by Stu Jones
[Of course. I will accel—]
[What are you doing out here?] a female voice says, the owner sliding in front of the eyes of my traitor.
You. There you are. She rests arrogantly on one leg, her hands on her hips, staring with those beady little eyes.
Mila! Sard it all, my demon cries.
She cannot hear you, peacock. You only serve to give our infiltrator a headache.
The window to the inside of Opor swirls as the Rat shakes his head, attempting to make sense of all the voices.
[You should be in the training room with everyone else,] Mila says.
The Rat brings his head up and once again her hardened eyes stare back at us. The pink scar cutting its path across her face. Her nose and ears full of metal. A streak of purple in her short hair. Disgusting. Not even remotely arousing.
The eyes of the Rat swivel left, his gaze falling on the slender form of a female with long dark hair and eyes like krig. She’s younger than the frowning sow next to her, and there’s something exotic about her. Not bad. Now this one I could make use of.
Husniya! Demitri squawks.
Ahh, the Musul girl you cared for—unnaturally so, I might add. But look at her now. Ready for my use. Can you imagine? How delicious, to see the betrayal on her face as the Gracile who cared for her now chooses to steal her innocence.
You’re despicable, Vedmak, my demon cries. That’s a child you’re talking about. Does your depravity know no end?
Peacock, it runs deeper than you know. Now stop your endless braying.
[Well?] The disgusting sow asks again, prompting a response from the Rat.
[Yeah, I had to step out. I’m going back in now,] the Rat says. [Sorry].
Mila frowns. [Sorry? You hit your head or something? When are you ever sorry, Giahi?]
My demon’s panic can almost be felt in the heart beating in this Gracile chest. Giahi. He’s working with you?
“Don’t blow it, Rat,” I say, ignoring Demitri.
My spy seems to gather his senses. [Sard off, Mila. I said I’m going back in. Where are you two going all dressed up?”]
[If I thought you should know, I’d have told you. Now go. You can use the training. You’ve gotten sloppy lately,] Mila fires back.
[Whatever you say, your majesty]. The view tips downward in a mocking bow and whirls one hundred and eighty degrees as Giahi opens a door and slips inside. Then, he whispers a single word before disconnecting: [Soon].
The images fade away and are once again replaced by the snow-covered landscape before me.
You have Giahi on the inside? How did I not know this? Mila has to get out of there. What are you going to do?
“I have been perfecting the Red Mist. Silencing you completely is almost possible. One of the many reasons I need the Alchemist.”
Silence me?
Foolish boy, believing I need you.
A howl in the distance.
“Rippers,” Aeron says, patting his brother on the shoulder. “Time for some fun, brother?”
Merodach grunts his approval.
“No.” I scowl. “We move.”
***
For several kilometers, the Rippers track us. Zopat only having one entrance on its south side means we have to trek the perimeter to make it to the lillipad. Our length of stride has kept us ahead until now. In shadows of the snowdrifts and outcroppings, they slink along our trail, gaining pace and closing distance. A fleeting glimpse as they dart between points of cover, but never seem brave enough to face us.
“They follow us still,” Aeron says, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
“Keep moving. The snow is deep and we still have ground to cross before the Alchemist is secure,” I say. “These weasels are too afraid to come straight at us, but they will steal her from us for the meat alone, if they are able. Isn’t that right?” I shout to the swirling ice cloaking us in its frozen embrace.
The wind pulls at us, thrashing our tattered cloaks and cutting to the bone. The Alchemist groans, her frail body still hanging limply over my shoulder.
“The real horror is best left to those with the constitution to see it through. Don’t you agree?” I shout again, raising a fist as we trudge along. “But not you, pathetic wretches. You lost your nerve ever since I took the head of your chieftain. So be a pack of good dogs and go along now. That, or make your play.” My words disappear into the whipping of the growing storm. “See? What did I tell—”
The crack of a rifle is heard only an instant before the whining zip of flying lead buzzes past. I shrug the Alchemist from my shoulder, and she crumples to the ground with a grunt of pain. I drop low to the snow, eyes up, scanning. Aeron and Merodach follow suit.
Aeron groans. “I thought Rippers didn’t use firearms?” There is a tinge of fear in his voice.
We are biological perfection, but a chunk of lead traveling at more than seven hundred meters per second still has the ability to rend each of us lifeless.
Get out of here. They’re shooting at us! Demitri shouts, his shrill voice stoking the swarming feeling of total madness.
“I know that, fool. Just a single scavenged weapon. That was probably the only projectile they had anywa—”
Another crack echoes across the snow-swept landscape. A puff of crystalline powder pops from the ground between Merodach and my pilfered Gracile body, ice raining down and sliding into my collar. Sard. “Make for the lillipad. Do not stop for anything,” I say, grabbing a fistful of the Alchemist’s clothes and slinging the frail bag of bones over my shoulder again. In this powerful right fist, the unlit laser scythe stands ready.
Aeron and Merodach say nothing, rising and pulling their weapons from their thigh holsters.
“Run, but do not ignite. The glow of your weapons will make you easier to track in the storm.”
With a grunt, Merodach shoves forward, carving a trench in the fresh powder with his heavy boots. Aeron and I follow, the Alchemist on my shoulder. Another rifle cracks, the zip of the projectile coming far too close.
Cowards. Come closer and see what fate has in store for you.
“Less than a half kilometer,” Aeron shouts over his shoulder.
“Then get on with it,” I say. “You both are supposed to be the pinnacle of human achievement. Show me something.”
“Go, Merodach,” Aeron says to his brother. “Let us show the Vardøger what we can do.”
Merodach grunts, the grin on his face signaling his approval of the challenge ahead. With a movement built of sheer power, my titans blitz headfirst. I follow, forcing this body to its limit, these Gracile legs burning with the effort as they stab into the drifts.
Screams. They are coming for us.
Maybe there is war still in these pathetic savages. The Alchemist is all that matters. We do not need this fight right now. But I cannot help the grin that spreads across this face. Stop us if you can, urchins.
Something strikes Demitri’s jaw with the impact of a war hammer. A perfect shot. I pitch forward, stumbling, the voice of my Gracile demon ringing in my ears. Demitri’s body manages to right itself and struggles onward.
Another blunt impact strikes in the ribs and I spin around.
“Face me!” I scream.
A little masked gremlin covered in animal furs whoops and loads another rock in his sling as he tries to keep up. The rough projectile strikes me in the back with a spike of pain. Sarding primitives. I can’t stop to engage him.
Aeron slows, the savages nearly upon us. “Vardøger ...”
“I said stop for nothing. Form up and drive through them.”
“Yes, Vardøger,” Aeron says as he and Merodach step to the center a few meters ahead of me, creating an inverted wedge between the three of us.
“Let them feel your might,” I order.
Aeron lets lose a savage battle cry as he and Merodach plow into the line of howling Rippers.
Another bullet whines past, passing with a sting through the flesh of Demitri’s lower leg
. This time I can see the shooter; a Ripper in a red mask with a painted skull covering his face, running away having taken the potshot.
My leg. They shot me! What are you doing? You’re going to get me killed.
“I’ll remember you, cave dweller,” I bawl, the rage boiling over inside this body.
Ahead, at full stride, Merodach knocks three of them back with a swing of his unlit mace. A howling savage leaps at Aeron, but my titan grabs it and flings it back, knocking down a swath of its comrades. We power through their pitiful onslaught, leaving them to scramble after us like a pack of deranged children.
“Aeron, the tear is ahead. Cover me with a distraction,” I call, these perfect lungs laboring for oxygen.
Reaching to his belt, Aeron spins off to the left, releasing a boomstick into the midst of our attackers. A deafening concussion echoes like the blast of a cannon across the hills, followed by the sustained strobing flash of its magnesium insert. The simple-minded kozels closest to the device fall prostrate in the deepening drifts. Others scramble over themselves, screaming of magic as they run for the hills.
I win. Again.
Merodach stomps off into the thickening wall of sleet that surrounds us, to find the fold in the cloaking material hanging over the entrance to the tunnel through the ice wall. A moment later, a sliver of light opens like a wound in the fabric of the atmosphere. Merodach’s massive silhouette fills the fluorescent tear. I adjust the woman on my shoulder and power on, through the gap and into the safety of the tunnel. Merodach waits for his brother to clear it, then drops the material once again, concealing the entrance.
The slamming heart in this magnificent body slows as I shrug the Alchemist to the ground and slap the shoulder plates of each of my standards.
Nothing can stop me now.
Chapter Nine
MILA
The crunch of wet ice beneath the soles of our boots has a hypnotic effect, as one foot follows the other in a never-ending cycle. Head down, chin tucked, bodies hunched, we assume the position with which frozen beggars always seem so comfortable. The minutes drag on as we slog along the Vapid path in silence, our gazes flicking up from the icy road every so often to make sure we aren’t being hunted.
I clear my throat and lift my chin from the warmth of the furry collar of my leather jacket. The words won’t come. The cold wind burns. Just ask her, Mila. “Do you still have that voice? The one you used to talk to as a child?”
Husniya looks up.
“You know? You and Demitri had that in common. It was—”
“I know what you’re talking about. No, I don’t talk to her anymore.” She adjusts the Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifle hanging on her shoulder and lowers her gaze again.
“But, I saw you—”
“I said, I don’t have a problem,” Husniya snaps. “I grew out of that.”
She’s lying.
“Tell me about that place,” she says, deflecting.
In the distance, the high walls of the Vel enclave rise out of the ground like an alien fortress, dark and foreboding. Above the walls, a single column shoots straight up, penetrating the clouds and darkening the sky above. It supports one of the last remaining lillipads.
“That’s Vel. It’s always looked like that. Nobody knows what’s inside.”
“Nobody? Do the Velians come out at all?”
“Some do, but they’re sworn to secrecy. Most of them became information brokers. They’d rather die than reveal their secrets. It became their primary source of income.”
“Is that true? Do you know a Velian?” Husniya eyes me suspiciously.
“Yeah, actually, I do—or did.” Gil. Whatever happened to you?
“There’s a lillipad still standing in there. You think there’s Graciles up there?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Who knows?”
“How come Kapka didn’t blow that one up? He brought down the ones not erected over Musul enclaves.”
“The Velians fortified the enclave a long time ago. I imagine when everything went to hell, they locked the door and never opened it again.” Only Yeos knows how they’re surviving without trade.
“What do you think they’re hiding in there? To bother fortifying it in the first place, I mean,” Husniya says as we round the northern end of the dark enclave on our journey toward Logos.
“That’s what everyone wants to know.” I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my jacket and watch hot breath lift away from my lips.
***
A good hour into our trek and we haven’t uttered another word. As she grows older, the gap between us seems to widen. It’s difficult to tell if it’s due to her Musul heritage conflicting with my ways as a Logosian, or just the fact I have no idea how to handle a hormonal teenage girl.
A lone gunshot echoes across the Vapid. Husniya and I freeze, surveying the horizon. She looks at me with wide eyes.
“Let’s go.” I take off at a jog down the road.
“Wait,” Husniya says, running to catch up. “We’re running toward the sound of the gunfire.”
“Yeah, Hus.” My words come between drawn breaths. “That’s what we do.”
After reaching a bend in the road, we leave the path and ascend a short hill. Nearing the top, I move to my belly and crawl the rest of the way to the summit. It takes a moment for Husniya to reach my side.
Below, a group of pilgrims with their cart of belongings are lined up on the side of the road. They’re on their knees, trying to control the sobs of the children. At the end of the row, one of them—a thin man with russet hair and plain clothes—lies face-down in the ditch, blood streaming from his head.
Surrounding the pilgrims, a group of Baqirans chant. Their faces are covered, and they’re armed with long blades and a few assorted firearms. Kapka’s radicals.
“Oh, merciful Yeos.” I say, shrugging out of my extra gear and leaving it in the snow. For a moment I freeze, a breath captured in my chest. Is he there? My eyes desperately search the faces of the kneeling pilgrims, then those of the men forced into Kapka’s service. No, Faruq is not among them. I’m not sure whether to feel injured or relieved.
“What are you doing?” Husniya asks.
I shake my head. “How many shots do you have for your rifle?”
“I, uh ...” The girl licks her lips.
“How many shots?”
She feels her pocket. “Four, I think.”
“Have them ready and get a good stable position like I showed you.”
“What are you going to do?” There’s dread in her voice.
Already sliding down the hill toward the road, I whisper back, “Just be ready.”
Upon reaching the road, I crouch and crawl between the low hills. Concealment is my ally here. As I move as swiftly as possible between the low barren scrub, the chanting grows louder. At the edge of the hill, I pause, raising myself up enough to get an eyeful. Fifteen meters of open ground stands between us. Gotta close the distance. Crawling low off the left side of the road, I can only hope they’re not paying attention.
The men point to a sobbing woman who kneels next to the dead man.
“What about you? Do you worship Ilah?” A Baqirian jabs a knife at her.
“Yes.” The woman shudders.
“Then you should be in the service of Kapka. What are you doing out here?”
She doesn’t answer.
“You will come with us.” They snatch the woman by the arm, dragging her to the side. The knifeman points to another woman holding a bundled child.
“What about you? Are you Baqirian or Alyan? Show us your brand.”
The woman proudly lifts her head, her bottom lip quivering. “I am Fiorian.”
The men converge on her, pull the baby from her arms and grab her by the hair. She screams and my blood turns to ice. Blood sprays from the woman’s neck as they cut her. The baby squalls. It too is silenced with a cruel stab of the knife. The victims are pitched like trash into the ditch on top of the man.
The man shakes his head. “We’re just traders. Traveling together for safety. We’ve done nothing to you.”
The radical steps forward, blade poised.
My body coils like a spring and I shove off, a scream of fury upon my lips. The criminals turn, their eyes wide with surprise. One of their gunmen sees me, raising his weapon to fire as I zig and zag toward their position.
The crack of a rifle.
I instinctively flinch and grab my chest. But a plume of blood rises from his head and he drops his weapon against the crimson-painted ice at his feet.
Husniya.
A second gunman steps forward, charging the action of the Kalashnikov in his hands. He aims not at me, but at the wailing travelers.
“No,” I scream, my legs burning beneath a heart full of reckless abandon.
The weapon barks, stitching bloody holes across the backs of the travelers. They tumble forward into a jumbled pile in the ditch, still, like discarded dolls.
I collide with the first man, torque the knife from his grasp and bury the blade in his heart. The man with the Kalashnikov turns on me, the weapon burping fire. I dive, rolling at an angle as he tracks me. A bullet whistles past the gunman’s ear and he flops against the ground, scanning the hills for the sniper he can’t see.
Stay low, Husniya.
Another crack of her rifle. Another knife-wielding thug goes down off to my left. I rise and sprint toward the next gunman. He draws himself up to a knee, but I intercept the weapon at the muzzle. The hot steel sears through my glove and into my palm as I force the barrel up and drive it against the bridge of his nose with a wet smack. I twist the weapon from his grasp and clench the trigger. Fire blazes from the barrel. A stream of bullets thump against meat and bone until the weapon runs dry and silence reigns.
Ears ringing, I struggle to catch my breath. My lips peeled back in a snarl, I throw the empty weapon against the frozen turf with a curse.
“Sard it all. So much death—for what?” When did you become such an efficient killer, Mila? I turn my blood-splattered face toward the gray, snow-laden heavens above. Was this right? Will Yeos forgive me? A single guilty tear streaks down my cheek and off my chin.
