Firestorm

by William Stacey

  The other Feral was a woman, a mountain of a woman. Easily three hundred pounds of fat, gristle, and muscle, she looked like she could go a few rounds with Erin … maybe even Casey. She towered over both men. Her short, straggly brown hair looked as though it had been cut with a rock and then combed with another. Her shiny face was fleshy, and her large brown eyes protruded too far, with one drifting away on its own. Her other eye considered Angie and Sandman. She wore army boots, ragged blue jeans, and a muscle shirt that exposed arms as thick as Angie's thighs. In a loop on her belt, she wore a thick wooden cudgel bound entirely in dark leather. Even from where she knelt, Angie recognized the dried bloodstains on the leather, but it was what she gripped in her hand that attracted Angie's attention: Nightfall, still in its sheath, now blackened by fire, the belt straps wound about the weapon.

  "What is this?" the heavy woman asked. "Why are you here, Sandman?"

  The young mage stood tall. "I wanted to see her. To see the Horned God’s shy bride."

  "She is not for such things," the woman said in a voice like tempered steel, her good eye tightening with anger. "We do not abuse prisoners in my camp."

  Sandman scowled at her, his face reddening. "I do not force myself on the helpless. I am no Savage Son flesh eater." He glared at the tall, gaunt man.

  The other man bristled with anger, and Angie was certain they were moments from attacking one another, but then the gaunt man grinned, looking like a cadaver. A shiver ran down her spine. This one would rape, murder, and eat her, she knew, and maybe not in that order, maybe even all at the same time.

  "The Grim Strangler and the Savage Sons take what they wish, fool. Take care I do not strangle you as well. If I were to eat you, your magic—weak though it is—would flow into me. The Horned God would approve. He knows you for the weakling you are."

  He's a mage as well, Angie realized, her gaze darting to the ice pick he wore. They all are. Her situation, as dire as it was, had just become that much worse.

  "Enough," the woman said in a tone accustomed to command. "We will bring her before the people, not bicker among ourselves like heels."

  "Yes, Sergeant Thump," Sandman said, acknowledging her authority. "You are first among the We Clan."

  "For now," whispered the Grim Strangler.

  The woman, Sergeant Thump, stared at him for long moments, her fingers trailing over the leather-bound head of her club. "Do you challenge, Grim Strangler?"

  The gaunt man looked away. "I do not," he said so softly she almost missed it.

  "Then shut your flapping tongue. The people await."

  Chapter 31

  The three mages moved out of the tent, letting other Ferals, men and women, enter to cut Angie free. As relieved as she was when blood flowed through her fingers once more, she was helpless to stop them as they bound her arms to a four-foot wooden pole across her shoulders. They were very careful that she didn’t have an opportunity to touch any of them with her hands—they know what I am, she realized. Then they led her out into the night.

  She jerked in surprise as hundreds of voices cried out in triumph. Torches and bonfires burned throughout the village, highlighting the Ferals. The three mages—shamans, they called themselves—led her through the village. People cheered, and children ran alongside her. When the children tried to touch her, the adults cuffed them away, warning that the Spirit-Taker would steal their lives.

  Spirit-Taker? First the Nortenos called her the Angel of Death, and now even Ferals had a nickname for her. Angie was growing tired of being vilified.

  The village was even larger than she had first thought, containing hundreds of tents, as well as herds of goats, sheep, and pigs. There must have been thousands of people living here, she saw in dawning wonder, maybe tens of thousands, a community as large as any of the walled cities. This was impossible. The Ferals lived and moved in small groups of less than a hundred to avoid drawing the attention of the Home Guard and its Shrike helicopters or the Norteno military with its Brujas Fantasmas mages. Both nation-states attacked Ferals on sight. But there were no more helicopters, and the Norteno nation was in turmoil, its military shattered by the Aztalan attack. Clearly, the Ferals were far more numerous than anyone had ever imagined.

  What was even more interesting was the dark shape of Mount Laguna that rose in the background, its bulk recognizable even at night. The village was near Tec’s bunker, where Erin and her brothers had gone. But they must be long gone by now.

  A scattered few carried old hunting rifles, but most carried homemade bows, clubs, and spears. These people survived as well as they could, she realized, with a mixture of modern weapons and clothing and whatever they could make with their own hands. And so many of them were children. She had never seen Feral children before. In the past, she had only ever seen war parties or the aftermath of war parties. Whenever they had found a camp, the SOPs were to attack with helicopters and destroy them with missiles or machine gun fire and scatter the survivors into the wilderness. Now these children stared at her as if she were the devil.

  And to them, maybe she was.

  When the protected zones and walled settlements had first gone up, anyone caught outside had been abandoned, but obviously many of those poor souls had survived, thrived even. She smelled fish cooking, saw communal ovens tended by scores of women. Deer carcasses, butchered and splayed, hung near smoking fires. She saw an abundance of smaller game as well: fish, fowl, even squirrel. They're a hunter society, she realized. The opposite of our agrarian walled communities. But they're also cannibals.

  Aren't they?

  She wasn’t so certain anymore, not after overhearing the conversation between the three shamans.

  Angie began to suspect everything she had ever believed about Ferals might be wrong. Women tended fires and watched babes, suckling the smallest to their breasts. Others tended to chores, patching clothing or sewing hides. Men and boys walked among the herds, staring wide-eyed at Angie. All races, colors, and ethnicities seemed to be present, all working as equals, but some seemed … different, most notably, at least a third wore the same scarred starburst design on their cheeks as the Grim Strangler.

  And what the hell kind of names were Grim Strangler, Sandman, and Sergeant Thump?

  They led her to a large wooden platform, a stand, near the effigy of Lodin in the center of the clearing. A crowd of hundreds gathered about the stand, cheering and chanting. In place of the wooden spear that had been attached to the effigy last night was Lodin’s actual spear, the metal spearhead gleaming in the firelight. The Ferals had traded up.

  The three shamans climbed atop the platform and faced the cheering crowd. Others stood atop the platform, elderly men and women. The men lifted Angie up next and turned her about, leaving her standing so everyone could see her—naked, terrified, and helpless. Now the crowd cheered even more, their faces shining with excitement, near-religious fervor in their eyes. She heard them chant: "Spirit-Taker, Spirit-Taker, Spirit-Taker."

  Sergeant Thump stepped before Angie, holding aloft Angie's sword in its scabbard, and the cheers rose in intensity. "Yes, the Spirit-Taker, the shy bride of the Horned God!" Sergeant Thump yelled, her powerful voice booming over the clamor. "We have done as the Horned God demanded and captured her. He will be pleased. He will help us reclaim our people, those captured and held in camps. He will keep us safe from the enemy helicopters."

  "He's no god!" Angie yelled. "Lodin has tricked you. He's just a Fey. Just a Fey!"

  The crowd roared its disapproval, and the Grim Strangler backhanded her, snapping her head back. "Blasphemer," he snarled and raised his hand to strike once more, but before he could, Sergeant Thump punched him so hard in the jaw that he fell to the wooden platform.

  The huge woman glared down at him, her face dark with anger. "You dare strike his bride?"

  The gaunt man scurried back to his feet, moving away and rubbing his jaw. He looked down. "If we give her to him, how do we know he won't abandon us again, as he has done thes
e last weeks?"

  "What would you do?" Sandman asked with scorn. "Eat her?" He strolled before the crowd, his arms outstretched, a smile on his handsome features. "The Savage Sons have never met a problem they wouldn't prefer to eat."

  Many in the crowd roared with derision and laughter, but not the ones with the scarred cheeks. Those Ferals glared with hostility, muttering angry words—and there were a lot of them, Angie now saw. They seemed to be everywhere, clumping together in angry knots. Even if the other Ferals weren’t cannibals, the Savage Sons were.

  "And why not?" the Grim Strangler demanded, his voice shrill, his eyes bulging, his teeth like needles. "If she is truly his bride, then divinity flows through her flesh too. If we consume her, then we become gods. The people won't need the Horned God or his skinny bride."

  Sergeant Thump pointed a thick finger in his face, and he blanched, stepping back quickly. "The people?" she demanded with scorn. "No, you mean only yourself, not the We Clan, not even your fellow Savage Sons, just your own foul hunger." The Grim Strangler stared at the wooden platform, but his long fingers opened and closed. Sergeant Thump turned her attention to the crowd once more, missing the look of hatred that flashed in his eyes.

  "We do not consume the flesh of people," Sergeant Thump yelled. "Not even those who hunt us."

  "We do! We do!" yelled those with the scarred cheeks, spittle flying from their mouths. The mood in the crowd grew dangerous as the Ferals jostled and pushed one another.

  Sergeant Thump continued. "We will give her as a gift to the Horned God, as he bade us do. He will take her to his Blood Sky Heaven, and he will be grateful to us." She turned and faced Sandman, meeting his eye. "Then, when he has his shy bride, his angel, he will help your sister take her own ghost. She will not die."

  "Angel, angel," screamed the crowd.

  "No!" screamed Angie. "He's lying. He's no more a god than I am."

  Sandman looked more than uncertain. He stepped forward, his eyes darting to Angie. "What if she speaks truth? What if he is just another of the Fey? Admit it: you've suspected as much, as have I, as have we all. He's abandoned us once already. What if he does it again? I say we keep her, at least until we know for certain."

  "No, she lies," screamed the Grim Strangler. "Her flesh shines with divinity, glows with it. Can you not see?"

  Those in the crowd with the scarred cheeks began to scream, "Glow, glow, glow." Their cries grew in intensity. Feral shoved Feral, and an ugly, dark mood swept through the crowd. They were only moments from a riot, Angie feared. And they'd likely tear her to pieces as well.

  "She is no god," Sandman yelled. "She is as mortal as you and I. I should know. I fought her."

  "Blasphemy," snarled the Grim Strangler. "You tried to capture her and failed, and for your sin, the Horned God abandoned you, abandoned us. You are in his disfavor."

  "Disfavor, disfavor, disfavor," the Grim Reaper's people, the Savage Sons, screamed.

  "Calm yourselves!" Sergeant Thump's voice boomed over the crowd as she moved to the edge of the wooden platform, staring them down. She drew Nightfall, discarding the burned sheath as she held aloft the beautiful, elven-forged dark-blue blade. In Sergeant Thump’s mage-hand, the occult hexes worked into the blade’s length flared with white light.

  To Angie's amazement, the chants ceased, and the crowd quieted. All eyes were on Sergeant Thump, her huge body practically quivering with resolution.

  It worked, Angie thought in wonder. She's calmed them.

  And then the Grim Strangler stepped forward and caved in the back of Sergeant Thump's head with his ice ax.

  Chapter 32

  A battle broke out instantly, like a match set to gasoline. All around the platform, Feral tribesmen attacked one another, screaming with rage. Those with scarred cheeks, the Savage Sons, must have been expecting the betrayal, because they had weapons ready at hand and almost immediately began attacking those around them, hewing them down with spear, ax, and club. The third mage, Sandman, was swept away under the rush of two scarred men, disappearing from Angie's sight.

  Nearby, the Grim Strangler howled like a banshee as he held up his bloody ice ax. The corpse of Sergeant Thump lay at his feet, her dead fingers still gripping Angie's side-sword. The gaunt man grinned at Angie as he licked Sergeant Thump's blood from his weapon, madness dancing in his eyes. "When I devour your flesh," he said, his lips and teeth smeared with blood, "I shall become as you, a god. Then I will fly to the Blood Sky Heaven and kill the Horned God myself and take his place."

  She backed away from the madman but tripped and fell. Unable to catch herself, she slammed into the wooden boards, the air knocked from her lungs. She was helpless as the Grim Strangler straddled her with his ice ax raised to cleave in her skull.

  TAKE HIS LIFE! the Shade King screamed.

  But she couldn’t. Her arms were still tied to the pole.

  "No!" Sandman screamed as he collided into the Grim Strangler, knocking him away, sending his ice ax whacking pick first into the wooden platform so that it stood upright.

  With a battle raging all around the platform, the two men wrestled only feet from Angie. She craned her head about and saw that the Grim Strangler's ax—the serrated edge upright in the wood—was near her bound left wrist. Everywhere, Ferals fought one another. Dozens must already be dead, maybe hundreds. Had she not been on the platform, she'd have been trampled. But at any moment, the battle would wash over her.

  "No," she told herself, gritting her teeth. Char wouldn’t just lie here, nor would Tec or Erin, and neither would she.

  She bucked her hips, sliding closer to the edge of the ice ax. She wriggled her hips to gain more traction. The pole across her shoulders was heavy and hard to move, but if she wedged the rope binding her wrist against the edge of the ax, she could use it to saw through the rope.

  Maybe.

  If the pick wasn’t embedded deeply enough in the wooden platform, she’d only knock it loose.

  She grunted with exertion as she pushed up with her hips, forcing the rope on her wrist against the serrated ax blade. The blade held firm, and its edge cut into the rope. It should have been impossible, lying on her back like this with her arms extended to the sides, weighed down by the pole, but desperation gave her strength. With three more heaves, she had managed to cut through most of the rope, but she couldn’t see clearly, and the blade had also scored through the flesh of her wrist. Warm blood coated her hand, but she was almost through the rope. One or two more…

  Then her breath caught in her throat as she saw Sergeant Thump—still alive despite the horrific skull wound—crawling along the wooden platform toward Angie, gripping Nightfall's exposed blade just above the intricate hilt. The huge woman's one good eye fixated on Angie, blazing with intensity as she pulled herself closer with her other hand.

  As panic coursed through Angie, she redoubled her efforts, thrusting even harder with her hips, using the momentum to force the rope against the ax blade. When Sergeant Thump was almost at Angie's feet, Angie tried to kick out at her, but the huge woman rose up on one meaty hand to loom over Angie, her lips moving soundlessly, Nightfall's blade held like a dagger. Just as the rope on Angie's left wrist gave way, releasing her hand, Sergeant Thump thrust forward with Nightfall, using its sharp edge to cut through the rope on Angie's right hand.

  "Bride," the woman said as she fell forward, collapsing atop Angie's hips. Dead.

  But Angie was free.

  She scrambled out from beneath the huge woman. If she had fallen over Angie's chest, she'd have pinned her in place. Angie pried Nightfall from the dead woman’s grip and stood on shaky feet—still naked and surrounded by a mob of battling Feral warriors but armed and free. Only feet away, the Grim Strangler sat atop Sandman’s chest, his long fingers wrapped around the young man's throat. Sandman punched him repeatedly in the ribs and kidneys, but the gaunt man was laughing with madness, clearly feeling nothing, and Sandman’s punches were growing weaker.

  Angie thrust Nightf
all through the back of his throat, the blade coming six inches out the other side. She yanked the blade free, and the Grim Strangler fell over, choking on blood, his spinal cord severed.

  She offered her hand to Sandman and hauled him upright. He shoved her aside, extended his free hand, and cast Shockwave at a charging Feral with a spear leveled where her back had been. The spell hit the Feral in the chest, flipping him over to land hard atop his back with a solid crack. The man lay still, his eyes open, his back broken.

  "Stay with me," Sandman yelled. He picked up the discarded spear and stood before her, protecting her. "The Grim Strangler and his damned Savage Sons planned this all along—bastards!" He spat. "They'll break when they realize their leader is dead—unless they kill us first. I'm the last shaman now."

  Another pair of scarred Ferals charged them, a man and a woman, both wild-eyed with teeth filed to points. Sandman deflected a spear thrust with his own spear then slammed the shaft against the face of the man, dropping him. The woman stabbed at him with a long hunting knife, but a glowing translucent shield appeared in front of Sandman, blocking the knife with a shower of sparks. Angie stepped forward, thrusting Nightfall through the woman's open mouth, dislodging several of her sharpened teeth, "Kissing the button," as the Spanish would say.

  The woman fell away, gurgling blood.

  But dozens more charged the platform, so many they'd overwhelm Angie and Sandman.

  NOW, ANGELA, TAKE THEIR LIFE FORCE, the Shade King urged.

  But I can't touch them, not in time.

  YOU'VE NEVER NEEDED TO. TAKE WHAT YOU NEED. BECOME WHAT YOU WERE ALWAYS CAPABLE OF.

  She saw their hate-filled faces as they charged at her, the star-shaped scars on their cheeks, their teeth filed to points. These were the Ferals that attacked Commonwealth and Norteno settlements, not the others. These were the ones that killed and ate other people, cannibals, more monster than any Fey. Without thinking about it, she reached out with her mind as she extended her hand before her, willing their life force to flow into her.