by G R Matthews
Indecision. Move now and risk more troops in the corridor or wait until they were all at their station, ready, but more spread out.
Flight training took over. A slow target is a dead one. Use the confusion of the skies to your advantage. Be aware of your surroundings, but take your enemy unawares. James squared his shoulders, checked the shield and tracking spell once more, and started to run down the corridor.
More doors opened as he sped along the polished oak floors, his shoes bouncing echoes from the decorated walls. Another soldier stepped into his path, looking straight at him and raising a pistol. A siphon of power, a twist of thought, and tiny needle of ice speared the soldier’s forehead.
Two more rushed out from a door at the end of the corridor. One looked right, not seeing him, but the other faced him. James watched the soldier drop to one knee and raise his Schmiesser machine pistol, already pulling on the trigger before he had aimed.
Bullets stitched a path along the floor as James raced towards the soldier. A flare of orange from the shield as the soldier found his aim and James felt a drain of power from the staff. Channelling the power into a new shape, he conjured a spray of acid, green and already smoking as it reacted with the air, which struck the two soldiers. The first dropped his gun and clawed at his face, a scream of agony rising from his throat. The second, only just turning to see what his friend was shooting at, caught the acid across his cheek and left eye. The shock and pain was evident on his face as James barrelled into them, the shield throwing them both to the floor.
And now, bullets started to ping off his shield as more soldiers piled into the atrium and corridors from doors and rooms all around. Ignoring the screaming soldiers, and the bullets, he looked up. A sweeping staircase led to the first and second floors, with the tracking spell guiding him, he resumed his run, leaping two steps at a time.
On the landing of the first floor, bullets chewing through the balustrade and pictures hanging upon the wall, he unhooked a Mills bomb from the leather belt around his waist, flicked the pin away and tossed it backwards, over his shoulder. He didn’t stop moving, turning the corner, throwing another dart of ice into the shoulder of a German soldier who had opened a door to his right, and up the next flight of stairs.
Four seconds later, there was a deafening explosion and the acrid tang of gunpowder followed him up the stairs. Never use them in close quarters, he’d be told and trained. Mills bombs had, the instructor said, a throwing range of thirty yards and were dangerous out to a hundred yards. Insanity. War was renowned for it, bred it, wallowed in it, drank it in and spat it out.
Bells and alarms were a cacophony of noise that the rough shouts and orders did nothing to enhance. On the top floor of the tower, the tracking spell pointed down a short corridor to the door at the end. A flick of magic, another drain on the power held in the staff, and the single guard was thrown through the door.
“Hi, Jimmy,” Eric said, his face pale and the ghost of a smile on his face as James stepped through the ruined door. “Don’t suppose you can do anything about these chains?”
More used up. Tiny twisting wires of magic twirled and clicked within the padlocks that secured the chains. The staff wasn’t empty yet, but with no way to gauge how much he had left, he’d have to guess.
“I was told you were dead,” James said as he helped his brother to sit upright.
“Almost was. My head is ringing.”
James saw Eric raise a shaky hand to his forehead and wipe away the sheen of sweat.
“Alarms, Eric. We came to break you and your Spitfire out. The Nazi’s are searching the floors now. We have to go. Can you stand?”
“Broken leg, Jimmy.”
James looked down for the first time, flicking the bed covers away to expose the purple-green bruise that ran up his brother’s leg from ankle, vanishing under splint and bandages to reappear above the knee and almost to his hip.
“You can walk?”
“I can try,” Eric said, leaning forward, supported by James, and stood. A gasp of pain slipped from his mouth and James saw the blood drain from his brother’s face.
“Where is your staff?” he said, slipping an arm under his brother’s shoulder and taking the weight off the broken leg.
“Like the leg, Jimmy. Smashed to smithereens.” The words came out as a whistle between clenched teeth.
Outside the closed and shuttered window, a great roar sounded followed by the rapid bark of a machine gun.
“Hurry, James Lock,” Beval’s mental speech was clear above the sounds of battle outside. “Already there are lights on the road from the town.”
“Your Hurricane?” Eric cocked his head.
“Yes,” James started towards the door. “We’ll get your Spitfire out and make a break for England.”
“I don’t think,” Eric’s words were cut off by the rattle of a Schmiesser and the splintering of the wooden frame around remnants of the door.
James’ shield glowed orange once more and he half-pulled, half-dragged Eric out of the line of fire. A second, and his last, Mills bomb arced towards the stairs, trusting in the old walls of the chateau to protect himself and Eric. Four seconds, he counted them down, and the loud crump of the explosion was followed by a gale of heat, the patter of debris, and the screams of men.
Ducking round the corner, he surveyed the carnage. The stairs were on fire, the walls pockmarked with shrapnel and already smouldering. On the floor, one of the soldiers lay burning bright, throwing off an oily grey smoke.
“We’re not getting out through that,” James said. “Sorry, Eric.”
“The window?”
“Three floors up.”
“How much magic do you have left in the staff?” Eric asked and James saw the pain in his brother’s eyes.
“Bugger,” James said.
“Indeed.”
“Shall we?”
The window glass broke easily and the wooden shutters spun from their frames as James, Eric clinging to his back, sailed out into a night lit by searchlights, tracer fire, and an inferno of flame around the Spitfire’s cage. Three floors to fall and James drained every last ounce of magic from the staff, twisting and turning the power in his mind, forming the shapes and constructs of an enchantment that should slow their fall.
It worked, to a point. That point being fifteen feet or so above the ground floor. When the magic failed, they fell. James fought to land on his feet and throw his weight forward, carrying Eric to the ground on top of him, protecting his brother’s broken leg. Air exploded from his lungs. He heard and felt a series of sharp cracks in his chest. The staff skidded out of his hand, away across the grass. In his ear, Eric screamed in agony.
“I am coming, James Lock,” Beval shouted in his mind.
James struggled to his knees and placed a hand on Eric’s throat. There was a pulse. The Spitfire had crammed itself as close as it could to the bars of the cage and was spitting fire at everything that moved. There was no way to get close. Bullets flew towards it, bouncing off the bars and its scales.
“It is dying,” Eric whispered and James bent his ear close to his brother’s mouth. “Ignas is dying. He is telling me to get away.”
James flicked his gaze towards the cage and the injured dragon which fought with everything it had left. Tracer bullets flew into the sky as the Hurricane swept low over the walls, spewing an acid filled wind at the Nazi emplacements. Men scattered. Those too slow, died screeching and screaming as their flesh bubbled, melted and sloughed off their faces.
“Beval,” James sent. “Did you hear? We need to get away.”
“I did, James Lock. Be ready.”
James stumbled to his staff, picked it up and used it to support his weight as he manhandled Eric to his feet. He couldn’t catch his breath and Eric’s added weight was setting fire to his ribs. A great gust of wind tried to bowl him over, but he stood firm.
“Arms,” Beval called and James shouted the same to his brother, raising his arms, and the
staff, over his head.
The pressure in his ears grew as the wind increased in speed. He chanced a glance at Eric. His brother was barely upright, hands only just above his shoulder and whilst upstairs he had looked pale, he was now almost translucent.
“Eric, stay with,” James began to say and ended on, “oomph!”
The claws that wrapped around his chest hurt like the blazes. More snaps and cracks. The taste of blood in his mouth and his head snapped backwards. Reflex kept the staff in his hand and they were airborne.
Eric hung like a limp doll in Beval’s other claw and there was no way to be sure if his brother lived. Wings beat down as the dragon powered upwards, over the chateau, using the building as a shield against the tracer fire that followed them into the sky.
Below them, the Spitfire threw its last gout of fire across the courtyard. There was a moment of absolute silence and a bright flash of light. Scorching heat washed over James and he closed his eyes. Seconds later the pressure wave of the explosive death of the Spitfire caught up to them and Beval bucked and struggled to stay airborne.
“Battle born, battle bred, battle joy, battle dead.” The dragon’s mental scream buffeted James mind as he roared in defiance and grief. “Fly free, brother.”
“Ignas…” Eric moaned.
Relief washed through James’s his mind and he centred his thoughts, finding the calm state required as he drew power from the dragon’s heart into the staff. A shield shimmered into existence around them.
“Beval,” he sent. “Take us home.”
The End
Read on for a sneak peek at Silent City, Book 1 of the ‘Submarine Noir’ series, Corin Hayes.
Other books …
If you enjoyed this story you should check out my other books.
THE FORBIDDEN LIST SERIES
THE STONE ROAD
THE BLUE MOUNTAIN
THE RED PLAINS
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CORIN HAYES
SILENT CITY
NOTHING IS EVER SIMPLE
THREE TIMES THE TROUBLE
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SILENT CITY by G R MATTHEWS
Chapter 1
“What the fuck are you still doing in this city?”
The question was heavy with the threat of violence. It wasn’t a surprise. These things happened once, maybe twice, a month. The bruises had usually faded before the next set was inflicted. A fresh bottle of vodka was all I’d come out for. It was cheaper than whiskey and you could mix it with anything.
“I don’t believe we have been introduced,” I said, in the hope that I might be able to talk my way out of this. Judging by the snarl that rumbled up from the heavyset man’s chest, maybe not.
“I don’t like you,” he said. Not an original line, but I suppose he felt he had to start somewhere. There were a couple of friends behind him, but they didn’t seem to want to get involved. A small blessing.
“Really? You don’t even know me.” I backed up a step. “Perhaps if we sat down for a drink or two you might come round to liking me.”
“I don’t like you ‘cos you killed them all.” He took a step forward. I could see the veins and arteries in his neck pulsing. The problem was, I couldn’t deny the accusation. I had killed them all.
“Listen,” it was worth a try, “it went to court and all through the due process of law. Now all I want to do is go home, have a drink and get some sleep. Why don’t you just walk that way and I’ll go the other way. You’ll never have to see me again.”
I’m no ninety pound weakling and, like every person of my age and older, I’d done my service time. He must have had a couple of stone on me, if not more. Another step back and I looked around for assistance. Helpfully, my fellow shoppers had created a boxing ring out of their bodies to prevent my escape. The shopkeepers stood in their doorways, watching the spectacle. None of them made a move towards a communicator or city panel. Store cameras would catch the action from multiple angles and I’d bet this would be all over the clips later on. If I was lucky I might be able to see it through blackened eyes. Unlucky and I’d be seeing double or, even worse, not at all. I wasn’t sure my medical insurance could cover the cost.
The big man took in the crowd, noting their unwillingness to let me pass, and grinned. He took a step forward and raised his thick-fingered hands up in front of his face, curling them slowly to form fists.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he said, moving towards me.
“I’m not.” I switched the bottle to my right hand. There was no way I was getting through the crowd without fighting them all. It was a battle I was sure to lose. I sighed. “Come on then, get it over with.”
He roared and charged. As his left foot stomped down, shifting his weight forward, he threw a right hook at my head. I stepped forward, into the swing, and down onto one knee. The sledgehammer of his hand passed over my head. The bottle in my hand, I swung upwards, between his legs, as hard as I could.
The great roar he’d given rose in pitch by several octaves into a high, squealing falsetto. I slid to the side as his hands lowered to grab his squashed balls. The squeal ended as he ran out of breath and began to gulp in air like a goldfish.
I decided to do him a kindness he didn’t deserve. Sometimes you have to help people who are in a lot of pain, it is the humane thing to do. However, no good deed goes unpunished and the bottle broke on the back of his head. The vodka splashed all over the floor, dribbling away between the metal grill. I was left holding the neck of the bottle.
“Fuck,” I said, “and who roars before they throw a punch?”
His friends came out of the crowd, eyeing me warily. I didn’t move. They’d seen me take out their leader in the space of a few seconds. Mostly by luck, if I am honest. If he’d decided to grab rather than swing, I am not sure there is much I could have done. If I backed off now they’d just get a free shot at my back. I needed them to be scared of me.
“Pick him up and clear off,” I said and took half a step forward, brandishing the sharp end of the broken bottle in their direction.
“You’d better watch out, mister,” said one of them, a short, skinny fellow with nervous eyes. “He’ll come after you.”
“I know,” I said. The crowd parted as I turned away from the fat man who rested face first in the puddle of my vodka. He’d get to drink more of it than me. The remnants of the bottle went into a recycling chute.
The police would be round later, the clips shows and the shopkeepers would inform them even if the crowd didn’t. That’s why I’d made sure my vodka soaked friend had swung first. The cops knew me and I knew the law. At least those parts of it to do with getting accosted and beaten up.
I patted my pockets, looking for change and realised I couldn’t afford another bottle.
“Bugger.”
Chapter 2
I placed the two glasses down on my usual table at the back of the bar. It was early and most of the regulars hadn’t shown up yet. Condensation trickled down the glasses and created one of those little rings of water on the table top. The smaller glass of whiskey was waiting for afterwards, my reward and sanctuary for the hard day’s work.
Tom, the barman, had given me the usual spiel about it being a 12 year old single malt. An
obvious lie. One I am sure he kept up, more by habit than any chance I would, one day, be so far gone as to believe him. There were no single malts anymore, hadn’t been for a few hundred years. It was one of those inherited drinkers’ memories that we all liked to indulge in. For some, it became the dream that they would find a fabled last bottle of Provenance or Glenfiddich.
The bar itself, one of many in the city, was right at the bottom end of the market. The glass tables were toughened to be pretty much unbreakable, the chairs bolted to the floor, there was a weapon scanner on the entrance, and I’ve seen the stun baton that Tom keeps behind the bar used a few times.
The clientele, the other drinkers like me, weren’t a talkative bunch and that was fine. I didn’t come here to talk. Sure, there was the occasional game to watch on the screens and we’d have a friendly bet or two to keep things interesting, but we were, by and large, a solitary bunch.
When the trading subs came in, the peace, quiet and solitude would be disturbed. Foreigners invading our carefully guarded personal spaces. The loud voices, raucous laughter and lewd jokes brought out the worst in our collective individualities. Tom liked the money coming in, but he shared our dislike or rather, I suppose, we shared his. It’s his bar after all. The barman sets the tone and the atmosphere. He didn’t joke or try to engage us in worthless small talk, he served drinks and kept the place reasonably clean. He knew his place and role in our little deal – don’t ask what you don’t want to know, leave us alone and we will do the same for you, by the way, I’ll have a beer and a whiskey to chase, here’s the cash.
I came here for the quiet and the drink. Couldn’t say I wanted the company, but staying in my tiny compartment watching clips every night wasn’t any good for me either. Been three years now, same seat, same drink, same crowd. It took about six nights to find my seat. Everyone had their own and it was another of the unwritten rules of the place, you didn’t hijack another drinker’s spot.
