Battle Ground

by Jim Butcher

  The clear night sky suddenly rumbled with what sounded like perfectly natural thunder.

  “See?” Bob demanded. “That’s the boundary between the mortal world and the Nevernever. There’s so much energy flying around that it’s breaking down.”

  I felt my eyes widen. The barrier between the mortal world and the world of spirit was all that separated humanity from demons and devils and nightmarish creatures of literally every description. “Is it thin enough for anything to get through?”

  “If it’s not,” Bob said ominously, “it will be. Right now, Ferrovax is holding that door closed. It’s enormously inefficient to do it from the Nevernever side. He won’t be able to keep it up forever without coming to this side, in his true form, and that would basically rip reality’s nuts off.”

  “How long?” I asked. “Can he hold them out until dawn?”

  “No one’s seen a confrontation this big for thousands of years, Harry,” Bob said, and his tone was outright worried. “The laws of magic change over time. I don’t know the answer to your question. I don’t think anyone else knows, either.”

  Murphy looked back at me over her shoulder, then down at the bag, before turning her eyes back to the road. After a moment, she said, “My leg and arm don’t hurt anymore.”

  Bob grunted. “Yeah. That’s Mab.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Mab. Preparing the field. What, you think she and Titania called up Tir na Nog and practiced against each other all those times for funsies? Mab’s extending psychic power to those fighting on her side. And at the same time, she’s making it more oppressive for her enemies.” Bob jiggled his chin back toward the ground we had lost. “Everything coming in from that side knows, not in its head but deep down in its guts, that it is entering the lair of a predator and that it’s never going home. Knows the odds are against it. Knows that every step forward brings it closer to death.”

  “How do you know that?” Murphy asked.

  “Because I’m one of the beings Her Most Royal Frozen Naughtybits considers an enemy,” Bob said brightly—but his voice had a brittle, tense undertone. “She’s doing it to me as we speak.”

  Murphy glanced back, frowning. “And she’s healing her allies?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bob said. “She’s just making it so you can’t feel the pain. She’ll blunt any non-useful terror you might feel, too. And she’ll encourage your aggressive tendencies. Like maybe enough so that someone who is too physically screwed up to be involved in fighting instead convinces her friends to help her and heads out into the war.”

  Murphy snorted. “Yeah. There’s just no way I would have done that otherwise.”

  I ran a quick mental inventory and found myself scowling. “How come she isn’t doing any of that for me, then?”

  Bob gave me a disgusted look. “You’re the Winter freaking Knight. You get it all the time. Suck it up.”

  Again the sky turned red. Again metal and concrete screamed and rumbled. There was too much dust in the sky now. I couldn’t see what had fallen—only the diffused glow of the power of the Eye and a slight thickening in the dusty cloud.

  “Hell’s bells,” I complained. “How many shots does that thing have?”

  “It’s being fueled by the city’s fear now, boss,” Bob said seriously. “It’ll run out when everyone’s dead. Which was the general idea, when it was created. That’s part of what Mab is trying to do, too. Dampen everyone’s fear. Rob the enemy of power.”

  Butters leaned in to the conversation. “What happens if Mab keeps making things worse on the enemy?”

  Bob let out a hysterical little cackle. “They go insane. I mean, obviously. It’s a psychic assault.”

  Murphy gave me a sharp look. “So they have to stop her. If they don’t, they can’t meet their objective.”

  “Good luck finding her,” I said.

  Red light flashed again, staining the air with blood.

  And, from the south, a sudden glaring column of blue light, so intense and bright that it could readily be seen even through the haze, erupted cold and defiant into the sultry night.

  “Bozhe moi!” Sanya blurted, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. “Is that . . .”

  I knew power from the heart of Winter when I saw it. “Mab. Yeah.” I thought furiously. “Crap.”

  “What?” Butters asked.

  “Murphy’s right,” I said. “They’ve got to shut her down. And she’s just told them where to find her.”

  “She’s made herself bait,” Murphy said. “They’ll converge on her. From everywhere.”

  “Yeah, they will,” I said, still thinking. “There’s no way they’d pass up a chance to . . .” Mab’s intent suddenly unfolded in my head. “Oh crap. We’ve got to turn south.”

  Murphy took a deep breath. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure it will be worse if we don’t,” I said. “Follow that skybeam.”

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  We rode through pandemonium.

  Pandemonium means “the place where all demons dwell.”

  And the demons were out tonight.

  After a couple of blocks, someone in my head hit the pause button on whatever VCR recording my memory kept of the event. Things got blurry. Only pieces remained. Cuttings of memory.

  . . . buildings were on fire. Black smoke poured out of them. An old woman stood in the street in her nightgown, screaming hysterically.

  . . . a group of men had gathered around a policeman and were kicking his guts out. Sanya and Butters plunged into them and scattered them like a flock of chickens. The cop was already dead, but it took his body a minute to catch on. We had to leave his remains there.

  . . . a Catholic priest at the door of a packed church, explaining to a crowd that there was only room for children.

  . . . a dead neighborhood where the Huntsmen had killed every man, woman, child, and pet. Had burned every plant and building. Destroyed every fire hydrant. Water two inches deep, most of it scarlet with spilled blood. Light and heat.

  . . . a furtive group of men gathered around a beaten woman. The smell of propellant from Murphy’s gun. Bloody fangs. Butters vomiting. Sanya, his eyes cold.

  . . . a lot of cops, terrified and trying. Fire department guys with hopeless faces. Grim, quiet EMTs doing desperate battle with the Reaper himself. A lot of civilians, hard-faced and armed and determined, standing shoulder to shoulder with officers: the fighters. Veterans. Bikers. Parents. There were fewer people on the street now—those who could flee had already done so. Those who remained were the invalids, those determined to fight—and the dead.

  So many dead.

  The Fomor had spared no one. Not women. Not the elderly. And not children.

  . . . flashes of red light. The roar of destruction that followed. Always, those flashes coloring the whole of the haze and sky in bloody scarlet, but for where that single column of icy defiance remained.

  . . . a crib on its side on the street, the interior stained red.

  God.

  I would have nightmares for years about that one image.

  Somewhere, inside my head, I knew that the events now transpiring were of historic proportions. That they were driven by forces and circumstances far beyond the scope or control of any one individual.

  But when I asked whose fault this was, I could see only myself in the dim mirrors of the windows of broken buildings, staring in silent accusation. I knew it wasn’t a rational position, and it didn’t matter.

  I had been given strength. A good man would use that strength to protect those who could not protect themselves.

  Too many innocents had not been protected when they needed it most. I had failed them.

  I saw Murphy’s head track to one side as we passed that crib. I saw her face.

  She felt exactly the same.<
br />
  We were both wrong to feel that way. And it didn’t make a damned bit of difference.

  I looked around me. Butters walked with tears making grey streaks down his dusty face. The wolves slunk along, heads low, alert and miserable. Only Sanya, remote and calm, seemed to bear up under the horror with stoicism—but even Russians have limits. His face was tight with pain.

  And we all felt it.

  That we’d failed.

  Winter called to me, the whole time. The cold would numb pain, swallow my sickness, leave everything calm and sharp-edged and rational and clear. I could lean into that power. Forget this pain, at least for a time.

  But somewhere deep down inside my guts, there emerged a solid, unalterable realization of truth:

  Some things should hurt.

  Some things should leave you with scars.

  Some things should haunt your nightmares.

  Some things should be burned into memory.

  Because that was the only way to make sure that they would be fought. It was the only way to face them. It was the only way to cast down the future agents of death and havoc before they could bring things to this.

  The words never again mean more to some people than others.

  So I rode behind Murphy and held Winter’s cold comfort at arm’s length. I knew that what I bore witness to would hurt me, permanently. I knew it would leave me scarred. Knew it would burn things into me that would never change.

  I let it.

  I faced it.

  I remembered.

  And wrath gathered around us.

  I don’t mean that in a metaphorical sense. Wrath became something real, a tangible presence in the air, as real and as observable as music, as the sharp, clean scent of ozone. The men and women we passed looked upon us and knew that we were on the way to deliver retribution upon those who had come to our city.

  And those who felt it followed.

  I looked back and saw a silent, grim, determined host of men and women. Some of them were cops. I saw a couple of military uniforms, donned in the emergency. Some were obviously from the rough side of the tracks. But most were just . . . people. Just folks.

  Folks who’d had enough.

  Folks who’d decided to take up arms and fight.

  And above us, around us, the Little Folk marched behind my psychic banner. Always hidden, always flickers of motion in the corner of your eye, flittering shadows and whispers of sound—and the glitter of tiny weapons.

  And there were other things out there in the night. The Winter Court included a vast array of nightmares and boogeymen and predators, any of whom might be roaming the underbelly of Chicago on a given evening. I could feel them responding to the banner of my will, feel them ghosting along the rooftops and alleys, gathering around the power of the Winter Knight, matching themselves to my thoughts and my purpose.

  My allies began to take note as well. They saw the numbers gathering behind us. They saw the Little Folk, heard the occasionally manic, terrifying giggle that floated up from the shadows. They sensed the presence of horrible things, leashed to my will.

  Will and the Alphas avoided making eye contact with me. Butters stared at me in awe and something like fear. Murphy looked at our forces, then at me, tensed her jaw, and gave me a single harsh nod before turning back to face the front.

  This was what it was to be the Winter Knight. This was the purpose for which the office had been made.

  “Bob,” I said, and my voice sounded absolutely sepulchral. “What’re we hearing on the radio bands?”

  “Not much from in town,” Bob replied in a meek tone. “The Eye keeps blowing out the field units. Scouts are having to observe and then report back to the command centers for any of this information to go out, and I’m not sure how many people are receiving it. Um. We’re going to need new skyline pictures for the tourist postcards: Ethniu is apparently moving down Lake Shore Drive and mowing down buildings along the way.”

  “Mab’s set up by the Bean, isn’t she?”

  “Looks that way, boss.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “Why?” Murphy asked.

  “In a lot of ways, it’s the heart of Chicago. The city’s energy will be most potent there. Lots of fuel for magic.”

  “Including the Eye, right?” Murphy asked.

  “Exactly,” I said. “What else can you tell me, Bob?”

  The skull spoke in a nervous voice. “Um, good news, the cavalry is on the way. Bunch of National Guard units. Bad news—”

  “This will be over before they get here,” I said harshly.

  “Don’t kill me,” Bob said quickly.

  I blinked down at him. Then around me.

  My friends were all staring at me as if I were . . . Darth Vader or somebody.

  Murphy searched my face for a moment. There wasn’t any fear in her expression. Only deep, pained concern.

  I closed my eyes for a second and squeezed her gently with one arm. I tried to consciously make my voice sound calm and reasonable. Why did my throat hurt so much? “Okay. What’s Mab got with her? And what’s the enemy got with them?”

  “Her personal guard,” Bob said. “A cohort of warrior Sidhe. Sure as hell would be nice if she still had that elite troop of trolls right now. Lara’s people are with her, and all the heavy hitters from the svartalf command post.”

  “All grouped up where they can be taken out at the same time,” I said. All in the open in Millennium Park, no less. Mab was daring Ethniu to come at her, giving her a nice juicy group of enemies to target with the Eye.

  Don’t get me wrong: Mab was perfectly capable of kicking someone’s teeth right down their throat. If she thought a slugfest with Ethniu would get things done, she wouldn’t hesitate an instant. But if she decided it was time for podiatric dentistry, she wouldn’t be waiting for Ethniu to come to her. Not Mab. Mab would be moving forward like Juggernaut, an inexorable force, not standing her ground.

  So she was up to something else, and I was pretty sure I knew what.

  My senses were suddenly filled with a harsh, swampy scent that wasn’t being reported by my own nose. It took me a second to work out what the hell was happening, but it came to me as easily and instinctively as breathing.

  A screen of half a dozen malks, savage feline creatures of Winter that bore as much resemblance to cats as serial killers did to kindergartners, had spread out in a skirmish line in front of my banner, and they’d found the enemy waiting for us. I could feel their eagerness and bloodlust rising, got just a hint of expended propellant and gun oil on a wind that never touched my physical nose. More turtlenecks, then. The other creatures of Winter sensed the enemy’s presence, too, and a rising violent instinct spread among them—two shaggy, lurking ogres, seven or eight Black Dogs, a dozen psychotic gnomes with hooked knives, and a phobophage, a fear-eater, who had taken the form of a goddamned rake and whose shadowy profile, as it slipped past an open doorway, looked like a cross between a long-limbed Jack Skellington and Wolverine.

  And tonight, in this battle, every single one of them was mine to command. I knew it the way I knew which way was down.

  The enemy had taken an office building half a block down that would give them a good field of fire at an intersection and had evidently driven CPD away from the area. A number of silent uniformed figures on the ground testified to their deadliness.

  But honestly.

  Mab’s “people” are the things the scary stories get written about.

  “Stop,” I said quietly.

  Murphy brought the bike to a halt.

  “This will just take a minute.”

  And as naturally as moving my own muscles, I sent the monsters for the Fomor.

  The malks went in first, through the openings blasted into the building, silent as ghosts. The pony-sized Black Dogs followed, running
right through the freaking walls, which I did not know they could do. The rake slithered up a power wire like a snake, and the ogres and gnomes leapt onto the roof. I saw only vague shapes moving in the scarlet haze. Mostly, I just knew where they were.

  The building erupted in screams and gunfire. There were even a couple of crunching explosions.

  And then there were only screams.

  The creatures of Winter enjoy their killing. They think it’s worth taking the time to do it right. And given the pain and suffering Listen and his turtlenecks had inflicted, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch.

  “All right,” I said. “Proceed.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Murphy said, and she crossed herself, something I’d rarely seen her do.

  But she took a deep breath and kept going. We passed the office building. It was largely glass. The creatures of Winter, at my will, had turned it into an abattoir, and it dripped with their enthusiasm.

  “Did you do that, Harry?” she asked softly.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  She looked at a dead cop as we went slowly by. Then her face hardened. She spoke very quietly. “Good.”

  “When we end this,” I said, “I’m . . . We’re going to need to get away. From all this. From everything. Someplace quiet. Just us. Get drunk for a month.”

  “God,” she breathed, quiet longing in her voice. “I’m in.”

  “I hate that you’re here with me,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “And I’m glad that you’re here with me.”

  “I know.”

  I held her against me for a moment and whispered, “I’m scared. What’s happening inside me. Stay close. Please.”

  Her hand clenched my wrist, fiercely, for a beat. “I’m here.”

  I shivered and leaned my chin against her hair and for a moment closed my eyes.

  Then I straightened my spine and got my bearings. What was happening around me might be horrible, might be scraping away at whatever sanity I could legitimately lay claim to, but that didn’t mean I could afford to check out.