Refuge: Book 5: Angels & Demons

by Doug Dandridge

  Patrick O’Hara lay at the edge of that field. He grimaced in pain as he attempted to keep his intestines from pushing out of his body. One of the demon dogs, as he thought of them, had ripped him open, after he had sent three of them back to whatever hellish master they served. One had connected with the swipe of a monstrous claw that had snapped through chain links and flesh alike with equal ease. He thought for sure one of the remaining pair would take out his throat, until the small furry beast had come to his rescue. That hadn’t prevented more of the creatures from taking his brother prisoner, to whatever fate awaited him.

  What in the hell were those things? he thought as he gritted his teeth against the unmanning pain. He had never seen anything like them, or heard anything from legend. They ran on all fours, like large slender hounds. When they stopped and went to upright posture the paws unfolded into five fingered hands tipped with terrible claws. Some were totally black, one red, and several striped. The flying chariots they had come from, now those had been talked about in the legends. He had seen pictures of their like in books preserved from the time of the ancients.

  Something made a noise near to his ear. Grunting in pain Patrick turned his head, to find himself looking into the large green eyes of the furry beast who had rescued him from the demons. He knew it from the legends, had seen pictures of such beasts in ancient texts. Cats, he thought. The silky black fur rippled in the breeze as a comforting rumbling came from the small creature.

  “I wish you hadn’t have saved me,” he whispered to the creature, grimacing as pain spasmed through his guts. “It would have been a much quicker death if you hadn’t.”

  The creature made a mewing sound and moved toward him. It raised a paw and one sharp claw extended. He had seen one of those claws kill a demon dog in an instant. He welcomed the death that it promised. He was not afraid of death. He knew he would return to this world, reborn. But for the pain to cease would be a blessing.

  The claw was a slight prick as it entered his neck. And almost immediately the world faded to darkness as Patrick faded into deep sleep, his mind replaying the events of the last day as it had been trained to do, making the memories a permanent record for his future use.

  * * *

  Brahma was full in the sky in all its ringed spender. Two of the other inner moons were in three quarter phases on either side of the giant, while the sun set on this part of Vasus in the hills to the west. Patrick stood on a rise admiring those other worlds. He had watched them before through the telescopes of the scientists, and thrilled at the expanses of blue and green, the wisps of clouds in the sky, which showed they were living worlds much like his own. Just as the legends had said.

  “One day I will go to you,” said Patrick, looking up at the closest of the two worlds.

  “Daydreaming again, little brother?” asked a familiar voice.

  Patrick felt a smile stretch his face as he looked down the rise at his older brother walking toward him. Sean was taller and broader than Patrick. He had a face that reminded Patrick of his mother, what little he could remember of her. He had only been three when the raiders had killed their parents, and then eleven year old Sean had smuggled three year old Patrick out of danger and to the Monastery that became their home.

  “Have some ale,” said Sean, holding out a mug from which spilled amber liquid.

  “You know I don’t drink before a battle,” said Patrick, waving the mug away.

  “You monks,” said his brother with a laugh, then swigging the last of his mug down and taking a sip off the one he had offered Patrick. “I’m happy I’m just a warrior.”

  “A Captain in the Duke’s guard is not just a warrior,” said Patrick with a grin. He was proud of his brother, who had become a great warrior, and risen quickly through the ranks of leaders. Unless Patrick was much mistaken he would soon be ennobled,.

  “Still have to bow down to the monks,” said Sean under his breath.

  Patrick frowned as he heard his brother’s whisper with his sharp hearing. He knew Sean still resented not being trained in the ways of the Fae, like his little brother. Sean had been too old to start the training, whilst Patrick had been the perfect age. Sean has been trained in the ways of war, and had excelled. But he couldn’t learn the spiritual and mind control techniques that could be taught the toddler.

  “You will never have to bow down to me,” said Patrick, putting his hand on his brother’s broad shoulder. “Never, do you hear. And when I am the prelate of the monastery, no one else will either.”

  “And when will that be, little brother?” asked Sean with a smile, his eyes glinting in the light from above. “Will it be after you visit those worlds up there?”

  “You heard?”

  “Of course,” said Sean with a laugh. “My body and senses may not be trained like yours, but they are still sharp. I would join you on your voyage. How do you intend to proceed?”

  “I have no idea, big brother,” said Patrick, clapping Sean on the arm and leading him down the rise back to their camp. “But the legends say it is possible, so maybe we can do it.”

  The appetizing smell of cooking food wafted up from the camp as the brothers approached. Fires stretched into the distance, the hoots of war mounts sounded from the other side of the camp. It was the largest force that Patrick had ever seen. He had heard the estimates of twenty thousand men. Maybe more. They passed one fire where a score of men were drinking and eating. Several cleaned weapons, one a deadly looking flintlock rifle. The men watched them with wary eyes as they passed.

  Several more fires and they arrived at a broad blaze in front of a splendid silk tent. A regal looking man stood up as they walked into the circle. Sean stopped and gave a bow to his lord, while Patrick gave the abbreviated head drop one of his station gave to any noble. The church was subservient to no man, only to God. The monks might fight for the kingdom, but they only served God.

  “My Duke,” said Sean, rising from his bow.

  “Are the brothers ready for battle,” said the Duke with a smile. “The Good God knows we would be doomed were you not.”

  “We are ready, Duke Seamus,” said Patrick with a smile. “I know my brother will lead your men to victory.”

  “And how goes my contingent goes the King’s army,” said the Duke, looking over the young monk. “I am happy to know that the church feels I am valuable enough for a body guard such as a stalwart war monk.”

  “You are valuable, my lord,” said Sean, grabbing a mug of ale and raising it to the sky. “How would the king win without your command of his right wing?” He brought the mug to his lips and took a deep gulp.

  “All the more reason for the enemy to kill me,” said the Duke with a laugh. “Unless your younger brother can keep them from me.”

  “I will give my life to protect yours, Duke Seamus,” said Patrick, nodding his head.

  A large glowering man stood up as soon as the words left Patrick’s mouth. By his red face he had been drinking. From the look in his eye it had not improved his disposition.

  “How many battles have you fought, Monk,” said the man, pointing a large finger at Patrick. “How do we know you will not run at the first smell of blood.”

  “I have fought before,” said Patrick, feeling a rush of blood to his head, the sign of anger. He quickly said a silent mantra to calm himself. “I have killed before.”

  “In a battle?” said the man, his voice showing his disbelief. “A battle is different than a fight. Total chaos. And no time to calm yourself, so you show the emotion of a stone wall.”

  “Easy, Lord Rory,” said the Duke, putting a hand on the man’s arm.

  Rory shrugged the hand off and continued to stare at Patrick. Patrick looked calmly back, wondering at the loutish behavior of the man. Not that such was unknown in Eire. This was a land of free men. Even a farmer could look the king in the eye and speak his mind, as long as he observed the decorum. Unlike the folk of the people they fought, who wanted to take that freedom away and subjugat
e them to darker Gods.

  “I believe in my brother,” said Sean, moving toward the loutish lord. “I will hear no words spoken against him.”

  “Shouldn’t he defend himself,” said Rory, pulling his blade from its sheath with a swish of leather.

  With a quick move Patrick pulled his long curved sword from its sheath. The firelight gleamed off its permanently polished perfection. Men gasp at the beauty of the deadly weapon, like no other they had ever seen. Brought by Patrick’s own hand from the vault of the elders, through the door that only his touch had been able to open.

  “There will be no blood around my fire,” roared the Duke, throwing his mug to the ground.

  “I will not battle against that witch weapon,” yelled Rory over the Duke.

  Patrick flashed a wolfish grin that would have made most men think twice about challenging him. Rory was of course too much in his cups to notice. The Duke did notice, and turned to his vassal.

  “Rory, you must not fight him. I need you on the field on the morrow.”

  “And there I will be, my Duke,” said the man, glaring at Patrick. “He may not be.”

  The Duke seemed to think about it a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “You are a free man, Rory. You will do as you must. But this fight is to be till first blood only. Not to the death.”

  Patrick nodded as he looked at his opponent and a space was cleared around the fire. He was sure that Rory would go for a killing blow on the first, no matter the orders of the Duke. So first blood would be him bleeding out on the ground. He wondered what he had done to offend the man, so that the warrior wanted his blood.

  “Put away that witch weapon, boy,” yelled Rory, gesturing at the katana in Patrick’s hand. “I will not face that unmanly weapon.”

  “Will you watch my sword, brother,” said Patrick, sheathing the blade in its special sheath.

  “As always, my brother,” said Sean, grasping the offered sheath. “I wish you wouldn’t fight this man, but if you must, take my sword.”

  “I need no weapon,” said Patrick, turning toward Rory and walking forward. “I spill no blood this night,” he yelled, locking eyes with the man.

  “Grab a sword, boy,” said Rory, moving toward Patrick. “Grab a sword.”

  “I need none,” said Patrick, watching the man as he stalked forward. Gone was all sign of the drunk. The man moved on the balls of his feet, in perfect balance, sword tip questing ahead. Obviously the man was not as drunk as he had wanted to appear. Once again Patrick wondered what the man’s objective was. To humble a monk, a member of an order that the man saw as arrogant or condescending? Or something else?

  “To first blood only,” yelled the Duke from the circle that surrounded the men.

  “There will be no blood, my Duke,” said Patrick, projecting his voice through his Fae as he had been taught, so it was heard over all the talking and murmuring. “No blood at all.”

  “Except yours,” yelled Rory, stomping forward and thrusting with his sword.

  Patrick dodged to the side at the same time as he engaged the Fae.

  The Fae was the term for the training of mind and body that the monks of the Ariuds order underwent from early childhood. Many people thought it was magic, and the monks were not inclined to disabuse them. It looked like magic, for all that it was a natural method of training passed down from the ancients, from which it was rumored to have been given by the Good God.

  As soon as he invoked the Fae the world around him seemed to slow. He knew his reflexes were boosted slightly, though they were already at about their maximum due to his physical training. The real increase was in the brain, giving him more time to think about the situation he was in, and adjust his physical responses as necessary.

  The slender dueling blade slid past. Patrick wondered why the man had such a blade so ill suited for battle so handy. Like this had all been planned.

  Rory whipped the blade around and slashed. Patrick ducked under the blade, then jumped back as Rory reversed it. As soon as the blade passed Patrick jumped in with a right front snap kick, connecting with Rory’s belly and sending the man staggering back.

  “I’ll have your heart,” yelled the warrior, bringing the sword overhead to slash down, not a good idea with a dueling blade. Patrick stepped forward and slapped his hands together overhead, trapping the blade, then delivered another front snap kick to Rory’s gut. The man grunted, doubled over, and relaxed his grip on his sword. Patrick jerked the blade away from the older man and flung it away. He dropped down and swept Rory’s left leg from beneath him. Rory fell, and Patrick vaulted on top of him, slamming both hands onto the bigger man’s ears. Rory shrieked. Patrick stood and looked down at the stricken man.

  “Stay down,” he said, pointing a finger at the big man. “It’s over. You’ve lost.”

  Patrick turned away and started to walk toward his brother, glad that the spectacle was done. He could sense Rory rising behind him. He didn’t need the shouted warning from his brother. With perfect timing he bent at the waist and sent a strong side kick into Rory as the big man staggered forward. Rory’s course was reversed in a moment and he fell back to the ground with a loud grunt.

  Patrick stopped in front of the Duke while Sean handed him his sword. He gave a short bow to the Duke while he took the sheathed blade.

  “As I promised, my Lord,” said Patrick with a smile. “No blood.”

  “You sit back down, Rory,” said the Duke, looking away from Patrick for a moment. “It’s over.” He looked back at the monk with a wide smile. “I’m right glad to have you defending my back, sir Monk. Very glad indeed.”

  Patrick bowed again and turned away, wanting to get away from the camp fire and the men. He hadn’t wanted to fight the man, and was sure he had made an enemy for life. He had not only defeated the man, he had embarrassed him as well. He was sure there would be a price to pay, eventually.

  “Wait up, little brother,” called out Sean, running after him.

  The smell of cooked meat came with his brother. Patrick could feel his mouth watering as he spied the joint of meat on the plate in his brother’s hand.

  “You have to eat something,” said Sean, passing over the plate, which also had some fresh baked bread alongside the meat. “Tomorrow’s a battle. We will all need our strength.”

  “Thank you,” said Patrick, feeling his stomach grumble. “I will be ready.”

  “I know you will,” said Sean with a nod. “Watch yourself, and watch your back. Now I have to meet with the Duke and the general, so we can go over the plans tomorrow.”

  Patrick watched his brother walk away, then turned back to the small rise where he had sat before. Patrick wolfed down the meal, more hungry than he had thought. He performed his evening meditations and prayer, his senses always alert for anything that might intrude upon his presence. Because of that he was surprised when he opened his eyes and found himself looking at something from legend, down the hill and almost obscured by the shadows, green eyes glinting in the distant firelight.

  Is that a cat? he thought, meeting the eyes of the beast. It blinked once, the green fire extinguished for a moment. It blinked again, then turned and slid into the shadows so smoothly that Patrick almost thought it had disappeared. More portents and signs, he thought. There were no cats that he knew of on this world. It was the world of large reptiles, and few mammals other than humans. He had seen pictures of cats and other marvelous beasts in the texts that the monastery preserved. But if they were coming back to the world, did that mean the ancient would also return? Not soon enough, he thought. Maybe they can rescue us from the madness of war, the insanity of raids and plunder. That would be nice, but nothing he had ever thought possible.

  Patrick thought about the matter for another couple of hours, sitting on the rise. The camp was noisy for a few hours, then settled to mostly quiet as the men bedded down. Sentries continued their rounds. Every once in a while shouting broke out as soldiers got caught up in a dispute over winning
or losing at dice or cards.

  Something caught his eye, and Patrick looked up into the night sky dominated by Brahma and her consorts. There were flashing lights up there, bright pinpoints. Sometimes a flash of colored light appeared for a moment, to disappear as if it never were. A battle in heaven, thought the young monk. Or maybe just some phenomenon we will someday understand. After a while the lights stopped, and Patrick got up to walk to his tent and get some sleep before the coming dawn. He thought he saw a shadow moving with him, something small. The cat? But he didn’t notice it as he entered the camp, and he put his mind for preparing for the morrow, and his first real battle.

  Chapter Two

  Alyssa Suarez gazed with her cat green eyes at the screen sitting above her chair. The door swished open and Derrick McAndrews walked in with a couple of trays in his hands. He set one down on the side table of Alyssa’s chair and took the seat next to hers.

  “What’s our boy up to now?” he asked, buttering a roll, then taking a sip of his beverage.

  “Still doing monkish things as far as I can tell,” answered Alyssa to her junior partner. She looked over at the food and felt her stomach turn. Not that it was bad. The auto-kitchen of the small ship turned out surprisingly good meals. It was just the tension of the day. Tomorrow they would hopefully make contact with their target, the one they had come four hundred AU to see.

  “And how’s Shadow?” asked the other agent, concern in his voice.

  Not as concerned as I am, thought Alyssa, glancing up at the forward view port of the control room. Scores of brightly colored fish were swimming near that port, attracted by the light from within. “Shadow’s doing fine. He’s a smart cat.”

  “With a smart controller,” said Derrick, lifting the now thoroughly buttered roll in a dark hand to his mouth.

  Alyssa threw him a frown, then closed her eyes, looking through her own brain with the entangled senses of the cat. She was throwing the image on the screen from her implant for her partner’s benefit.