by Stu Jones
“You may not be here in the flesh for this one, Denni. But you’re with me nonetheless,” I say, remembering the way my little friend’s vivid sky-blue eyes twinkled when she had one last trick up her sleeve.
“Here, take this.” Oksana hands me a thin white rectangular device with a glass viewing port and a safety cap covering a short needle. Pinkish liquid sloshes in the loaded syringe. “You know how to use it—just don’t forget to remove the safety cap in the heat of the moment.”
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the auto-injector and clipping it to my belt. “Hope it will work.”
“It’s too late for hope. We’ll have to try it and find out.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
She shrugs. “It’s all we’ve got.”
“And you know your part? Can you pull it off?”
She sidles up and we stare at frozen battlement which stands twenty meters high in the distance. “I’m the only one who can.”
Without another word, Oksana touches my arm, slings a bag over her shoulder, and sets off at a brisk pace to the west.
Behind, a rumble in the heavens rolls out, long and deep. A winter storm is fast approaching. I turn back to our target. I’m not sure how I didn’t see if before, but a force has gathered and is standing in solidarity, perhaps half a kilometer before the frozen barricade. And at the center, gesturing to the left and right, is an old, stooped figure, one arm missing.
“Oh, by the hands of Yeos,” I say, taking off toward the amassed crowd at a trot. The rhythmic crunch of my boots impacting the ice falls in cadence with the banging of my heart. “Bilgi!”
The old man turns as I run up, a smile creasing his weathered face. I crash against him, squeezing him in a crushing embrace.
“You were gone, and I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again,” I say, my words muffled in his heavy clothing.
He pulls me close with his good arm. “I had to go. Giahi convinced everyone I was sick.”
“I know. Praise the Maker you’re not. What happened?”
“As soon as I left, I went to the body ranch in Zopat.”
I scowl. “It’s a clinic, Bilgi. They do the best they can with nothing.”
“Don’t scold me.” He laughs. “That’s what everyone calls it. Anyway, they told me I had something in my system, but it wasn’t the plague. But by then it was too late. The others had been exiled by Giahi and our influence over Opor was lost.” He raises my chin to gaze into his wizened face. “Where were you?”
“I had to get myself figured out.” I don’t want to hold his gaze.
“And did you?” he asks, though he seems to know the answer.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Some said you were dead. Not me, I knew you’d return to us.” He hugs me again. “It warms me inside to know you found your way.” He extends his arm, distancing himself again, and his face turns serious once more. “Tell me you have a plan, Mila.”
“More of a theory than a plan, Bil. Oksana thinks she’s found the cure to Demitri’s psychosis. I’m going to hit him with this and hope it does what she thinks it will.” I unclip the injector and hold it up for him to see.
Bilgi shakes his head. “Are you crazy? You know how close to him you’ll have to get?”
“We have a chance to rescue Demitri from his demon. Don’t we owe it to him to try?”
He looks at me long and hard, his gaze a withering blast of cold. “You might owe it to him. The rest of us don’t harbor the same allegiance for that deranged Gracile. What has he done for us?”
Now it’s my turn to glare. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe he helped me take down the Gracile Leader and save the world—the human race—from extinction. The stress of which, I might add, crushed him and allowed Vedmak to take control.” My voice rises, shaking with an intensity I didn’t anticipate. “So I don’t want to hear anyone questioning what we owe him, because we owe him everything.”
“Okay.” Bilgi shrugs. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t there for much of that. All I know is what he’s cost us over the last few years since the rise of this Vardøger. And now, we’re faced with another cataclysmic event—one that could be averted by putting a lead slug between his eyes.”
My frown deepens.
“But, if you are determined to choose the hard path, have at it, my little krogulec. After all, who can stop you once your mind is set?”
Mos and Ghofaun approach.
I don’t have the words, my chest tight. “Mos.” We step forward, slap our hands together and pull each other in. The broad-shouldered Kahangan and I touch foreheads. “I’m so glad to see you, friend.”
“And I you. We were worried,” he says.
I turn to the wizened monk dressed in traditional red Lawkshan robes, a sash of gold across his midsection. He wears a pleasant expression. I place a hand on his shoulder and he reciprocates. “Ghofaun, I’m so sorry, I—”
He waves his hands. “No apologies. The past is the past. It is a blessing to see you return to us, Mila.”
Yuri and Zaldov march up with the rest of our fighters walking warily alongside the small contingent of Creed.
“Yuri,” Bilgi calls out, “you brought our people.”
“Mila brought our people, Bilgi.”
“What happened? How did you get free of Giahi?” Bilgi asks.
I wave my hand. “Long story. What you need to know is Giahi is out of the picture.”
“You killed him?” Mos asks, his heavy brow creasing.
I shake my head. “No, that’s not who I am anymore. Maybe I never was deep down, and it messed me up. That’s why I had to leave for a while, I had to remember.” I touch the worn picture in my breast pocket. “I needed to reconnect with what’s important.”
Bilgi’s face sobers. “You know Vedmak has Husniya. He captured her from the Vestal temple. I’m glad you didn’t have to see it. It was terrible. The Vestals’ dying act was to try to shield Husniya from that monster.”
“And yet, he still took her.” I swallow. “Zaldov briefed me on all of it.” I try unsuccessfully to put the innocent face of Sister Katerina out of my mind. “Their sacrifice to protect Hus and the Writ will not be forgotten.” I pat the heavy tome in my bag. “It’s time for us, all of us, to come back.”
My friends respond in agreement.
“This isn’t going to be easy,” Yuri mutters.
“It never is,” I say. “What have we got in the way of support?”
“I’ve brought two-hundred of my best from Kahanga.” Mos smacks a closed fist against his chest. I look over his shoulder to the lines of his men standing ready, their machetes and rifles poised, their clothing mismatched and multicolored—the visage of a cobbled together militia.
“And I have rallied a dozen Zopatian monks. They are each worth fifty trained soldiers.” Ghofaun bows.
“Mos, Master Ghofaun.” I bow. “You are both true believers in the cause. Always have been. Thank you.”
Bilgi grunts an approval. “Plus the Opor fighters and few Creed you brought, we’re in better shape than I first thought.” He surveys the gathering masses. “But, who’s this?” He points to a group of shadows drifting from the gray haze in the West.
I stare, trying to get a fix on the individuals materializing from the frozen swirl of shifting smog. First one rank appears, then another, followed by a third, marching in formation toward our position. The man in front, leading the sizable group, comes into focus and all blood drains from my limbs.
Faruq.
“Baqirians,” Yuri says.
“We approached Faruq for help,” Bilgi says. “He refused us. Looks like the winds of fortune may have changed.”
I wait in silence, unsure of how this exchange will go. Mustn’t blow too hard upon the spark of hope glowing in my chest.
After crossing the expanse, a man with an eyepatch behind Faruq shouts out a few commands and the various Baqirian men come to a halt. They coolly eye the Kahangans, the monks, and th
e resistance fighters. Faruq marches up, wearing tan expedition pants, boots and a heavy fur-lined coat. His gait is steady and sure, the strict confidence of the man I once knew is visible again. He stops several meters away and surveys us.
He won’t make eye contact. My heart aches.
“Sheikh Faruq,” Bilgi says with a courteous dip of his head.
“Let us get something straight. I am here for my sister.” Faruq’s eyes are as hard as steel.
His few words are crushing. He’s not here for me. All I want to do is wither up and blow away in the endless Siberian wind. It isn’t fair for him to continue to punish me. It isn’t fair and there’s nothing I can do but take it. Yeos be the strength of my heart.
“Very well, Sheikh. We welcome your support in any way you choose to give it. What are your terms?” Bilgi asks.
“I am here to rescue my sister and that’s all—do not get in my way.”
“Of course.” Bilgi bows again. “We have a condition as well—try not to kill Vedmak. We believe Demitri is still trapped inside. We will save him if we can.”
“That’s a fool’s errand,” Faruq says. “You want to spare the fiend that maimed my sister?”
“Not spare. Cure, if possible,” Bilgi says. “Demitri would never deliberately harm Husniya. You know this. He’s as much a prisoner as you once were—”
“Enough,” Faruq says.
“Please,” Bilgi says, his tone soft.
“No,” Faruq says, touching the gold-plated wheel gun in his waistband. “If that’s what you want, you’d better reach him before I do.”
Faruq moves to leave.
“Faruq.” I can barely choke out his name.
He stops, but still will not meet my gaze.
“May I suggest you take Ghofaun and his monks with you? They will be nothing but an asset on your mission to rescue Husniya.”
No one moves, feathers of sleet floating between us.
“Please,” I say, and look to Ghofaun, who winks for me to continue. “We want to see her safe as well. Accept this help as a token of our good will.”
Faruq does not reply, but simply bows his head in acquiescence and rejoins his men.
Ghofaun squeezes my arm as he passes. He signals to his monks—short Zopatians clothed in sashes of gold and carrying staffs and kukri blades. Together they head off to join with Faruq’s force.
For the first time, I notice a group of women, clad in heavy-hooded robes of crimson and cream, standing behind the outermost edge of the massing troops. Some of them are only girls, even younger than Husniya. The last of the Vestals. They came to war? I watch as these mighty women form into rows, their lips moving in unison, hands pushed toward the sky.
“They pray for us, Mila,” Bilgi says, touching my arm. “It is a sign. Yeos is among us.”
“I never thought I’d see something like this. Any of it,” I say.
Bilgi looks to me, his eyes sad and knowing. “This is it. What’s the play, my girl? I’m not so sure brute force will win the day this time.”
“I know. I’ve been working on a better way to do this.”
Mos shifts his heavy bulk. “My scouts have told me there’s not any other way in than through this gap in the ice wall here.” He points to the entrance to the concealed lillipad.
“Yeah, I know, so, here’s what I’m thinking—”
An ear-piercing screech of static drowns my words. I squint my eyes, cupping my palms over my ears. Then, as abruptly as it came, the sound is gone. Another heavier rumble, the churning storm above closing in.
“Do I have your attention?” Vedmak’s amplified voice seems to rise from the ice itself. “Are all the miserable wretches lying on my doorstep listening to the voice of their conqueror?” Demitri’s body steps into view on the upper left portion of the ice wall.
A small army of Graciles adorned with armor step to the rim of the enormous barrier, facing out, their shouldered plasma rifles glowing with intense blue light. At the same instant, a powerful force of armored Gracile warriors carrying swords, battle maces, and barbaric horned axes marches through the gap in the ice wall and fans out five ranks deep.
“He’s got us dead to rights out here in the open,” I say to Bilgi.
My stoic mentor says nothing.
“I am the Vardøger,” Vedmak continues. “Accept your place beneath the heel of my boot. You will not win this day.” His voice booms across the ice. “And this is my insurance.” He steps over to a vertical jagged crop of ice jutting upward from the top of the wall. Grabbing a section of canvas tarp, he snatches it down to reveal a young woman lashed to the ice. It has to be Husniya.
While still slumped unconscious, she appears to be wearing some sort of metallic headgear and is secured by rope and spikes driven into the ice.
Faruq cries out something in Baqirian.
“We are now interconnected via the neural web,” Vedmak announces with glee. “If I die, she dies.”
“This is not good, Mila Solokoff,” Zaldov says.
My heart sinks. No. How could an impossible task be made even worse?
“He cannot stop us!” Bilgi shouts. “We will stand against this, Gahhhggg—” His words are cut short in a gurgling scream. A hole opens in his chest, bands of flesh peeling off like the red petals of some prehistoric flower. Warm blood sprays across my face as Bilgi stumbles.
The lingering crack of a rifle hangs in the air.
“The old one talks too much.” Vedmak laughs lowering an old Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifle propped over his deformed arm. “Not anymore.”
“Bilgi, no,” I cry, pulling his sagging body against mine. “Bilgi, oh come on. No. Hang on.” Tears seep from between pinched eyelids as I sink to my knees, cradling the wheezing old man close.
His lifts a hand and taps my chest, his gaping blood-filled mouth forming soundless words.
“Bilgi ... I can’t. I don’t understand,” I say, my stomach coiling in knots. “I can’t lose you.”
He jabs me in the chest again, his eyes wide. “You are the one, Mila. You are ... destined for the path ...” He gurgles and the last glimmer of life escapes him.
I scream, my body shaking with a terrible vigor, spittle clinging to my lips, tears dripping from my chin. I clutch Bilgi to me.
“The rest of you vermin are next,” Vedmak says. “Kill them all.”
The air erupts with sound and fury. The Graciles on the wall open fire with their plasma weapons, eviscerating the ranks of my people—rendering friends and comrades to ash.
Vedmak points at me. “Kill the little suka once and for all.”
The Graciles wheel on me, taking aim. This is my miserable end. I swallow and take a deep breath, pinching my eyes even tighter. The rising prayer song of the Vestals like a chorus of the saints to my ears. I am who I was meant to be. I am ready.
Yeos, my life is yours to forfeit.
The building storm above us ruptures, a blast of ice and wind snapping across the battlefield, whipping waves of snow from the ground. Crystals of ice sting the skin, the gusts cutting through layers of clothing like a score of thrown blades.
The glowing rifles snap, the first bolt striking left of me and the second buzzing overhead to plunge into the snowbank behind with a hiss. They fire again. This time, with my stinging eyes wide open, I will them to hit me. Both shots veer wide, striking the snow. I lower the body of my adopted father to the ground and rise to my feet, blood drenching my clothes. Vedmak snatches the glistening metallic rifle away from one of his soldiers. Bracing it as before, he fires a blistering string of shots that gouge at the ground before me, throwing chunks of mud and ice into the air.
Is the rifle malfunctioning? The storm throwing off his aim? Or could it be ... “Stand up and fight! Yeos is with us!” I scream, thrusting my launcher into the air.
With an electrifying shout, the resistance rises from where they lay prone behind bush and rock. Some fire upon the entrenched Graciles while others charge for the gap. The sq
uad of Creed soldiers opens up on the regiment of Gracile defenders standing atop the ice wall. I charge forward, my gaze locked with that of my old friend up on the ice wall.
Demitri. I’m coming for you.
Chapter Forty
FARUQ
My vocal cords strain as I call out to the splayed form of my little sister high above on the wall of ice. What have those fiends done to her? Is she even still alive?
“Sheikh, we must fight!” Captain Kahleit shouts.
The blue streak of a plasma bolt cuts the air between us.
I throw myself against the ground as another rips past. Gasping frozen air into my lungs, the wind and sleet sting my exposed face. Time seems to stall and lose its meaning, the battle blossoming around us. My people, the Kahangans, and resistance fighters are cut down in full measure by flying projectiles and plasma bolts. These mad Gracile titans show us no quarter. They do not differentiate between our ways, our skin color, or our beliefs—we are, all of us, beneath them, worthy only of death.
Then I see her, rising from the snow. Talons of fear clutch at my heart shattering its icy facade as I watch Mila stand, defiant in the face of certain death. Bolts zip past her, missing their mark again and again. It’s not possible she will survive this.
“Mila!” I cry out.
For a moment, the whiteout obscures everything, the terrible possibilities of her fate driving my mind toward insanity. Then, through a break in the sleet, I see her again. How can this be? With a scream she charges forward, her weapon—the tubular one Denni had once given her—thrust upward into the air.
A flood of memories assaults my senses, sights and sounds and smells. Mila and I fighting together side by side against the forces of the Gracile Leader. Shared purposes, destinies intertwined. The visage of this fearless woman strikes a chord within, the immeasurable depths of my own weakness and selfishness laid bare. A stroke of anguish courses through my heaving chest.
What sort of man have I become who would refuse the only ones I ever loved?
A roiling wave of nausea causes my mouth to flood with saliva. And then, Kahleit is there, dragging me to my feet as my men begin to run.
