The Crane War

by Graeme Rodaughan

  Four praetorians surrounded him, their swords and battle-axes swinging toward him. Anton blurred forward, snapping the Blue Dragon down through a short chopping arc. The vampire in front of him didn’t have time to defend himself. The Blue Dragon’s gleaming blade shearing through his raised sword in a shower of super-heated metal droplets, slicing through helmet and chest armor, sweeping down and exiting though his groin.

  Anton barreled through the vertically bisected vampire - his twin halves flying apart in a Rorschach sheet of gravity resistant gore.

  The vampires behind him thrust and slashed through empty space.

  Anton pivoted, reversing course.

  The three praetorians spread out, flanking him to the left and right. The last vampire held back a yard or two, swinging a pair of battle-axes and looking for an opening to attack.

  Anton rushed upon them. His clothing awash with the first praetorian’s blood, gore running in rivulets down his face.

  The flanking vampires launched overhead strikes with sword and battle-axe from the left and right.

  Anton halted on a dime, the weapons shearing through empty space a hairsbreadth in front of him. He slashed the Blue Dragon from behind his right hip through a wide horizontal arc. The gore-soaked blade stuck the right praetorian above the hip and continued through armor, flesh and bone, exiting in a spray of blood. Anton pivoted with the strike, using his momentum to strike at the vampire on the left.

  The left praetorian escaped death, rolling over the Blue Dragon as it swept beneath him.

  Anton pushed off his left foot, pivoting hard to the right.

  The two praetorians shouted and rushed him, attacking him high and low with a long sword on the left and twin battle-axes on the right.

  Anton leaped, blurring beneath the sword and above the battle-axes. He angled the Blue Dragon to the right, taking off the battle-axe wielding vampire’s arms below the elbows. The stricken praetorian recoiled back, his face lifting to the hanger’s roof, unleashing an unearthly howl of anguish.

  Anton landed, stamping his right foot, pivoting hard to the left.

  The fourth vampire thrust desperately with his long sword; a stabbing blow aimed to gut Anton before he could recover from his leap.

  Anton batted the flat of the fourth vampire’s sword blade to the side with his left hand. He stepped forward. His right foot lashed out, taking the sword-wielding praetorian in the groin.

  The vampire curled forward over Anton’s boot, grunting loudly in agony.

  Anton veered to the left, slicing down on the back of the leaning praetorian’s neck. The Blue Dragon continued on without slowing, the vampire’s head leaping forward through the air on twin jets of arterial blood.

  Anton turned, leaping on the armless praetorian. He ended the vampire’s wailing with a slashing diagonal cut through his chest wall, leaving the praetorian writhing in two halves in a spreading pool of blood and entrails.

  He paused, the Blue Dragon hovering at a diagonal an inch in front of his right knee, blood dripping from its tip onto his left boot. His night-shadowed eye flicked toward the nearest opponent. A dark-skinned vampire with a bald head, dressed in a fine dark-blue suit, standing thirty feet away.

  The blue fire of cold rage burned hard and true.

  The vampire’s agonizing death was the only worthy outcome.

  * * *

  Clayton’s personal guard rested in dismembered blood-soaked fragments.

  The agent of their doom was staring at him like a death-obsessed fiend.

  Something had gone horribly wrong. His ‘hostage,’ plan was in tatters. He’d not seen the likes of Anton Slayne in the near two-hundred years of his life. He shouted across his tactical network, “To me! To me!” His surviving praetorians would come to defend him. Jay Creeley and Francis Mirovar would have to wait.

  The gore-soaked apparition advanced toward him. His sole eye burning with an implacable will to murder.

  Clayton drew his katana from the scabbard at his waist with a clean easy sweep.

  It was time to prove why he was a general of the Vampire Dominion.

  * * *

  Dust motes rose in flurries in the afternoon sunlight spearing into the underground hanger.

  Anton took a step. A drop of blood fell from the tip of the Blue Dragon, dropping slowly to the cold concrete floor. The vampires were coming. It was good that they came - the sooner the better. He hungered for their deaths. There was no battle plan, they would come into range of his blade, he would strike and they would die.

  The dark-skinned vampire general backed away, shouting, “Fire! Kill him!”

  Two vampires blurred from the narrow strip of shadow on the left, and another three from the far right of the hanger. They all leveled light-machine guns at Anton, firing as they rushed across the concrete. Streams of bright fire lit the air, reaching greedy fingers toward him.

  Anton grinned, a mirthless veneer over darker depths, blurring toward the general.

  Bullets slashed through the space behind him, then the guns fell silent. He was too close to the general for the praetorians to risk further machine gun fire.

  Maze lifted his katana, angling it for defense.

  Anton slammed the Blue Dragon through it - the general’s blade shattering in a cloud of blazing sparks. The vampire twisted away; he’d anticipated losing his sword. The blade’s sacrifice saving the general’s life.

  Anton strode forward a step. The five praetorians arrived, machine guns slung, armed with a variety of swords and axes. Three flowed past the general like river water around a rock, two more came from behind Anton.

  A moment later they swamped him.

  * * *

  Clayton had moments left to act.

  The five praetorians whirled around the lone figure of Anton Slayne. He should have died in the first second and yet he lived. One of the praetorians slumped to the right, his knee shattered. Another opposite stepped back, blood spraying from the stump of his right arm.

  He had to save himself, and to do that he needed a nightfalcon and a pilot. But first, he needed a shield. Someone who’d baulk the demon carving his men into sushi. He’d pick the best-looking girl amongst the hostages, someone Slayne would find it next to impossible to ignore. He blurred over to the cowering Shadowstone staff, grabbing Commander Ulysses in an iron grip. He lifted her bodily, carrying her back to the swirling fight between his surviving praetorians and the younger Slayne. Surely Slayne, being a member of the Order of Thoth would hold scruples about killing the innocent, and Commander Ulysses, with the face of an angel, her athletic curves, and dressed in nothing but her dark-red underwear would create the perfect image of a damsel that could not be risked.

  Clayton took a position between the fight and the nightfalcons. He pursed his lips. If only I had a thick blanket, I’d take my chances running across to the nearest helicopter. The young woman was struggling within his grip. He tightened it and whispered. “Stay still and shut the fuck up, and you just might live.”

  She stilled, her heart beating just a little bit faster than normal. In quieter times, he would have valued her as a useful member of the Shadowstone organization. Someone with a cool head under pressure who could have risen far, perhaps all the way to the ranks of the vampire elite. But today, she was a blood bag. A meat sack whose only value would be realized through his own survival.

  He rested his 9mm Glock just beneath her right ear and called out, “Men, stand down. Slayne - drop your weapon or she dies!”

  Two of his praetorians blurred backward a dozen feet each, the third fell backward, a terrible wound opening across his chest. He joined the other two slumped on the concrete floor in spreading pools of blood.

  Slayne’s head jerked left, his single eye boring into Clayton’s.

  There was no hint of mercy or respite within that darkened orb. It seemed as devoid of feeling as the black eye patch covering Slayne’s left eye socket. Slayne raised his katana, the meteoric-iron blade slanting into pe
rfect stillness over his right shoulder.

  Despite the vulnerable curves of the vital young woman held tightly to his chest, the bastard was going to attack. Clayton straight armed the Glock, pumping the trigger. Bullets streaked down range toward Slayne, shockwaves trailing after them. Slayne pulled his right shoulder back, avoiding the first round. Then he moved hard and fast. Clayton’s hand tracked him, round after round slamming through the air without striking home.

  A sudden pressure arose on Clayton’s groin. The Ulysses woman was clutching his testicles. She clenched her fingers with an iron hard grip. He threw her from him, the crotch of his suit coming away in her right fist. Agony roared through him; he didn’t have time to assess the damage. The young demon was upon him and the Glock was clicking on empty.

  Slayne lunged forward, his gleaming katana describing a wicked horizontal arc.

  Clayton veered violently away, but all his vampire speed was defeated by the vicious razor-sharp blade sweeping across him from left to right. The lower half of his body vanished, a thin ribbon of blood splashing to his left. He started to fall, a hollow agony rising in a wave from his lower abdomen.

  Slayne’s rear foot flashed forward, the sole of his boot sinking into the lower part of Clayton’s sternum like a sledgehammer.

  His breath burst from his lungs. He left the lower part of his body behind. His torso rising in a high arc thirty feet above the concrete, flying backward into the scalding sunlight bathing the central interior of the hanger.

  The agony began the moment the sunlight struck the dark skin on his face and scalp. Flesh burned, melting and evaporating into bright flame and greasy smoke. His eyes sizzled and popped. Bone disintegrated, turning to dust. Brain tissue boiled and spat. His limbs spasmed in abject horror. The fire spreading in an all-consuming chain reaction throughout his torso and arms.

  He was still flying when death swept everything away.

  * * *

  Arthur blurred into the underground hanger past the bodies of four thoroughly gutted vampires.

  Half a vampire dressed in the flaming tatters of a suit was immolating in the sunlight in front of four nightfalcons. There were at least a dozen maintenance staff staring at the vaguely human remains sparking and smoking on the concrete. Another twenty or so people dressed in their underwear were cowering and backing away. Half of them were crying. One whimpered. Another sobbed loudly, wringing his hands in front of his thin chest.

  Beyond them, a striking young woman dressed in dark-red briefs and bra was picking herself up off the concrete.

  Anton strode away from the lower half of a dark blue suit, spilled entrails, and a pair of dismembered praetorians spurting fresh blood onto the hanger floor. He progressed through a circle of another three broken armored corpses, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the pale concrete. He advanced on the frightened Shadowstone staff; a merciless grin fixed on his face. His dark eye stared through them like they were beneath his notice - their impending deaths nothing but an afterthought of something far greater. The Blue Dragon, barely visible beneath the gore, hung loosely in his right hand. He lifted his left hand, sweeping blood from his forehead revealing unnaturally pale skin.

  He’s gone, shuddered like a chill wind through Arthur’s mind. He summoned the wild Ramp, tapping into a deep well of emotion. An abiding love suffused his being. Silvery blue light coruscated through his limbs. Time slowed precipitously. Anton became the sole focus of his attention. A drop of blood hung from his grandson’s right ear; it began to stretch -

  Arthur blurred forward.

  Anton’s sword rose reflexively against him, Anton was fast - as fast as Armitage in Michelangelo’s secret vault, and operating with a deadly instinctive style.

  In a burst of blinding speed, Arthur slipped past Anton’s outstretched blade. The Blue Dragon passing over his right shoulder. He locked Anton’s right arm, stepped past him, throwing his grandson to the concrete floor. The Blue Dragon clattering away from Anton’s grasp.

  Arthur flowed over him, pinning Anton’s arms with his knees on Anton’s biceps. He ground his left forearm into his grandson’s throat. The short-lived burst of his speed talent ebbing away to a regular Ramp.

  Anton flexed his chest muscles, pulling against Arthur’s knees. Squeezing his arms off the floor through pure power.

  It was like wrestling a vampire, Arthur was losing his grip. He reared back, his right hand flashed forward, slapping Anton hard across the face. He leaned back down, shouting in his grandson’s face, “Wake up, Anton!”

  Anton squeezed harder, his eye still berserker dark, a ring of red around the expanded pupil, blood vessels writhing like worms.

  Arthur’s knees began to slide inward off Anton’s arms. He backhanded his grandson, his knuckles cracking like a pistol shot against Anton’s jaw, turning Anton’s face hard to Arthur’s right, a splat of blood jetting onto the nearby concrete.

  “WAKE UP!” Arthur screamed. He let go of Anton’s throat and grabbed the sides of his grandson’s head, bringing his face down to Anton’s and staring hard into his eye.

  “SEE ME! FOR GOD’S SAKE SEE ME!”

  Anton twitched beneath him. He blinked, his pupil contracted, the red vessels retreating from his eye. Color returned to his forehead and his arms fell back, releasing the terrible pressure against Arthur’s thighs.

  Arthur rocked back on his heels, squatting next to his grandson. He pulled Anton up into a sitting position and insisted, “You’ll be alright. Yes, you’ll be alright.”

  Anton looked past Arthur’s shoulder at the half naked Shadowstone staff, as if seeing them for the first time. His jaw dropped, his eyes widened, and he murmured, “I wanted to kill them. I was going to kill them all.”

  Arthur dropped forward onto his knees. He leaned forward, hugging his grandson and patting his back. “It’s okay now. It’s alright.”

  Anton panted against his shoulder, fighting not to sob.

  Arthur’s stomach clenched and his chest tightened. He didn’t want this for Anton. The wild Ramp was hard enough to master under the best of circumstances but to recover from the intoxication of the ‘berserker,’ - that was something else.

  He held his grandson and vowed to keep him close.

  I have to keep him safe.

  * * *

  A tremor struck the underground hanger.

  The hanger roof doors ground to a halt, giant cracks appearing in both directions across the ceiling. People screamed and started running for the nightfalcons.

  Anton shook his head, rising to his feet with his grandfather. The last few minutes seemed more like a nightmare than real life. Another shock rocked the floor, and he steadied himself on his grandfather’s shoulder. He glanced back at the nearest nightfalcon and was greeted by a grinning face at the bay door.

  Arthur prodded him with a firm hand at his hip and they ran toward the closest helicopter.

  Anton veered to scoop up the Blue Dragon where it lay on the concrete. Leaving the famous sword behind was not an option.

  Dwayne Washington waved the other maintenance and Shadowstone staff off to the other three nightfalcons. Arthur and Anton reached the open bay door, clambering up into the main cabin. Dwayne doffed his maintenance cap and offered dryly, “Welcome aboard the Washington express.”

  “We ready to fly?” Arthur asked quickly.

  “All the birds are ready. These tremors have got everyone motivated to get the hell outta Dodge,” Dwayne declared. He flicked his head at the smoldering remains of the vampire general. “And seeing a vampire burn to death in sunlight has made true believers out of everyone here.”

  “Get the other choppers away,” Arthur ordered.

  Dwayne ran to the cockpit, and flicked a switch on the main console. A set of sirens started ululating throughout the hanger. The other nightfalcons, packed with every living human left in the fortress lifted off en masse. He looked back, grinned reflexively and said, “I’m amazed that’s still working.”

 
Anton looked around the empty cabin. “Where are the rest? Where’s Chiara and Peter? Where’s Li? Where’s Francis and Jay?” He began to move to the other side of the helicopter to see where Francis had fallen. Perhaps he’d been wrong. Perhaps Francis was only wounded and would appear in moments, hobbling, and leaning on Jay’s shoulder for support.

  Jay appeared on the other side of the helicopter, leaping into the cabin with a single bound. Francis lay in his arms, his face blanched and still, blood coating his chin. The front of his chest was bathed in more blood. Jay put him gently on the floor of the cabin, his eyes searching the interior of the helicopter. “Have we got a damn medical kit?”

  Arthur squatted near Francis’ head and felt for a pulse. Jay stared at him for a moment and called out again, “C’mon, have we got a fucking medical kit?”

  Arthur’s face turned grim, and he looked hard at Francis’ chest. Three bullet holes were clearly visible through the blood-soaked tatters of his shirt. They were close to the center of his chest. Anton’s heart fell, there was no hope left for Francis’ survival - he was dead.

  Dwayne emerged from the cockpit with a large first aid kit. Arthur looked over his shoulder at Dwayne and shook his head.

  Jay swore, “Oh shit! Oh fuck! Fucking hell.”

  Dwayne grimaced, and returned back to the cockpit. Arthur put a hand out to grasp Jay’s shoulder, and Jay slapped it away. He sat back, leaned up against the hull and raised his hands to his face.

  Arthur stood up and shouted over the din, “Peter and Chiara are on the tower. We’ll pick ‘em up in a minute.”

  Anton’s lips pressed together and he glared at the sub-level-1 corridor. Francis was dead. It was horrible but nothing could be done about it. Peter and Chiara were still on the nemesis tower and could be rescued, but not everyone was accounted for. He shouted, “Where’s Li.”