Firestorm

by William Stacey

  No one was more surprised than she was when it did.

  The closest Ferals, a half-dozen, faltered in mid-step, their eyes going wide, then toppled forward, dead. Mana flowed into Angie, more mana than she had ever held, and she felt as if she glowed like a star.

  YES.

  The others faltered, staring at their dead comrades and then at Angie. Several hefted their weapons and edged forward.

  "Don't do it!" Angie warned. "Don't make me kill you." But she saw from the hatred in their eyes that they were going to charge. They couldn't hurt her now, not with the Shade King protecting her, not with this much mana flowing through her, but they didn't know that.

  She hated what she was about to do.

  Silver flashed from above as Moonwing fell among them, scattering them. The griffin's beak ripped limbs from bodies, and his wings buffeted those trying to stand, knocking them back. The talons on his front legs lashed out, ripping through flesh. The lionlike rear legs clawed men and women. All the while, the mighty silver griffin’s cries cut through the air. Scarred clansmen and -women fell all around the griffin.

  To their credit, they stood their ground and fought far longer than Angie would have thought against such a monster. Then they broke and fled.

  The fighting had stopped. Hundreds of Ferals stood about, pulling back from Moonwing, Angie, and Sandman, but there wasn't a scarred face to be seen.

  As the griffin approached Angie, blood glistening from the feathers of his powerful chest, Sandman tried to shield her. "Run!"

  She pushed his spear away and stepped in front of him. The crowd gaped as Angie approached the griffin and smoothed the bloody feathers over his chest. Moonwing cooed, settling down upon his lion haunches, and began to groom himself. Angie turned to Sandman.

  He stepped closer, the spear falling from his fingers, and dropped to his knees, his eyes taking in the dead Ferals before her. "What are you?"

  Angie, conscious now of hundreds of pairs of eyes on her, placed her arm over her breasts. "Naked. Someone please find me some clothing."

  Chapter 33

  Itzpapalotl slumbered, and in her dream, she saw a vast underground lake as black as her scales. The surface of the lake was calm, but something glowed deep in its depths. The glow grew stronger and began to blaze like a sun—

  She woke, filled with an anger she couldn't understand. Dreams had meaning, hidden portents. Where was this underground lake, and what had been the source of the glow? Her lack of understanding vexed her, smoldered within her cavernous belly. The black dragon crawled from her sleeping hole, a narrow crevice built along a tributary of the underground river system. This sleeping hole was one of dozens, and she regularly switched them to confound enemies. She moved on all fours through the half-submerged crevice, splashing through water that reached her scaled underbelly. She pondered the meaning of the dream, but any insight eluded her. Her brother, Tezcatlipoca, the Lord of the Smoking Mirror, had always been more gifted in the understanding of dreams and portents, but he was dead, killed by the feathered coward Quetzalcoatl.

  She roared, her anger echoing throughout the cave system.

  Far away, in the vast cavern housing the temple of Zolin, her Tzitzime servants heard her coming and prostrated themselves, rightly fearing her wrath. Sometimes she devoured the odd servant not because she was particularly hungry but to remind them that she could. She thundered along the stone surface of the cavern toward the hexagon-shaped temple and the ancient Olmtec buildings surrounding it. Torches burned in brass stands on the flat surface of the temple. She swept past servants, all kneeling, all with heads lowered to the stone, trembling in worship of her. Their devotion was fitting; she was the last of her kind and second only to her sire, Memnog.

  When she freed him from his prison of stone, he'd make her as divine as he was, and together they'd turn this land to ash.

  And rule forever.

  Rayan Zar Davi awaited her atop the temple, kneeling, her head lowered, but the lamia, Aernyx, was nowhere to be seen. Where is that little sneak?

  He knew too much, that one, including the location of Itzpapalotl's greatest secret—not that the lamia would dare go near Him—but Itzpapalotl grew tired of Aernyx’s sly smile that insinuated he knew something she did not. She could devour that creature in one snap of her jaws. Lesser creatures, even lamias, needed to know their place.

  Itzpapalotl climbed over the wall of her temple and onto its flat summit, unconcerned for the human servants she might crush—there were always more servants; humans bred like vermin—and settled herself before the black stone altar, resting her horned head atop her powerful forelegs, her wings wrapped about her like a cape, her tail hanging over the far end of the temple.

  "What news, Mother Smoke Heart?" she asked in a voice like thunder. "How goes the war?"

  She really didn't care. The wars of humans were tedious and over in moments. All her life, humans had warred among one another, with nations changing as easily as they changed clothing. It all meant nothing to her. If she didn't like a nation-state, all she needed to do was sleep until a new one rose in its place—with perhaps a nudge from her Tzitzime servants to help it along.

  What she did care about was recapturing the Haanal X’ib. She grew weary of this mundane existence and wanted to ascend to divinity with her sire. She couldn't bear to sleep away even one more decade.

  "All goes according to plan, Beautiful Mistress," Rayan Zar Davi said as she rose. "The army besieges Sanwa City, and the Haanal X’ib, that fool, commands its defenses. She should have run. I was certain I'd have to drag her out of Fresno." Rayan Zar Davi shook her head, the trace of a disbelieving smile on her lips.

  "Take care assaulting the city," Itzpapalotl demanded. "She is of no use to me dead."

  "Never, Beautiful Mistress. I have the aircraft ready and waiting for me. When the time comes, I will personally lead the assault and take her alive. I will not fail you."

  "Again, you mean." The dragon's deep voice dripped with scorn.

  The woman blanched, but Itzpapalotl let it go. There was little point in debasing servants for their inherent weakness, particularly humans, as short-lived and flawed as they were. Besides, despite Rayan Zar Davi’s failures, Itzpapalotl was rather fond of her and always had been. Usually, the woman got results. Perhaps she grows old and senile. It's hard to tell; they're all so hideous even when young. She thought of all the other times the woman had succeeded at near-impossible tasks. No, she wasn't just fond of Rayan Zar Davi, she realized, surprising herself with what passed for an epiphany. In her own way, the black dragon liked her. But Rayan Zar Davi had failed her, so of course, after she had recaptured the Haanal X'ib, Itzpapalotl would eat her.

  Or burn her.

  Maybe crush her.

  Perhaps all three.

  She’d only decide at the time.

  When one lived for thousands of years, the little surprises became like spice.

  "What of Sudden Bloodletter?" the dragon asked. She enjoyed the Death Bat's work.

  Rayan Zar Davi hesitated, her mouth open. "He ... it ... grows expensive in sacrifices, Beautiful Mistress. But there's no need for the demon. Within weeks, we shall—"

  "Do it—send the demon. Have it test their defenses. If chance permits, perhaps it can capture the elven woman for us."

  "I ... yes, Beautiful Mistress," Rayan Zar Davi said, her eyes cast down. "I will see to it personally."

  "Good, good, continue, Mother Smoke Heart. I am pleased we did not cut out your heart after all."

  Rayan Zar Davi continued to speak of the fighting, the losses, and the many prisoners taken, but the dragon wasn't really listening. Instead, she pondered the meaning of her dream and that dark, smooth lake.

  And whatever had glowed in its depths.

  Tec led his team through the narrow, dark, fetid sewers of Sanwa City. Thirty men and women, volunteers from both the Home Guard and the Norteno military, followed him, all, including Tec, wearing coveralls, boots, and f
ace masks scrounged from the city's dwindling supplies. In one hand, Tec carried a shuttered lantern, its dim glow providing more than enough light for his were-jaguar eyes; in the other, he carried a sub-gun. The last time he had moved through these sewers, he had done so in total darkness, following the weak glow from the lantern Mads Johansen and his servant Joker had carried as they led Angie and Erin out of the city. At the time, he had made the trek without the need for a face mask or coveralls, trusting the healing power of the water from the Black Pool, but now he had no water bottles, nor would they have healed him if he had, not now that his master Quetzalcoatl was dead.

  At the thought of his dead master, a weight settled on his heart, but he shoved his grief away. There was no time for sorrow. His duty gave him purpose. He would defend Sanwa City and keep Wyn Renna from the Tzitzime and Itzpapalotl. Then he'd find a way to return to the Hollows for Angie.

  In his heart, he knew he’d do none of those things.

  The Aztalan army had attacked three days ago. Wyn Renna had ordered a covering-force battle, using a light screen of mobile warriors on horseback to slow the Aztalan advance. Tec had been Wyn Renna's commander on the ground, leading the increasingly desperate Home Guard and Norteno soldiers. For two days, they had fought a series of ambushes, drawing the Aztalan soldiers into prepositioned kill zones before pulling back, never becoming decisively engaged. They had killed hundreds, maybe even a thousand or more of the enemy, but they had lost too many of their own soldiers, men and women they couldn't replace.

  Despite the bloody losses, the Aztalan military had driven them back to the city. On the evening of the second day of battle, Tec had led the weary survivors back through the city gates. Now the Aztalans laid siege to the city, surrounding it. The enemy had maintained near-constant sniper fire against the defenders, stopping them from interfering as they dammed the small river that provided the city’s only water source. Without that water, the city would fall. It was already suffering. Even here, in the sewer, the filthy water now reached only their ankles.

  Someone had to do something about that dam, and Tec had volunteered. It was almost four a.m. now, when most of the enemy would be least alert because of their circadian rhythm—their body temperature low, their melatonin levels highest. Those who weren't sound asleep would be fighting to stay awake. After having fought countless secret wars against the dragon's enemies, Tec understood the best moment to strike. His plan was to bring his raiding party in secret out of the city and to the nearby dam. They had explosives, more than enough to do the job. Then they'd escape back into the city. The enemy would just dam it again, but it would buy them some days at least.

  Maybe.

  In truth, only a miracle could save them, and he had no more of those.

  At least there were no indications the enemy knew of the sewer outlet, and it was well hidden by the terrain. On the other hand, he and the elves had played this game once before when they’d destroyed the Aztalan howitzers. Rayan Zar Davi was no fool; she’d be expecting another surprise attack.

  Tec knew he might be leading these brave men and women to their deaths, but thirst would defeat them long before the enemy breached the wall. That dam had to go.

  He stopped, his senses on edge. After more than a hundred years in service to the great dragon, he had honed his intuition and learned to trust it.

  Something was wrong.

  The tunnel ahead was dark and silent. The garbage and filth floated in place, undisturbed. He hadn't heard or seen anything, but his gut clenched all the same. The others froze behind him, and he remained motionless for long, stress-filled minutes, the only sound the steady hiss of air flowing into their masks. Nothing moved, but the tunnel ahead seemed to grow … darker somehow. When the darkness coalesced, his chest tightened with fear.

  "Demon!" he screamed to the others as the monstrous form of Sudden Bloodletter appeared before them, its bat wings filling the tunnel.

  Tec dropped to a knee and opened fire, a long burst of subsonic ammunition that ricocheted from the demon's scaled torso. Those behind him shot over his head, the roar of gunfire deafening, the muzzle blasts like strobe lights. The demon surged forward.

  Tec dropped his useless sub-gun and let the beast free. His clothing ripped away as his body transformed and became a massive black were-jaguar. He roared and leaped, but the demon beat him aside with one blow, slamming his body against the wall. Tec slumped, his vision blurred, and the demon roared in triumph.

  Men and women screamed and died, the terror on their masked faces lit by muzzle flashes. Tec shook his jaguar head, rose unsteadily to clawed feet, and tensed to attack once more, knowing this time he'd die.

  An explosion filled the sewer with flame and smoke.

  Chapter 34

  Hundreds of Ferals, men and women, even children, surrounded Angie, staring at her and Moonwing. Sandman edged closer to Angie but froze when Moonwing's head turned toward him, watching him carefully. With a single strike from his beak, Moonwing could rip the man's head from his shoulders.

  Angie trailed her fingers over Moonwing's foreleg in what she hoped was a soothing manner. "It's okay," she whispered. "This one is a friend ... I think."

  The griffin's posture remained no less threatening.

  Sandman looked to Angie with an expression akin to desperation. "Angie. Please. You said you could help. My sister dies."

  The crowd continued to stare, murmuring among themselves. Her face began to heat. Angie nodded. "First, clothing. Then I help."

  Sandman stripped, removing his tattered jeans and sleeveless green vest, handing both to her, as unconcerned over his nudity as a nymph. But Angie wasn’t a nymph, and she gratefully pulled his clothing on, relieved to cover herself once more. She held her palm against the two small puncture wounds on her throat, but the bleeding had already slowed, and the wounds were beginning to clot. If Aernyx had bitten through her carotid artery…

  "Okay, show me what’s wrong with your sister."

  Sandman led her through the crowd, and Moonwing followed. The people hurriedly parted, almost falling over themselves to get out of the way of the griffin. He brought her to one of the teepees and held the flap open for her. "Hurry, please."

  Angie turned to Moonwing, ran her fingers over his chest feathers. "Wait here. Don't eat anyone."

  The griffin cocked his head, turned about in circles, and then dropped down heavily onto the ground and began to groom his feathers.

  Angie slipped inside the tent. A single candle burned, and the air stank of sweat, urine, and vomit. A teenage girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, lay atop furs, her eyes closed, her chest barely rising and falling. She wore a threadbare sky-blue T-shirt, the cloth plastered to her skin with sweat, and cut-off blue jeans that should have been thrown away long before A-Day. An elderly woman in furs, with hair so gray it shone like silver, knelt beside the girl. The woman, though obviously in her late fifties or early sixties, looked as strong as Erin, her exposed shoulders, biceps, and forearms corded with muscle. The woman held a damp cloth against the girl’s sweaty forehead, and even in the dim lighting, Angie saw how pale the girl’s skin was.

  "My only sister, Miss Fortune," Sandman said. "This is our aunt, Silver Katana. How does—"

  "The same," the woman answered. "But her breathing grows weaker."

  Angie knelt before the teen, and the older woman gave her some space. Angie placed the back of her hand against the girl's forehead: her skin burned. Angie pried open one of the girl's eyelids, seeing that the pupil was not only dilated but glowing softly with arcane energy. She released the girl’s eyelid and sat back, feeling helpless. She had seen this before at Char’s school. There was nothing Angie could do.

  "It's ... it's her magic," Sandman said. "The Horned God brought it to life within her, as he did with me and the others, Sergeant Thump and the Grim Strangler. The magic ... it's poisoning her, isn't it?"

  Angie bit her upper lip and nodded. "We call it Toxic Mana Shock Syndrome.
Before the Concord, it killed dozens, maybe hundreds of magic-sensitive people, people that used magic without a shade—what you call a ‘ghost’—to negate the corrosion of magic use. How long has this been going on?"

  "Weeks. The Horned God speaks to us in our dreams, told us that we had to serve him. He ordered us to build the wooden likeness, said that if we prayed to it, he'd hear."

  She snorted, once again regretting her decision to let Lodin live. Whatever was going on with the effigy was more Fey magic. "He's a Fey—although to be honest, I’m not sure what kind of Fey. His name is Lodin. Don't call him the Horned God. He'd like that too much."

  "He opened a pathway to his Blood Sky Heaven for me, Sergeant Thump, and the Grim Strangler, but not my sister, Miss Fortune. He said she was too young yet to be of service. He taught us how to use the magic, how to mask our presence when hunting or fight like an angered heel. Then he bonded us with a ghost, taught us how to craft hexed weapons, and bade us memorize a painting of you, his ‘shy bride’ he called you, claiming you were a god like him. When we were done, he sent us back to find you for him."

  "That day you ambushed us along the stream, how did you know we'd—I’d—be coming that way?"

  "He told me in a dream."

  That's disturbing. He was tracking me from the Hollows somehow, maybe his Stones of Nevernight. She didn't have time for that now. "You weren't in heaven, blood sky or otherwise, you were in an alternate realm called the Hollows. It's where the Fey come from." He gave her a bewildered look, so she let it go, focusing on the girl. "Your sister was born with the innate ability to wield mana, but she must have been using too much or too soon."

  "The Horned God—Lodin—he chose her as one of his faithful, said he had awakened the magic in her soul, as he did to us."