by Stu Jones
“Onward, Sheikh! We will show them all the nature of our fortitude.”
“Yes,” I manage, dragging my ice-covered sleeve across my mouth and swallowing back the bitterness.
Pulling my arm free, I run toward the towering wall of ice before us, the only way in a narrow pass filled with armor-clad brutes, and beyond a hoard of ragged men. Are those Rippers?
An ear-piercing blast followed by a growing whine intercepts my thoughts. I wince, scrunching my brow as I focus on the source of the growing cacophony.
A repurposed Creed strike-ship rises from behind the towering wall, its suspended plasma cannon pivoting to lock on us. My men scream and shout, running, falling, and diving for anything that may provide them cover. I just run, vision blurred, tears streaming down my cheeks. We’re doomed.
With a crack like lightning, a blue bolt fired from the strike-ship tears its way through the ranks of the Kahangans. Their screams distort as their bodies come apart, bursting into gray clouds like the handmade confetti poppers Kapka forced everyone to fire off at his parades. The human ash hangs there for a moment, dissipating into the ranks of bawling survivors.
Another bolt looses from the massive strike ship, this time rending some of my men to dust.
A Kahangan rocket-propelled grenade screams upward, loses its thrust, and drops over the wall.
That’s it. I’ve seen strike ships taken down with these weapons before. “Kahleit,” I scream. He looks up at me from behind a bush. “Fire all of the rockets.”
“But Sheikh—”
“Fire them all at the strike ship. That’s an order.”
Kahleit makes it to a knee, then swings an arm overhead. “Loose the rockets! Fire upon the strike ship!”
The men pull the launchers forward, casting confused looks at each other.
“Fire!” Kahleit screams. “All of them.”
The men jolt to action, a barrage of rockets firing off from different positions, whining into the air in unison.
“Follow me,” I shout, rising and running once again. I draw the golden wheel gun from my waistband and forge ahead, the rallying shouts of my men ringing in my ears.
Chapter Forty-one
MILA
“Kahanga!” Mos shouts, his voice sending his soldiers screaming and running with him. “What’s the plan?” he yells at me.
“There is no plan,” I shout back. “Don’t stop moving. Take down Vedmak any way you can—just don’t kill him and watch your fire. Husniya’s life is at stake.”
Above, Vedmak throws down the plasma rifle in favor of the old-fashioned bolt-action weapon. Working the action one-handed, he shoulders and braces across his forearm, taking aim on me. The rifle cracks once. The round zips past. He works the action and fires again, but I keep running, fearless, a heart full of reckless purpose.
Vedmak shatters the old rifle on the ice barrier at his feet and flings the parts over the wall. With a wave of his arms, more men pour from the gap—but the others now loosed upon us are not Graciles.
Dear Yeos, he’s using stimmed Rippers like mindless attack dogs.
Far to the left, Faruq leads his Baqirians forward. A host of old Soviet RPGs whistle from their launchers, whining toward the humming strike ship. The Gracile pilot jerks the ship left and right, dodging the rockets, but there are too many and he’s not fast enough. The ship receives a blow to a wing and spins out of control, crashing low through a portion of the ice wall.
Husniya is above that section.
The craft distorts with the screech of tearing metal and comes apart in a ball of flaming debris. Vedmak severs Husniya’s bonds with his plasma blade and hoists her into the crook of his stumped arm. He jumps from the wall as it disintegrates beneath his feet. Snagging a section of severed support cable, he falls. It snaps tight as he drops out of sight on the far side of the wall.
How the hell was he able to do that?
I focus on the formation blocking our approach, a veritable wall of armored biological perfection.
“Carve your blades into them. Do not stop!” Mos shouts.
His men howl their response, machetes in the air. The few rifles they have pop, well-taken shots dropping the last of the deranged Graciles still carrying plasma weapons.
The launcher snugs into my shoulder and fires. A tattered blue cloth beanbag sails from the muzzle, laying a Gracile’s nose flat. The armored soldier sinks to his knees, his hands flying to his blood-drenched face. Then I’m on him with a spinning back kick that catches him right in the same spot. With a howl, he crashes against the snow, clutching his disfigured features.
The lines of Kahangans, Baqirians, and Resistance collide with the possessed Graciles, screams of fear and death filling the air.
A Gracile comes at me headlong. Not toe-to-toe, Mila. Work to their disadvantage.
I deflect a sword meant for my head with the barrel of the launcher, slip beneath, and rise again. A crippling stomping kick to my attacker’s knee breaks it inward with the sound like snapping firewood. I follow with a crucial blow, slamming the barrel of my launcher into the base of his skull, sending him tumbling into the snow. Immediately, another is there, attempting to smash me into the ice with a cudgel. Deflecting the strike, a roundhouse kick to his ribs yields nothing but a grunt. I give him another in the same target area. This time he winces and steps back, his face twisting with fury.
From seemingly nowhere, Zaldov drives into the armored Gracile. The Creed clubs him to the ground, then pivots and engages multiple Graciles at close range with his plasma rifle. Their gray powder is snatched away by the wind.
“Thanks,” I huff.
Zaldov’s rubbery lips stretch into a smile.
Forging ahead, I load another bag into the breach, shoulder, and fire. The lead shot-filled projectile drops the Gracile charging Mos. My friend grins at me before drawing Svetlana, the .44 magnum, from his belt and blasting a Ripper through the chest.
The Gracile ranks are powerful and they leave their mark in blood, but our sheer numbers are superior. The lives spent here are the terrible price we must pay for victory. Splitting the ranks and driving the few remaining Gracile warriors to the outside where they are isolated, we clear a path to the gap in the wall.
A second strike-ship slings snow in all directions as its jets whine, preparing for takeoff. Before I can scream for someone to take it out, a thin cloaked figure runs from beneath the belly of the aircraft and disappears into the whiteout of the storm.
Was that ...? A fiery flash precedes an incredible concussive blast that rends the strike-ship in half.
Oh, Yuri, I could kiss you right now.
Inside the wall, the short incline opens up. Faruq’s forces and the monks flood in through the breach left by the fallen strike ship, the Kahangans and my people fan out.
There’s a host of screaming. More Rippers. But these are different.
Through the blizzard and the sounds of war, the Ripper chief from Vel appears. Are they here to help?
His minions yelp and howl, flying onto the battlefield to our left and into both Faruq’s ranks and the ranks of Vedmak’s forces. A stone sinks in the pit of my stomach. Good job, Mila. I invited them here and they’re going berserk—on everyone. It’s a bloody free-for-all.
Vedmak’s Rippers and the chieftain’s Rippers clash and spill each other’s blood, Faruq’s Baqirians drive into them with the full weight of his forces. A section of the Rippers breaks free—some are Vedmak’s and some aren’t, but they’re not fighting each other anymore. They’re coming at us. At me. There’s still a mark on my head. They won’t stop until it sits on a pike. The distance between us vanishes as they close.
“We’re trapped,” I call out.
I can’t seem to move, my body frozen by the sheer madness of war.
“Not yet,” a strange voice calls back.
Past us charges a massive blur of orange and black, a whirlwind of flying claws and fangs. The Rippers shriek the sounds of terror and death
.
“Ussuri!” I shout.
The massive tiger swings his head in my direction, jowls foaming with blood. Mounted atop the great tiger’s back is Anastasia, wearing a strange headdress of colored silks and black feathers.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
“Buying you some time. The Vardøger must be stopped.” She pivots on the tiger’s back, facing off against a band of regrouping Rippers.
“How did you know to come?”
She flashes a wild grin. “Logosians aren’t the only ones with whom Yeos speaks.”
Even in the throngs of war, she can throw a veiled insult. One I perhaps deserve. “May His hands be upon you, Soufreit.”
The wanderer bares her teeth and yelps wildly. Grabbing a handful of Ussuri’s fur, she sends him leaping into the front lines of the Rippers with astonishing speed and breathtaking power. The Ripper chieftain and his brood are stalled. Many of them drop their weapons and run screaming. The chieftain backs away, mouth agape, as the great beast savages another section of his men.
My head won’t go on a pike just yet.
There’s a crackle of electrical white noise, and the shimmering VME bubble growing from within the lillipad undulates and swells. It’s growing fast. No time to waste.
Between us and the fallen Gracile fortress beyond, Vedmak stands defiant. There is lust for blood in his eyes as his sputtering scythe lops heads and limbs from the first resistance and Kahangan fighters to reach him. He points his weapon at me with an evil sneer.
Behind him, a huge Gracile darts into the lillipad, Husniya flopped over his massive shoulder.
Don’t stop, Mila. Don’t you dare stop now.
Chapter Forty-two
VEDMAK
The Alchemist’s final gift courses through me turning my blood into a burning lake of fire. I am a god of war. Reaping souls is my harvest—and the harvest is plentiful. My senses tingle with another inhaled breath of the nebulized concoction. These whimpering cowards come and bring war to my house. I will give them what they so desire.
Twisting, I grind the toes of my boots into the bloody slush at my feet searching for a more stable position. The open-mouthed head propped against my ankle draws a cruel smile across these lips. Let them come and share his fate. The plasma scythe ignites with a crackling sound then fizzles as it steadies. It pops and sputters a few times and catches again. The power cell won’t last much longer.
I lift the stump of an arm, now adorned with a crudely welded war hammer. A crimson wash, the blood of my foes, drips from its square edges. I am battle born, made to bring the end that haunts all men.
The little suka fights her way through the throngs of warriors to reach me. She is an aggressive creature—there is no shame in admitting that. I hate the bitch down to Demitri’s very bones but admire the tenacity with which she comes. Pure, driven, dauntless. It will make emptying her blood upon the snow that much more satisfying.
“Come on,” I shout, pointing my scythe at her. “Come and taste of death.”
But she cannot. Instead, she’s swarmed by a swath of my Rippers.
A group of the Kahangan fighters breaks through the lines and gallops toward me, their mouths filled with the last words of dying men. The neural link activates, connecting with the optical nerve in Demitri’s head. The battlefield stutters, slowing to a crawl. I have all the time in the world to take these fools apart.
I sidestep a clumsy swipe from a machete. My scythe buzzes as it swings upward, cleaving the shocked man vertically from groin to sternum. He cries out, falling and fumbling with his guts as they empty into his hands. Glorious. The single frames of action come one at a time and I take the second attacker head on, the iron hammer crashing down into his clavicle and folding his chest inward. The third and fourth would have had a good shot had they not hesitated. The scythe crackles as it sweeps clean through the lower half of one man, his gawking upper end toppling awkwardly into the snow at his own feet. I turn on the last man, who is just registering the carnage I have wrought upon his comrades. His feet slide as he tries to change direction.
And the flame of my weapon sputters out. Sard it all to hell.
No matter. I lunge, crossing the distance in a fraction of a second, swinging the heel of the scythe upward, catching him hard under the chin. The sound of his teeth breaking against each other is sweet music. His body, straight as a board, flops backward into the snow, unmoving.
With a gasp, the world around me regains its composure. A stream of blood rolls from my host’s left nostril. I am beyond the human weakness that plagues this flesh.
A fury still boils over inside my chest, at the turning of the tide of battle. The cockroaches brought their forces to bear this time, and no matter the superiority of my Graciles or the madness in these stimmed-up Rippers. Not even the dushi of my brethren or the mind-altering chemicals are enough—my army is still being forced back.
The Logosian’s resistance and their allies keep pushing forward. This is not how it was supposed to be. This body quakes with pent up rage.
Charging forward, I seize a resistance fighter by the neck and sling her back against the ice at my feet, her skull breaking upon impact. Another two fall from critical blows from the iron hammer attached to my arm.
A roar freezes me in place.
No. It can’t be. I turn to see the source of the primal sound, knowing full well from what it comes. The massive tiger stalks its way toward me, and riding on its back is ... is ... “You!” I scream, vocal chords straining above the chaos. “You would come to challenge me? Desire me to break you again, do you? Did you enjoy it that much?”
“Give up, demon. Give back what you have stolen,” my former captive says with confidence, her headdress blowing in the storm.
“I will not. I’ll kill that tiger and choke the life out of you!”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she calls into the wind.
Infernal bitch. I try to ignite the plasma scythe. It would give me a strong advantage against the beast. But no, the worthless garbage sputters, the power cell extinguished.
She notches an arrow to her bow and draws on me.
“Do it,” I screech. “You can’t because you know the weakling Demitri who set you free still lives trapped inside this body.”
She hesitates, staring into the eyes I’ve stolen. The bow twangs. I can’t even turn before the shaft strikes, penetrating deep into the thigh muscle. A spike of searing pain flares through this engineered shell.
“No, but I can slow you down,” she says.
That bitch! She shot me. Flinging the used-up scythe into the snow, I grab the arrow shaft and yank the barb from the meat. Blood streams down the thigh of my Gracile war horse.
The tiger roars and there’s another twang of the bow. The arrow strikes me in the shoulder, stopped by the plate armor I wear.
“I’ll kill you all!” I scream, sprinting as fast as this injured shell will allow toward the lillipad entrance, now being barricaded by Merodach.
“You can’t stop it, Vardøger,” the wild woman calls out, her voice swarming my brain. “Fate is coming for you.”
Chapter Forty-three
FARUQ
Pleas for life and howls of death fill my ears. A hastily thrown trip mine detonates beneath the swarming band of Rippers on our left, shearing a whole section of them off at the knees. Another three of my men go down, thrown spears protruding from their chests.
“Kahleit,” I shout, turning and blasting a hole through the chest of a charging Ripper. “Kahleit, where are you?”
Advancing forward, Captain Kahleit parries a spear point with his gleaming saber. The polished steel flashes as he jams it into the gut of another painted man. “I’m here,” he calls back, slicing a Ripper’s head from his shoulders.
“He took my sister through there,” I yell, turning my attention through the giant hole in the ice wall made by the fallen gunship toward the barricaded entryway to the lillipad.
Th
e predatory roar of some unknown beast penetrates the snowstorm. What was that? No time to find out. We’ve got to get inside or we’re all going to be lying dead out here. But how?
A rocket-propelled grenade screams past. The projectile slams into the makeshift barricade, blowing a ragged hole of flying glass and splintered wood right through the middle of it. I turn to see Ghofaun, who drops the RPG launcher to the ground.
“Kahleit, now!” I shout.
“Yes, Sheikh,” Kahleit yells back. He orders a squad with him while the rest of my men shove forward, working to stave off the swarming army of Rippers.
One breaks through the lines, a wild scream upon his lips as he comes for me. With numb fingers, I break the cylinder of the revolver open and fumble with the loose large caliber rounds jangling in my pocket. I pull one free from the fabric pouch, drop it into the cylinder and snap it shut with a flick of my wrist. The hand cannon rises fast, my frozen index finger clenching the trigger. A fireball erupts from the barrel. The large round obliterates the Ripper’s skull in a shower of blood and bone. The headless corpse falls at my feet. My stomach rejects the meal I consumed hours ago, taji beans and roasted Chiori splashing into the snow and across my boots.
Fate, you are a cruel mistress. I was not made for this. I drag the sleeve of my jacket across my mouth with a groan.
Kahleit grabs my arm, his fingers digging against flesh. “We must move, Sheikh. Now.”
“What?” I manage before seeing the answer to my question. The Rippers with their barbaric savagery are not stopping. My men cannot hold them. Mortal terror claims my limbs. Ilah, be merciful.
There’s a flash of golden silk, then another, as two Zopatian monks whirl past, one armed with an eight-foot ashwood staff, the other with the curved blade. The Rippers come, but they cannot land a single blow. The monks twist and spin, their feet dancing on cushions of air. Again and again, their weapons land true, the battered and broken bodies of Rippers piling at their feet.
“With me, Faruq,” Ghofaun’s voice calls out from the madness. He dodges the thrust of a Ripper’s spear and executes a handless cartwheel. The monk’s kukri blade slices through the air and clean through the Ripper’s neck. “Now,” he yells.
