid is a waste of righteous Power.”

  “Fine. Be a chicken.”

  “Never question my courage,” Toru growled. “I did not say I would not slay this demon, only that you are a fool. Of course I will fight.” The sword he’d found was so long that Toru had to pull the scabbard off of his back in order to unsheathe it. “And since I am the strongest, I demand the honor of striking first.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Faye walked over and touched the Iron Guard on the shoulder. “Ready?”

  He took the sword hilt in both hands. “Hai!”

  She’d take that as a yes. It was tempting to drop the pushy Iron Guard right into one of the demon’s mouths and be done with him, but she reckoned they’d need all the help they could get.

  Chapter 22

  We’ve got a great show for you tonight. We’ve got dancing. We’ve got singing. We’ve got magic like you wouldn’t believe. Displays of superstrength, deadly stunts, risking life and limb, all for your enjoyment. We have got it all. Ladies and gentlemen, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

  —Al Jolson,

  Sinbad’s Vaudeville Theater, 1911

  USS Lexington

  Over Washington, D.C.

  THE AIRSHIP HAD SOUNDED the alert as soon as the electrical anomaly had been spotted at the abandoned Peace Ray facility just west of the city. The crew of the aircraft carrier Lexington had reacted like a well-oiled machine. They’d dropped two of their complement of sixteen Curtiss Raptors to investigate within five minutes of the first alarm, and then they’d waited.

  The radio call that came in next had been simply unbelievable.

  “A giant monster came out of the river?” The captain had just been roused from his bunk and it was taking him a moment to digest the news. “And it’s heading for the Lincoln Memorial?”

  “Yes, Captain,” confirmed the radioman. It sounded insane, but that was the word.

  “Is this some kind of joke, Lieutenant Heinlein?”

  “No, sir. It appears to be some sort of creature, like something a Summoner would have, only bigger.”

  Tensions had been high ever since the assassination attempt, but nobody had expected that there would actually be anything for the Navy’s most advanced airship to do over the Capitol other than be a sign of strength and stability to the people. They’d been wrong.

  “Damned wizards. Ought to hang the lot of them . . . Bring us around to engage with the main guns and drop the fighters.”

  Washington, D.C.

  SULLIVAN’S BOOTS hit the pavement hard. Faye always seemed to like appearing a little above the ground for safety’s sake, and a lot above it when she was carrying somebody with her. Traveling was terribly disorienting, so it took him a moment to regain his bearings. He had no idea how the girl was able to do it so
quickly and always keep herself pointed in the right direction. The reflecting pool was in front of them. They were near the Roosevelt Memorial. The Washington Monument rose in the distance to their left. To the right was the Lincoln Memorial, and standing next to it was one big demon.

  The police were shooting futilely at the demon. An awful roar filled the air and the ground shook as it assaulted the memorial. Each footfall was like thunder and the police had no choice but to scatter. It wrapped three of its arms around one of the Greek columns and tore it from the building. The pillar broke in half and the monster flung the first piece at a passing biplane. It missed, but the massive chunk of stone flew off to crash in the distance.

  “Holy shit . . .” Sullivan trailed off. He prided himself on always being cool in a fight, but this was overwhelming, even for him. It was a whole lot scarier being on the same side of the river as this thing. “Either I’m bad at estimating size or it’s still growing.”

  “It’s sucking in the air around it and turning it into Summoned smoke. When it gets thick enough, it turns that into ink and it stretches its body even bigger,” Faye explained. He did not know how she could see that. It had to be that head map of hers that she was always talking about. “Want me to take you back?” Faye asked, terrified herself.

  “Tempting, but naw. I got this.”

  Faye nodded and then she was gone.

  The Roosevelt Memorial was at his back. The familiar bronze of Teddy on his rearing stallion rose behind the trees, rifle lifted overhead in a dramatic pose that had never actually occurred during the Great War, since there hadn’t been much use for horses in the trenches. Many of the antimagic marchers had camped in the open space east of the Roosevelt Monument, and they were running for their lives now. He couldn’t rightly blame them, since the demon was still scooping up people and stuffing its face, not even bothering to chew. It was a demon, living on alien essence and magic. It couldn’t possibly need the nourishment. It seemed to be eating them out of spite.

  Most of the figures around the Lincoln Memorial were running away, but one had somehow managed to climb onto the creature’s back and was moving between the spines, swinging what could only have been a sword. That had to be Toru. Maybe he’d climbed up its leg. Maybe he’d jumped from the top of the Memorial onto its back, but it didn’t matter, since the demon jerked violently and slapped at its back with one claw. It was like the motion a man might make when stung by a wasp. The Iron Guard was knocked off and fell into the trees.

  Sullivan steeled himself. He had absolutely no idea how to hurt this thing. His Power had already been used hard during the night’s events, but even at full strength he wouldn’t have been able to squish something that big. There was no time to dwell on it, though, since the demon was heading his way. Four glowing eyes tilted as its head swelled, like it was testing the air, and somehow Sullivan understood that it sensed the thousands of defenseless lives trapped in the open to the east. The marchers would just be waking up and fleeing now. The demon roared.

  He fired the BAR without consciously thinking about it. The bullets did nothing. Sullivan pointed it right at the creature’s eyes, but those were vast empty pools of fire. It didn’t so much as twitch as it got closer. Reloading, hand a blur between gun and vest, Sullivan tried again. The second magazine was as useless as the first. The demon was closer now, and it was like trying to stand during an earthquake. Stumbling, he turned and ran for the cover of the Roosevelt Memorial. He dove behind a concrete flowerbed as one of the demon’s huge feet kicked the iron bars of the perimeter fence overhead.

  The demon had an overpowering stink to it, like damp ground and ozone. Sullivan crawled forward as another foot landed only twenty feet away, bouncing him across the grass. The foot was shaped like a monkey’s paw, with toes like fingers, each as long as a tall man, with an obsidian nail on the end like a shovel head. The limb was covered with plates like broken asphalt chunks, while the skin beneath was black as oil and appeared slick and moist.

  Tracer bullets splashed across the reflecting pool, tore up clumps of dirt, and ripped into the demon. A sleek Curtiss biplane banked away, engine buzzing. The demon roared with a noise that threatened to make Sullivan’s ears bleed. There was a terrible sound as the bronze statue of Teddy Roosevelt and his horse was ripped from its base and hurled after the speeding plane. This time the demon connected, and the statue tore one set of wings off. The Curtiss went spiraling downward in a cloud of wood splinters and aluminum shrapnel.

  Sullivan gathered enough Power for a brutal Spike, rose, and concentrated on the nearest foot. He brought gravity down on it, sloppy, but hard and fast as he possibly could. A visible depression appeared in the oily skin and the plates cracked. A cloud of demon smoke spilled forth as the foot jerked into the sky. Summoned oil fell on him like rain. It can be damaged!

  Then the massive foot came down right on top of him.

  The Power use was instinctive, and he flared it hard, increasing his density as everything went black. He was driven deep into the ground, flat on his back, stomped like a bug.

  There was no light. There was no air. No sound. There was dirt in his eyes, filling his ears and mouth. He was buried alive beneath the black oily heel of the demon. His Power was burning hot, dwindling quickly, but he was alive. Alive and crushed beneath the incalculable weight of a god.

  This had to be how he’d survived the year before when he’d fallen from a blimp and through a train car. There was no calculation to this magic, only a pure desire to live. Even seconds from death, in a race between what would run out first, his air or his magic, Sullivan’s analytical mind was making notes of this surprising use of his Power. Fascinating.

  The wounded foot rose, leaving Sullivan at the bottom of a footprint in the grass. His mass returned to normal and he could move again. His lungs filled with air. Desperate, he scrambled upward, drawing himself out into the night. The demon was moving on. Sullivan had to hurry and strike with whatever he had left.

  But before Sullivan could do anything else, the beast spun, tearing one leg through the Memorial. The landscape seemed to curl into a wave of approaching earth. An uprooted tree spun his way and he barely had time to increase his density before impact.

  He found himself sailing through the air. Water came rushing up to meet him, but not nearly deep enough to cushion the impact. The splash was far too brief and his shoulder cracked the concrete beneath. Sullivan sat up in the middle of the reflecting pool, gasping and choking.

  The injured foot came down, still mangled and bleeding smoke, but the demon just contorted its unnatural body and used one of its spare hands to steady itself. It must not have realized where that attack had come from, or he’d be dead for sure. It knew that something in the area had severely injured it though, and that something had to be eliminated. Both mouths opened wide and emitted a blast of pure fire in an arc that stretched for hundreds of feet. It swept its head across the mall, side to side, immolating everything. Trees exploded into flame. Innocent people were burned to ash. Sullivan ducked back under the lifesaving water as the fire tore across the pool.

  The son of a bitch breathes fire, too? he thought as he hugged the bottom. It was very shallow, and much of his back was still exposed to the intense heat. He rolled quickly to put himself out. This keeps getting worse.

  Holding his breath as long as he could, it finally felt as if the worst of the heat had passed. The water was scalding as he sprang up and gasped for breath. The air was filled with smoke. Being crushed had left him dizzy and weak. It took quite some time to collect himself.

  Sullivan wiped his eyes and watched as the demon went on to attack the Washington Monument. It covered a football field’s worth of ground every couple of steps and reached the monolith in no time. Even as big as the demon was, the monument was far taller still, and that just seemed to make it mad. The creature struck it several times, angry that anything else might upstage it, but after clawing away several chunks of stone it seemed to rea
lize that the monument was no threat to its superiority. Instead it scrambled effortlessly up the side of the monument, climbing to a higher vantage point so that it could survey its new kingdom.

  A pair of biplanes did a strafing run against the demon. This time it simply turned and engulfed the incoming planes in a stream of fire. One was struck and exploded in midair. The other managed to dodge under the flames, only to cut too close to the monument and was swatted from the sky by one of the demon’s extra arms. It would accept no challenges to its rule.

  Sullivan waded across the pool. He had to follow this thing before it was too late. His Healing spells were working like mad. His own Power was battered and weak. He still had his gun, and the only reason it hadn’t been destroyed beneath the demon’s foot was because John Browning had enchanted it with runes of durability. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he reached the monster, but he had to try something.

  The demon’s eyes turned to the east, toward the lights of the Capitol and the field of screaming, fleeing humans. It climbed down and lumbered onward.

  Faye stepped through space and found herself back on the west side of the river at the Grimnoir staging grounds. “Next!”

  She’d just dropped Lance Talon off behind one of the museums. He had insisted on taking the Stokes mortar from the back of his truck. Between Lance, the mortar and its shells—it had been quite a bit of weight—and it had forced her to make a couple of quick hops to get him in place. Before that had been Diamond armed with one of those Goddard rocket launchers. She’d stuck around long enough to watch him shoot one of the explosive rockets into the demon’s back, but their only reward on impact had been a puff of smoke. It had flicked off the Iron Guard, stepped on Mr. Sullivan, and was swatting down fighter planes like hornets. She was beginning to fear that nothing they could do could hurt this thing.

  The knights had actually formed a line like they were waiting for a turn on a Ferris wheel. Heinrich stepped up next. He hadn’t been Mended yet, but he had one of Mr. Sullivan’s Healing spells carved on him so he was hanging in there, and he’d found a pickax in the tool shed. “Drop me right on its head.”