A Clash of Demons

by Aleks Canard

  No footprints. Northfall was a mosaic of cobblestones. All different colours. Zirean influence was prominent. Jungle vines decorated houses. Orange flowers were blooming. Some were bloodstained. Splatter stuck to the walls.

  Trix focused her hearing on each individual body. None were alive. Though she did hear something else. Voices. Coming from the pub across the main square. Its wooden doors were broken on their hinges.

  Valentine saw where Trix was looking. He read her like the pages of a book. Twirled his pistol on the tip of his finger.

  ‘Those punks are dead.’

  ‘They’re no punks,’ Trix whispered. ‘Every shot, despite being made with a snub-nosed slug, hit a vital organ, or an artery. They’re precise. And none of them is lying here dead, which means they’re fast.’

  Trix signalled for everyone to move into an alleyway. The attackers didn’t have any scouts. If they did, she would’ve heard them. The other possibility was that they were machinas. But then her medallion would’ve vibrated. She made a vow right there to not do another favour for Nadira Vega so long as she could help it.

  ‘These are just townsfolk though. You can’t expect them to be able to fight off thugs,’ Altayr said.

  ‘They’re not just townsfolk, Altayr. They were people. And now they’re corpses. All because of Nadira Vega’s fucking games.’

  Trix felt rage building inside her. She didn’t see Northfall when she looked to the street. She saw Duskmere. Bodies everywhere. Not shot. Rent by whirlwinds of slashes. Fuelled by anger. Hatred. Sadness. She blocked out the memories. They hit too close to home. Shamed her.

  Valentine: ‘So what’s the plan? I can go across the street. These houses will be easy to climb. I can rooftop hop until I reach the clocktower opposite the pub’s second story. I saw balconies. Chances are there’s an open door.’

  ‘Get into position, but don’t enter the pub until I say so.’

  Valentine nodded. He holstered his guns, peered around the corner, then sprinted into the opposite alley. He scaled the wall and pulled himself onto the shingled roof. He kept low, jumping to the next one. He disappeared from sight.

  Altayr wished he had his familiar, Rouge, with him. Rouge was a black cat with a single crimson streak running the length of his body. He could’ve sent him into the pub to scout the area. No thug was going to suspect a cat of spying.

  ‘Take the left flank,’ Trix instructed Altayr. ‘If you hear shooting, that’s your cue.’

  ‘And what’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m putting all my money on walking through the front door,’ Sif said.

  ‘Well,’ Trix smiled. ‘You heard Sif.’

  The machina sheathed her sword. Went to leave the alley. Altayr grabbed her shoulder.

  ‘You don’t even know with what we’re dealing.’

  ‘We’re dealing with monsters.’

  Trix strode out of the alley. Her helmet activated in tactical mode. Her right eye was covered by a portion of her gold visor. This was so she could mark enemies. It also meant that her full faced helmet could activate faster in case her shields burst.

  The main reason for not covering her face was twofold. Firstly, people were less likely to take you seriously if they couldn’t see your face. Secondly, a machina’s eyes unsettled nerves better than any gun barrel or sword edge.

  The Valkyrie began whistling the Ultima Lullaby. It was the sound of fog rolling across a bayou while a lone boat glided through the water, black as obsidian, smooth as glass. Its beat was to the tempo of a pallbearer’s footsteps as they walked through a forgotten church with clouds obscuring the moonlight. Its key, the pitch of a soldier groaning, looking skyward for hope, and seeing only Death’s face looming over him. The flash of a bullet glinting off his scythe as it swung.

  Trix heard the people inside the pub stop speaking as she approached. She listened harder. No sounds of guns being cocked, nor charged. Whoever the people were, they were curious.

  Curiosity killed the cat, Trix mused. All his friends, too.

  She pushed the doors. They fell to the floor. Fourteen heavily armed thugs were staring at her. A half-breed woman was unconscious on the floor. Trix could hear her breathing.

  Trix didn’t speak. Neither did the thugs. They were a mixed bag. Corrachs, zireans, humans, even a couple djurels from the looks of their armour. They weren’t wearing uniforms. No gang logos. How inconsiderate. The machina leaned against the doorway. Pulled out a cigar. Lit it by heating her pistol’s barrel.

  All of the thugs were wearing helmets, but she looked each of them in their visors anyway.

  ‘Any chance of a drink?’ Trix said.

  ‘Pub’s closed. Fuck off,’ one of the humans said. He was on Trix’s right. Only five metres away.

  ‘I would but the rest of the town seems a bit,’ Trix exhaled, ‘dead.’

  ‘There’s fourteen of us, and only one of you.’

  ‘My gun holds eighteen bullets.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘It’s a statement.’

  ‘You trying to be smart?’

  ‘I have my moments. What are you doing here?’

  ‘And why the fuck do you care?’

  A djurel reeled the human back in line by pulling on his shoulder.

  ‘Jorge, can’t you see she’s a Valkyrie?’

  Suddenly, Jorge became a lot less talkative.

  ‘You can relax. I’m not here to fight, or to make any arrests. Do I look like a police officer to you?’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you’re not a bounty hunter.’

  ‘She’s no bounty hunter,’ a corrach said. ‘She’s a huntress.’

  ‘The huntress?’ Jorge said. ‘The Valkyrie. The Desperado of Desraxe.’

  ‘Just here on a hunt, are you?’ the djurel said.

  ‘One that’s harder than yours,’ Trix said, nodding to the woman on the floor. Her lips had been burst. Her jaw was dislocated. Nose was broken. Likely had a skull fracture from hitting the ground. ‘I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?’

  ‘We came for a drink, same as you.’

  ‘And all the people outside, they like that when you arrived?’

  Jorge: ‘I don’t remember seeing anyone outside. We were so thirsty we mustn’t’ve noticed, hey, lads?’

  Murmurs of agreement raced around the pub. All fourteen thugs had their hands resting on their guns. Waiting for the Valkyrie to make a move.

  ‘Then you must know how I’m feeling. I came for a pint of Triple Halo Cider. Don’t suppose you boys have left any for me?’

  The djurel spoke to Jorge in a voice quieter than a whisper.

  ‘She knows about the Mirror.’

  ‘You know,’ Trix said, stopping the djurel from speaking any further, ‘for identifying me as a Valkyrie, you don’t seem to understand what I’m capable of.’ Trix took a drag on her cigar that would’ve made normal people splutter. She exhaled from her nostrils. The smoke wafted in front of her eyes. Her golden irises glowed through the haze. It made Trix look like a monster that stalked misty woods, preying on unsuspecting travellers.

  ‘For instance, I’m capable of hearing that your heart is beating twice as fast as it was before I opened my mouth. I’m also capable of reaching Jorge in less than a second. You don’t want to see what I’ll do when I reach him. Then again, I doubt you could perceive movement that fast. So this time, when I ask you a question you’re going to answer. Who are you working for?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Jorge said. He began backing away from Trix, nearly stumbling over a broken chair.

  ‘I guess it’s true what they say,’ Trix said, extinguishing her cigar on the back of her titanium studded glove.

  ‘What’s that?’ the corrach said.

  Trix smiled. Why was it that thugs always had to know?

  ‘Hearts were made to be broken.’

  And ain’t that the truth?

  3

  Valentine crashed into the pub like a species-ending meteorite.

 
He’d watched Trix’s discourse unfold from the house across the alley. There was no need to enter through the second floor. Valentine knew he could swing off the balcony’s edge, crashing feet first into the window.

  And that’s exactly what he did.

  The distraction was enough for Trix to reach Jorge. She increased her density, striking Jorge’s helmet with a jab, then following up with a cross. His helmet broke in half. Trix pivoted to the right as Jorge took a lazy swing at her head.

  Body shot.

  Body shot.

  Hook.

  Uppercut.

  K.O.

  Jorge hit the floor. Trix threw him out the door. She didn’t want to kill him. He was most afraid of her. That would be useful once this fight was over.

  Valentine took cover behind a piano. It didn’t last long under fire. He strafed behind a stone column. A djurel pivoted to meet him. The author found a gun in his face. Ducked to the left. Raised his Eagle. Shot the djurel’s weapon away. Djurel went to sweep Valentine’s legs. Mistake. The kick made impact. Valentine’s bionic legs were unaffected. He pumped plasma into the djurel’s chest. Shields burst. A .50 calibre slug entered the djurel’s solar plexus, dropping him cold to the floor.

  That was when Altayr entered the fray, pistol in one hand. Staff in the other. He spun, bringing his staff down onto a corrach’s head. The corrach stumbled. Altayr fired a couple shots. The corrach’s armour stopped them. Altayr dove behind the bar. It was made from stone.

  There was no doubting the sorcerer was fast. So was the author. Their movements were akin to an expert martial artist and a boxer respectively. But the Valkyrie. Her speed was blinding. She was a whirling dervish. Tearing through the pub easier than a tornado through hayfields. Eleven thugs remained, but their attention was split three ways.

  Trix had her sword in hand. With a pistol, she was more than a fair shot, aye. Worthy of the name gunslinger to be sure. With a sword, however, Trix was obliteration incarnate.

  Those who looked upon her did not see rage. Only tranquillity. Only composure. A heightened sense of everything. Yet feeling nothing. Her body behaved of its own volition. Honed after years of training.

  From her position by the door, she crossed the gap to the djurel who had talked to Jorge. He was flanking Valentine. The author was laying down plasma rain with his SMG. All the thugs’ shields were weakened under the deluge.

  The djurel saw Trix coming. His reflexes were fast. He raised his gun. From its angle, and its calibre, Trix had a fair idea of where the bullet was heading. She adjusted her sword accordingly. The bullet hit her blade’s forte. It ricocheted. Lodged itself into a thug approaching from Trix’s left. It was snub nosed. The thug’s calf muscle exploded.

  The djurel was ready to fire again when a .50 slug blew his tail off.

  Valentine was out of bullets. His stone column had been whittled away to nothing. He hoped that it wasn’t load bearing. There was another 10 metres from his position. Plasma skimmed his shields. Damn, he could’ve used a drink.

  From deflecting the bullet, Trix flourished her sword in a movement called the Snake, stepping towards the thug on her left. She decapitated him before he could get a shot off. She pivoted into a pirouette, whirling her sword into the tailless djurel, splitting him from the abdomen upwards.

  Trix saw Valentine rushing to cover from the corner of her eye. Altayr rose from behind the bar. He used an air blast to send the corrach towards Trix. She sensed the magic. Turned instinctively. Trix stepped out of the way with a half-turn, raising her sword from her hip. The corrach’s legs came off in a spectacular fan of blood, spraying Trix’s face. Her hair was streaked with blood. Some of it covered her visor.

  Eight left.

  Six thugs had distanced themselves from Trix. Two humans weren’t so lucky. Continuing her movement from crippling the corrach, Trix lunged forward. A bullet hit her in the chest. Didn’t have much effect. Snub nosed bullets were utterly useless for penetrating hard armour. However, had she been an average person, the wind would’ve been knocked from her lungs.

  Beatrix Westwood was on a level so high she couldn’t even perceive average. And that said a lot, considering her vision’s clarity.

  Her sword thrust into the thug’s sternum as another tried taking her from behind. Trix heaved upwards, splitting the thug open from chest to scalp. She carried her momentum backwards, slicing through the second thug’s chest from right shoulder to left armpit. Trix was splattered with blood now.

  ‘Six left,’ Sif said, in case Trix wasn’t aware.

  They were all hunkered in the doorway to the pub’s kitchen. They fired at the Valkyrie with everything they had, which was mostly mid-range rifles. Trix gravity jumped around the corner as the bullets blew apart what remained of the pub’s façade.

  Valentine lay down suppressive fire on the doorway, forcing the thugs into a retreat. Altayr went through a list of spells in his head. He wasn’t used to firefights. Only warlocks were accustomed to the flow of combat. Altayr could fight monsters, yes. But armed thugs were another matter.

  Altayr summoned a huge amount of magical energy. The spell he unleashed on the doorway was a mixture of air and fire. The pub shook violently when it hit the wall. The wall crumbled. Valentine came from behind cover. He levelled his pistol. Two thugs crossed his holo-sight. He fired. The bullet went though both their heads.

  The sorcerer vaulted over the bar, then flew into the kitchen. Altayr’s staff clobbered a corrach in the head. The gems were charged with electric magic. The corrach’s suit shut down. Altayr turned around, delivering another staff blow to the corrach’s lower back. He fired a bullet point-blanc into the thug’s neck.

  Three left.

  Valentine broke cover. So did Trix. A bullet fusillade came at her. She cast a special combo of her gravity and density spells. The bullets passed through her spell barrier. They hit her and shattered like egg shells.

  ‘She’s a demon,’ one of the thugs cried.

  ‘I’m no saint either, motherfucker,’ Valentine said. His Cosmic Eagle roared. Boom. One down. Trix was already beside Valentine. She dived through the crumbling wall, reversing her direction mid-air and slamming into a djurel thug’s back. Her sword entered his spine. Valentine let a thruster powered forward kick fly. The thug’s jaw shattered inside his helmet.

  Trix drew her pistol. She and Valentine fired on the last remaining thug.

  Destruction lingered in the air. Its sounds didn’t disappear. They echoed through the annals of Northfall, stretching into the jungle.

  Finally, destruction’s unique melody grew so quiet it could only be heard in Memory Lane.

  Trix wrenched her sword from the thug’s back. A couple lightning fast flourishes swept all traces of blood from the blade. She sheathed it.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Valentine said. ‘I’d almost forgotten how fast you are.’

  ‘Glad to refresh your memory,’ said Trix. She exited the pub. Made for the street. She wanted to have a chat with Jorge.

  Altayr hastened towards the woman on the floor. Miraculously, no stray fire or broken glass had hit her. Valentine retracted his helmet, reloaded his pistol and went to the bar. Grabbed the first whiskey bottle he saw.

  ‘That wasn’t a bad fight, for a sorcerer,’ Valentine said. The author leaned on the bar like he bore Drion’s weight on his shoulders. He didn’t look at Altayr as he spoke.

  ‘I haven’t had as much experience as you two. My talents lie in diplomacy. Words, poet, are still the greatest weapons in the galaxy, regardless of their ability to create magic. Surely you of all people can understand that.’

  ‘Words, sorcerer, are the ultimate paradox. They can cut, bludgeon, and rend, yet they can also heal, inspire, and mend. Each one of us blessed with the ability to speak carries a weapon of mass destruction at all times. It is a wonder why we’re so careless with them. We’re able to say anything. Strange that we say countless hateful things.’

  ‘That is ironic, considering your na
ture.’

  ‘Every word I say, sorcerer, I mean. Whether I’m pissed or sober. I use my words like a boxer uses his fists. At times they teeter between a fighter’s eloquence and a brawler’s drunken blows, but I don’t hide behind subtlety or pretence. The true irony is that words can only affect us if we let them. And they are so often useless for conveying any feelings or truths that really matter.’

  ‘An admirable road to tread, though it is a dangerous one. How you have survived so long I cannot help but wonder,’ Altayr said. He moved his staff over the unconscious woman. Anatomical knowledge was paramount to perform healing spells. Resetting a bone or fixing a ruptured organ was a much simpler task when you understood how a surgeon would do it. Of course, most high risk surgeries in the 28th century were performed by nano-bots.

  ‘I’ve been lucky, sorcerer. Luckier than I have any right to be. You of all people should understand that. Luck is the cornerstone of the magic crossroads, is it not?’

  ‘You’ve read my thesis?’

  ‘I had to research magic for a novel once. Trix had mentioned you several times. So I turned to your work. That book became a bestseller, with some minor amendments,’ Valentine raised a glass. ‘To your health, Altayr.’

  Valentine downed the whiskey. Stumbled slightly. Picked up a bar stool. Sat down. He surveyed the death. Wallowed in the melancholy that always followed battle. There was elation at the thrill of being alive, but death was never a reason to celebrate, in the poet’s opinion. Only life. And there was seldom little life to be found in Northfall anymore.

  Altayr kept working his healing magic.

  Trix returned to the pub. She was carrying Jorge over her shoulder.

  4

  The Valkyrie dropped Jorge to the floor.

  He groaned. Trix had taken care not to break his jaw. She wanted him able to speak. He was concussed. The body shots she’d landed would’ve given him severe bruising along his ribcage. Possibly internal swelling. Maybe a hairline fracture. Trix’s x-ray vision couldn’t penetrate his armour.

  She knelt next to Jorge. Slapped him in the face.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said.

  Jorge’s eyes opened like a man possessed. He tried scrambling. His head whipped from side to side. He saw severed limbs everywhere. The mosaicked floor gleaming with blood. And the smell. Bodily fluids mixed with one another creating a concoction that was somewhere between diarrhoea and vomit.