by Stu Jones
How am I to fight the harbinger of death with love? Fight Vedmak with love? From what Demitri told of him, he is a wicked creature, incapable of remorse. And even if I do succeed, what will become of my Gracile friend? Unable to find the right words, I simply bow my head.
Sister Katerina touches my shoulder and I meet her gaze. She knows the weight of my calling.
“We are not the Lightbringer, you and I. Our light is not perfect and untarnished. But we are called to reflect the light in times of darkness so others may feel its touch. Be a reflection of the truth you already know.” She pats the heavy Writ. “The word came to you first for a reason, my sister.”
Her calling me sister causes a readied tear to streak down my cheek. My heart hurts with self-loathing and regret. “If Yeos will lend me his strength to see it through, I will try, Sister Katerina.”
The words taste bitter, and I hate myself just a little more for how easily the lie rolls off my tongue.
Chapter Twelve
VEDMAK
The permanent night sky is obscured by the thick clouds laden with snow. No stars to guide us through the Vapid. The path ahead gradually fades into the rest of the powder-white landscape. But it matters not. Our prize is marked clearly in the distance by the tall stem of one of the last standing lillipads, protruding from within the walls of Vel.
Aeron and Merodach trudge through the knee-high drifts beside me, their fists holding tight to thick chains leashed to Rippers doped with Easy. The enslaved Vapid roamers sniff the ground and keep sharp eyes for potential attackers. A contingent of ten Einherjar, led by Heimdall, Balder, and Dagr bring up the rear, dragging a large wooden cart with an enclosed metal housing. Traveling with too many makes us a target—too few and we’d be slaughtered. We’re unable to move as fast as we did when we were only four in number. A good thing there are no signs of any further Ripper activity, so far at least.
The leg feels stable if not fully recovered. A few moments of digging and Sergei was able to pull a shred of copper jacket from the wound. Disinfected and sealed shut with accelerant foam, it will not cause me further trouble, for now. Still, the cold bites through the thick clothing and into the skin of my host, while a slashing wind cuts against these tired muscles—as if Yahweh himself wished to prevent me from reaching my goal. But nothing will stop me. Not even the whining fool occupying this skull, constantly battling me for control.
Yet my sway over this biological engine is waning. Demitri’s consciousness creeps in. Like a cancer, his soul penetrates, forcing aside my own. Until the Alchemist can perfect the stim, I must use other means to maintain control. The most effective being his affection for my pet. I yank on the chain and the beaten Robust woman crashes into the snow again.
“Keep up, dear. We cannot afford to loiter in this wasteland.”
Leave her alone. She’s tired, and hungry.
All who struggle should be hungry, peacock. It keeps the fire burning inside.
Just let her go, I won’t fight you if you let her go.
“You think me a fool, Demitri?” I say aloud.
The Robust whore at my feet looks up at me, her eyes wet with disgusting hope.
“Vardøger,” Aeron calls over his shoulder. “There’s movement ahead.”
Dragging my pet along, I stand beside my warrior and survey the horizon, hot breath fogging the lenses in my mask. “Rippers?”
“No, I think not, Vardøger. It appears to be a small convoy of Musuls.”
“Should we prepare for battle?” Heimdall asks, tying back his long, dreadlocked blond hair.
The neural link with the lenses in the mask activates and I am momentarily endowed with binocular vision. Yet before me are not Musuls. Instead, Ida stands there, her porcelain skin pink with the sting of snow, her beautiful coat clinging to her, wet and frozen, her lifeblood ebbing from the wound in her forehead.
Pain deep and swelling aches within.
She judges you. From wherever it is you come, from wherever your soul existed before you found me. She judges you from there, Vedmak. You failed her.
Silence, petulant child. You know nothing. You elites are all the same. Passion in any form is not within you. You are but an empty husk, ready to be controlled.
Yet she haunts you.
I said silence!
“Vardøger, what are your orders?” Heimdall demands.
My laser scythe screams to life, slicing in a sweeping arc through the meat of his chest, and is extinguished before my soldier can utter another word. He clutches at the bubbling wound, a look of betrayal set into his anguished face. He stumbles backward, tumbling into the snow.
“This is the fate of those who think they can press me.”
Merodach grunts and Aeron snorts out a laugh.
Ignorant pigs, all of you. “Do not interrupt me while I think.”
I turn back to the icy view. She is gone. In her place, hazy figures stand. A few adjustments and they enlarge across my field of vision, their features somewhat sharper. Five Musuls march in full regalia. Kapka’s men. But there’s a sixth, traipsing clumsily between them, bouncing off the shoulders of his captors. His face is drawn and sickly, his hair long and unkempt.
Why five Musuls to guard this one man? Kapka wouldn’t waste resources unless he was important. He may be an asset or at the very least, leverage to be used against them. “Stay here. I will investigate. Do not make yourself known. I will hail you should the need arise.”
I hand the leash of my pet to Aeron, pull off the mask and stuff it into the satchel slung across the broad chest of my Gracile host. Slipping on the heavy hood of my cloak to ward off the cold, I trudge toward the Musuls.
The short distance to the band of extremists takes longer than I’d hoped. The snow deepens with every step, and my host’s legs become inefficient, already tired from the day’s exertion. And with each exhausted step, my Gracile demon gains a droplet of control. I scan the horizon. It would take too long for my militia to reach me should the worst happen, but as I draw near, it is clear there are no Musul reinforcements and nowhere for more of Kapka’s dogs to hide.
What do you want to achieve with this? Why do you care about one Musul man?
Details, peacock. Details. The world runs on the minutiae of men. The smallest of details can set a chain of events in motion that change the world beyond recognition. And often they are the petty personal things precious to a moron in power.
Like Nicholas Romanov?
Of course like that goat of a Tsar. The fool led Mother Russia into loss after loss at the hands of the enemy, even leaving his slut German wife to rule in his absence. No doubt opening her legs for the charlatan Rasputin. So, the revolution and my purpose began.
And what about Stalin?
Choose your words wisely, puppet.
His petty actions led to your execution, didn’t they? You and your wife, Ida.
I claw at this Gracile face, the unkempt nails on these fingers gouging out chunks of flesh. Repeatedly, I beat the skull in which I reside, the ringing loud inside.
Stop it! Demitri screams.
You will remain silent if you want to keep this face remotely pretty, Gracile.
The Musuls stop in their tracks. They must have seen my outburst. They hold their melee weapons high. Three have automatic rifles—two Kalashnikovs and a papasha. How amusing to be threatened with firearms designed by my countrymen. Putting both hands in the air, I approach slowly and steadily, trickles of blood working their way down Demitri’s cheeks.
“It’s curious. Five Musuls out here in the Vapid, escorting one disheveled, sad little man. How does this come to be?”
“Back off, Gracile, or we’ll kill you,” the nearest Musul spits, jerking the machine gun in his hands.
The prisoner’s head rises slightly at the identification of me as a Gracile, his tired black eyes staring out from underneath a mat of frozen hair.
“Musul dogs, you would already be wandering the afterlife searching for your
false god if I’d only wished it. Tell me, who is this man? He must be some precious cargo, or you would have already risked attacking me and losing him.”
The Musuls glance at each other. None respond.
“Are you now dumbstruck? Have your tongues become lead in your mouths?”
“It’s none of your business, Gracile. Last warning. Sard off—”
His head leaves his shoulders and rolls into a snow drift. His eyes are fixed on me in terror, the lids blinking involuntarily. My laser scythe hums and crackles, its blue flame illuminating the color-drained faces of the remaining four Musuls. The one with the papasha is shaking so badly he can’t even raise it to point it at me.
“Do I need to ask a third time?”
They stutter but no meaningful words fall from their lips. The heavy snowflakes stick to the metal of the Musuls’ weapons. Bored of their incompetence I shut down my weapon, grab the prisoner by his hair, and yank his head back to reveal a gaunt face—a familiar face. The angled jaw and Roman nose spark a tingle of recognition in my host.
No, it can’t be.
Should I know this lame goat? I release my grip on his hair.
What have they done to you?
You do know this mongrel. He is important to you. Tell me how.
Demitri is silent.
No, not to you. To someone else. To Mila, perhaps?
I don’t know him.
Lies, Demitri. Too little too late, your effort to conceal it—
“Demitri?” For a moment the hollow eyes liven.
Is that hope? How deplorable.
“And still mumbling to yourself I see,” the man croaks through cracked lips. “Help me, please.”
It’s not me. It’s Vedmak. I wish you could hear me.
I stare into his eyes, willing the memory to come, to be pried from Demitri’s consciousness. Those eyes, that stalwart expression. “Faruq. You are Faruq.”
“You barely remember me. The past means nothing to you?”
A wicked grin spreads across this face. “Oh, this is delicious. Kapka has had you all this time? I could not have planned it better myself.” I turn to his guards. “You’re keeping him moving, aren’t you? So that little suka won’t ever find him.”
The Musuls acknowledge sheepishly, their weapons still poised, while Faruq stares at me—his face full with the resignation of a man who has accepted death and only waits for its sweet embrace. But he will not receive it this day. At least not from me. I lean into him, these Gracile lips near brushing his ear.
“She gave up years ago, you know. Stopped looking. Stopped caring. You were but a fleeting distraction. Now she busies herself with other menial tasks she deems more important than your life.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Don’t listen to him, Faruq. You know Mila better. She’s been looking for us both.
“Oh, and I hear your sister is with her ... or at least beside her like a loyal Musul dog. I’m sure she begs and rolls over like a good pet for her Logosian master. In fact, I’m sure she spreads her legs for every man in Opor, like a trained whore.”
The Musul doesn’t respond—his features unmoving. No anger. No pain. Nothing.
My own rage boils to the surface. The cane of my scythe strikes across his jaw and he crashes into the snow. There’s no defiance. No retaliation. He just lays there. “Get up. Are you so pitiful that you no longer stand for yourself? Have you no courage, no honor?”
Can’t you see he’s broken? Just leave him be, Demitri whines.
“Fine. Lay there like the beaten dog you are. To kill you would only free you from this tortuous world. Oh, but do I wish that sow, Mila, could see the miserable derelict you’ve become. That would be worth my time.” I turn back to his captors. “Take him. Make him suffer. I have no further interest.”
A scream in the distance.
I spin aboutface.
In the dark, behind the intensifying snowdrift, the clang of metal against metal rings out. Barely visible silhouettes of near thirty Rippers thrashing machetes and thrusting spears mingle with the shouts of my militia.
They’re under attack.
***
My hoarse battle cry rises above the melee but is muted against the snow-laden wind. These lungs heave and gasp in pain, the price I pay for having returned in such a short time.
The nearest Ripper’s head cleaves in twain, his skull sliding apart. Thick red matter falls in globs against the fresh powder at his feet. With the neural link engaged, and the world slowed, the massacre plays out in a creeping dance of death. My Einherjar fight with vigor, but the sheer number of Vapid roamers is overwhelming. Their attack coordinated, like pack animals, while my soldiers thrash out, all brute force and little training in the art of war.
Another slam with this armored shoulder and a Ripper tumbles into the snow. My scythe opens his belly before he can rise. There’s a popping sound as his gut bag releases and the plasma blade seals his innards into the wound. He cries out in anguish. I stomp on his head to finish him.
Aeron and Merodach liberate our pet Rippers, now stimmed up on Red Mist. Breaking free, they scream and howl, clawing and biting anything in their path. Some of them grab up the weapons of the fallen, only to be cut down by their own kind. Wave after wave of new foes appears from within the snowstorm. They must believe the cart is laden with goods. But their attack will yield nothing. The cart is to be loaded with the nuclear stockpile we seek.
You’ll never win this. You have to run. Do it, or we both die.
Your answer to everything, kozel. I run from nothing. I would rather die here and take your wretched soul with me.
A shadow descends upon me. I grab the attacker’s arm and draw it over my Gracile host’s shoulder. The Ripper’s arm snaps at the elbow, a childlike scream sings from his yawning mouth.
This is insane. Your people are being butchered. Tell them to run.
Never! Do not believe they are your Gracile siblings, puppet. They are but shells with my brethren inside. We will prevail against this filth. But where is she?
I scan the battlefield, searching for her skinny frame. There. Hiding behind the wheel of the cart, hoping to escape.
Just leave her be. What is wrong with you?
I power through the scrum of fighters, past their grubby, clawing hands. In a single lunging stride, Aeron intercepts the cabal on my left, cutting through them with a buzzing flash of his plasma sword. On my right, Merodach clears a bloody path so I can make it to my quarry. But the limbs of my host fight back, refusing to obey my command. These legs are like lead, anchored against the earth itself.
Puppet, do you fight me?
I won’t let you hurt her.
You have no choice, boy.
Yes, I do.
My host’s legs stop moving altogether. The lower half of this organic machine shuts down, my control gone. The muscles tingle with pins and needles, as if the life blood has been cut off.
“Let go, peacock, or you will regret it,” I say aloud.
I can’t regret more than I already do.
“Foolish child.” These hands still work.
From the inner pocket of the cloak that shrouds these huge shoulders, I pull a syringe of Red Mist, the latest version before the Alchemist was captured. It’s unstable but powerful. The red liquid sloshes about inside the glass cylinder. Before Demitri knows what’s happened, the needle slides into the jugular vein of his neck. A hissing shot fires the liquid into the bloodstream and immediately my control returns—tenfold.
No ...
Muscles afire, I force this body forward.
The sound of gunfire close. I register a snap of pain like the bite of a serpent in Demitri’s shoulder, but it doesn’t slow me. These eyes lock on the shooter, the red-masked savage from before. You. You’re dead. I cross the distance in the blink of an eye, crashing into the shooter. Still clutching his rifle, he is unprepared for death as a closed fist folds his jaw flat against his neck. I slam down, obliterati
ng his skull.
As I approach, she cowers. I grab the heavy chain attached to her collar and lash it to a metal ring on the wooden cart. My scythe screams open and with a blaze, the chain is soldered to the iron peg. I crouch down to Anastasia’s level. The crackling, spitting scythe illuminating her gaunt features and pink scar. “You will never escape. There is no hope for you.”
“Demitri will save me,” she stutters.
“Your faith is misplaced.” Her throat feels fragile, like glass, within my one-handed stim-enhanced grip. “He is but a boy. A coward. You think he cares for you? Loves you? You are beneath his kind. A plague-infested rodent. For now, you are a mere distraction from the torment of living in limbo—”
A crushing blast of pain pierces my host, slamming into his skull from behind. I feel the rippling agony just as he would. Demitri’s body takes far too long to steady. A trickle of blood runs from the gaping head wound and my scythe drops to the ground. Rage boils from the depths, from the hell in which I was reborn. Standing amidst sickening vertigo, I force Demitri’s body to fight back.
You’re killing us both. The voice is distant. Dreamlike.
I ignore him, turning to my attacker.
The little gremlin wearing animal skins loads another stone into his sling. This cave dweller is somehow able to badly wound this body with mere rocks. The rage inside deepens. I take two steps toward him, a stream of vomit spilling from the mouth of my host. The second fist-sized rock strikes center mass. Demitri’s body fails, stumbling to all fours. I force these fingers to grasp the hilt of a short sword. Crude but functional. Rising, I am upon him. His eyes are wide with fear as I drive the barbaric weapon through his gut.
“Primitive dog.” I yank the sword from him and throw it away. He falls back into the white powder, a dying gasp on his lips.
Using the extinguished scythe as a crutch, I stumble toward the cart. The familiar chaos of battle fills these ears, the once perfect vision I enjoyed is now blurred. Blood continues to leak from Demitri’s head, soaking into the garment at the neck. I drop into the snow, panting, hot breath mixing with the falling snowflakes.
