The Fae Wars: Onslaught

by J. F. Holmes

  Coming back to where O'Neill lay, I checked her again. There was more blood, out of both nostrils now, and she was choking a bit on it. Kneeling down on the opposite side of the jugular vein, I said a quick version of the Lords’ Prayer, laid the knife on her neck, and then felt a powerful, gnarled hand close over mine. I doubt that I could have moved the knife even if I wanted to.

  “No,” the dwarf said simply, “no.” And then he pushed my hand away with irresistible strength, rocking me back onto my heels, and cradled the dying woman’s head in his lap. Then he placed his hand on her forehead, the other on her mouth.

  “Hey!” I shouted, “Hands off!” No friggin way I was going to let one of these damned aliens, friendly or not, dying or not, kill another human. The look he gave me in return managed to mix a command of SHUT UP, exasperation, exhaustion and kindness into it. He closed his eyes and a soft glow began to spread from his fingertips, seeming to soak into O'Neill’s head. This lasted for maybe ten seconds, then stopped.

  He gently set her back down on the dirt and, with an exhausted look, said, “Ye might want to make sure she doesn't have any weapons on her, and step back a wee bit.”

  No idea what was happening, I did a quick search and found a five shot .38 special in an ankle holster and a wickedly sharp six inch tanto knife behind her belt. She was breathing softy, barely, and felt incredibly hot to the touch. Then I did what the dwarf asked, joining him about twenty feet away. “What now?” I asked, but he just made a shushing motion with his hand, a tired smile on his face.

  About ten seconds later the Special Unit officer literally jumped off the ground, like a cat with its tail caught in a rocking chair. Swear to God, every muscle in her body spasmed and she bounced three feet up and onto her feet, throwing punches at nothing, martial arts strikes that told me she was trained in something, screaming at the top of her lungs. Then she ran past us like her hair was on fire yelling, “COME ON YOU BASTARDS! COME AND DIE!”, with her voice fading out as she disappeared in the darkness.

  I started to go after her, but again the iron grip on my arm stopped me. The dwarf lit an actual match and then stuffed it into a pipe, bringing it to a rosy glow and expelling a satisfied smoke ring. “That, lad, is always a good entertainment, but it’s best not to get too close.”

  I shone the flashlight down the tunnel as I heard footsteps coming back, low as not to blind her, and saw O'Neill slowly walking towards us. I hurried over and asked, “Are you OK?”

  She shook her bloodstained head and said, “Uh yeah, I feel fucking fantastic. Like I just had the best orgasm in my life and did a line of coke at the same time! And what the fuck is THAT doing here?”

  The dwarf just smoked his pipe and said, “That’s a fine thank you, lass, for someone who just saved your life. It’s not something we usually do outside our own people.”

  She looked befuddled, and I remembered that she didn’t understand what he was saying. “That’s a new friend, and he saved your life,” I told her.

  “I … I was dead?” she said in a daze. “I mean, I WAS! I was dead. I knew it, and something … I can’t remember. It’s fading out.”

  “Nay, ye weren’t dead,” he rumbled, “I’m not a miracle worker, just have some of the old magic in me. Not many of us do anymore. Too long a slave people crushed under the lash, I suppose.”

  “I think … I think I pissed myself,” said the cop.

  I laughed to cover her embarrassment and said, “You aren’t the first and you won’t be the last.”

  Then she turned and grabbed the flashlight from me, shining it on the dead creature. “My men! The other guys!”

  I gently took the light from her and said, “Gone. Time to move.”

  She took a deep breath and immediately started to gag. The scorpion thing smelled to high heaven, and the stench was filling up the tunnel. That and eviscerated human bodies never smell good either. Whatever was in her stomach came up forcefully, and when she was done I handed her my water jug. This entire episode happened with my Glock still in my hand, watching for threats, but nothing emerged out of the gloom.

  I helped her over to where the dwarf sat patiently smoking his pipe. “What about the rest of your crew?” I asked him. He was younger than the one I had spoken to before, no grey on his long beard and fewer lines on his squat face.

  “They'll tell the masters that I was killed by the Watcher. Happens often enough. But I heard what you said, live free or die. ‘Tis time we made a choice, human. Not another world of slavery for us, not again.”

  “I’ve got a lot of questions for you, but that can wait.” This guy was going to be an intelligence gold mine. “But first thank you for saving my life, and Sergeant O'Neill’s. You didn’t have to.”

  “Aye, but I did. It’s the honorable thing to do. Some still live by the old ways, you know.”

  While this was going on, O'Neill stood, checking the weapons I had handed back to her. Then she came over and placed both hands on the dwarf’s shoulders and said, “Thuill tú mo bhuíochas, duine uasail. Shannon, teaghlach O'Neill.”

  He smiled and said back to her, in what I heard as plain English, “Ye be welcome, Shannon of Clan O'Neill, and I’m no gentleman!”

  “Uh,” I said intelligently, “what the hell was that?”

  “She was speaking a bit of one of the old languages, but her accent be a murderous thing,” said the dwarf.

  I turned to her and she raised her shoulders in a shrug and a wicked grin. “I’m not just a dumb ass beat cop, you know, major. Masters in Celtic languages, Columbia University. Whatever he’s saying I can sort of make it out, it sounds like an early Cimbri, late Indo-European dialect. Old, though, really old.”

  “Well you two can play Hansel and Gretel later, we have to get out of here.” I was, honestly, a bit put off. He was MY dwarf buddy. “By the way, do you have a name?” I asked. “Major David Kincaid, United States Army. “

  “I don’t know if you can pronounce my true name,” he said, putting the pipe away and cleaning off the pickaxe. “But you can call me Tor Ironhand.”

  “Did you roll for that name, or did your Dungeon Master give it to you?” I said snarkily, I was coming down from the combat rush and feeling shaky.

  A look of confusion came over him. “Ironhand is my clan’s name, and Tor is the name I chose for myself on my name day. What do ye mean, is there another master of these tunnels?”

  “Never mind,” I said, ignoring the shit eating grin that O'Neill had on her face. “We’ve screwed around here for too long. Let’s gather supplies and move out.” We did, taking whatever ammo and guns we could find on the dead cops. It was pretty gross, but luckily they were all carrying department issue Glocks that I could use their magazines from. O'Neill looked ruefully at the shotgun but the stock was smashed and we didn’t have any rounds for it. Then we walked forward into the darkness, the floor angling downward to go under the East River.

  Chapter 15

  The tunnel was a slaughterhouse, to the point where we stepped on bodies for want of space. There were dead orcs, and occasional Elves, with massive bullet wounds in them and the distinctive shrapnel marks of a MK-19 grenade launcher. I wanted to loot weapons but we needed to move on. At one point we came up to a barricade, a couple of burned out Humvees parked nose to nose across the tracks. with mounds of dead orcs piled in front. I carefully made my way around it, avoiding the third rail, no idea if it was hot or not. Behind the mound was a dead soldier and a civilian, the soldier a young black kid with a cold hand on the butterfly trigger and the civilian an old guy with multiple arrows in his chest. He had a half dozen linked rounds in his gnarled hands and a look of grim determination on his face. As I stepped past the corpse, the old guy wheezed and dropped the ammo, coughing up blood.

  I knelt down in front of him, but there was nothing I could do. “Hey soldier, I’m Major Kincaid, what happened here?” I asked.

  “Goddamned officers, always asking … stupid questions …” he half laughe
d, half wheezed. “Killed a shitload of gooks. Fucking Charley all over the place. That kid should … should get the Medal.”

  “He will,” I promised, but the light had already gone out of his eyes. I closed them and found a wallet in his pants pocket, slipped it into an ammo pouch on my vest. Then I rolled the kid over, ignoring the axe blade wound across his face and the staring eye. He had dog tags around his neck, and I pulled them out, breaking the chain and removing one, leaving the other. We would be back someday, and he deserved a military funeral.

  I stood up and looked around at the defensive position. There were far more human bodies than enemy, and a few of them in uniform, some facing the direction of the tunnel exit. About a platoon’s worth, maybe less. I learned later that they were from the local finance detachment, and they had fought so damned hard the Elves had withdrawn from the tunnel and put the scorpion / spider thing in there to cover it. There was a hand on my shoulder, and O'Neill said simply, “Let’s go.”

  “In a minute.” I fished around until I found a battered but functional M-4 and half a dozen magazines, a couple of grenades, and she started arming herself also. Tor picked up an axe from a dead orc, a big two-handed thing, and tossed the pick aside.

  We followed the tracks as they angled upward, dawn light filtering in far far ahead around a bend. We went another couple hundred meters and a bright light suddenly switched on, blinding all of us. A speaker amplified voice boomed “HALT!” and echoed past us.

  “NYPD coming in!” yelled O'Neill, and I added, “US ARMY!” We were both careful to not move, and Tor stepped behind us. He wasn’t stupid.

  “Step forward slowly, hands up, and any magic shit we’re gonna shove an AT-4 up your ass.” The woman on the other end sounded competent but nervous.

  As we walked up, light still blinding us, we started the hear, and feel, the thump and bang of battle outside. The light clicked off, in front of us was a Stryker gun vehicle with a 105mm cannon pointed just over our heads.

  “Identify yourselves!” shouted the voice as the spotlight flicked off. Two soldiers, both carrying M-14’s, advanced towards us, guns up.

  “ON THE GROUND! NOW!” one shouted, and we hastily complied, even Tor. “You too, midget!”

  “That ain’t politically correct,” said O'Neill, which earned her a ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!” from one.

  I said as calm as I could, “My name is Major David Kincaid, I’m with Special Forces. My ID is in my pocket.”

  Rough hands searched me, pulling out my wallet, then I was rolled over and a bright light shone in my face. “Yeah, that’s him!” said the man, and the light clicked off. “Word came down to expect you, if anyone. The colonel wants to see you, ASAP. We’re blowing this tunnel in about fifteen mikes, so I suggest you get the hell out of here, sir.”

  “What do we do about this thing?” asked the other soldier, his rifle still trained on Tor.

  Before I spoke, I wondered if the ring translated everything I said, or only just when I was speaking directly to him. Didn’t really matter, I guessed. “He’s a defector and an intelligence asset, and belongs to Special Operations Command, meaning me.” The specialist shot me a look; he was haggard and had a small bandage over his face, with blisters pocking his skin. A veteran after only a day of fighting, but he stepped back.

  “I have to get in contact with my unit, and Sergeant O'Neill needs to get to the closest NYPD HQ. We’ll need transportation and I’ll need access to a landline or satcom.” I was in Officer go mode now; even though it wasn’t my unit or my troops, I acted like I was in charge.

  The corporal who had been shining a light in my face made a motion, and the gun barrel of the Stryker swung slightly away, to my relief. He saw that and said bitterly, “Doesn’t really matter, we don’t have any ammo for the gun. This one was flown into JFK last night with three others, before the air got too hot, but no one packed any rounds for it. It’s a fucking mess.”

  As we walked we passed a squad of engineers who were rigging what I recognized as construction grade high explosives around key points of the tunnel. The woman with the loudspeaker met us and sent the two soldiers back on their picket duty. “Captain Beck, A Company, 152 Engineers.” she said. No salute, all business. “We were given a heads up by two of your soldiers that you might be doing an escape and evasion through the tunnels.” She didn’t ask about Sergeant Garcia, probably just assumed he didn’t make it. I was glad as hell that Clark and Hollis were alive though.

  “What’s the tactical situation?” I asked.

  “Beats the shit out of me.” I could tell she was exhausted and bitter. “Coms are down except for hardwired landline; every signal device that relies on radio is out. I can get you an internet connection, but that’s iffy.” She took a deep breath and slowly let it out. The captain was talking to me as we walked but keeping an eye on her people rigging the explosives. Good officer.

  She continued on in a combat monotone. “Manhattan is gone, everything north of Fourteenth Street, at least that’s what I heard. The opposition is pushing refugees down the avenues, and we’re trying to evac them across the Brooklyn Bridge and the tunnels on the south end. They tried the tunnels up here, and we pushed them back, hard. Fucking finance pogues.” And there were tears in her eyes.

  “I saw,” I said simply, but let her continue talking.

  “That was around midnight. It’s been quiet since then, but anyone we send on a recon disappears. There’s something really fucking scary down there. Same with the Queens- Midtown and all the other ones we don’t control the entrances to. Higher thinks they’re gathering for a big push, but I think they just wrote the tunnels off for now. No goddamned dragons for support. Tenth Mountain got here early this morning and they’re holding the bridges up north. Every time we try to blow one, some shithead with a staff takes out the demo equipment. Just sets it off before we can emplace it. We lost a lot of guys until we gave up.”

  “They can be killed, you know,” I said, “I took out a big one with an AT-4, but I was really close, and one of my team hammered the rider with .50 cal at the same time.” I looked for a reaction, but there was none. She was definitely on the edge.

  “Doesn’t matter, there’s too many of them. The Air Force tried some shit yesterday, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. So we’re just holding, as best we can, to get people out. Though who the hell knows where they’re going to go.”

  “What do you mean?” I had been so concerned with immediate survival that I hadn’t thought about the rest of the country.

  “It isn’t just here, Major. LA, Chicago, Dallas, Philly, Boston, Denver, Seattle, almost every major city in the country, and most of our military bases too. Around the world. Got at least that much before our coms were cut, and what we heard afterwards.”

  “Jesus Christ” swore O'Neill behind us. I had forgotten about her.

  “Yeah, officer, Jesus Christ is gonna have to come down from heaven to stop this shit, honestly. You’ve seen their magic, or whatever the hell it is, right?” Beck shook her head. “We don’t have a chance.” She had said it loudly, a bit of hysteria in her voice. Around us the work stopped as if someone had pulled a plug.

  “Listen up!” I said loudly, “and listen good. Yeah, we got sucker punched, and we might be knocked back on our ass, but I think they bit off more than they can chew. You all do your jobs, seal this tunnel up, then you go fight someplace else. You keep fighting, and then keep fighting some more. Because trust me, it’s either that or become slaves. So it’s either live free or die,” I continued, echoing the words I said earlier, “and a shit load of us have died already rather than become slaves. We might have allies, and the Elves aren't invincible. I’ve killed a dragon, a couple of Elves in CQB, and you saw that the orcs can be killed by heavy weapons. You just do your jobs and blow to hell anything you’re told to.” Nice speech, but it didn’t get any hurrahs. Just tired soldiers going back to work, maybe with a little bit more determination. Sometimes that’s all
you can do.

  I took Captain Beck’s arm and guided her over to where we couldn’t really be heard. “Listen, you need to get some sleep. When this is blown, find someplace to rack out, even if it’s an hour or two. This is going to be a very long war, and we’re going to need all the competent leadership we can get. Understood?”

  She nodded and seemed to deflate a little. “There’s a Humvee parked at the entrance, A-6, my driver will take you to the Brigade TOC, it’s set up over in the railyards east of here.”

  “You can do this, Captain,” I said one more time, and then I walked out into the sunrise, followed by O'Neill and Tor.

  Chapter 16

  HQ, 1 Battalion 69th Infantry, New York Army National Guard

  Long Island City

  LTC Flynn was, in regular times, the commander of the 1st Battalion, 69th Infantry Regiment. Now he sat in a swirling storm of staff officers and runners, trying to organize the defense of multiple avenues of approach while addressing refugee transit out of New York City. The fact that he actually took five minutes to talk to me was a miracle.

  “Major, I know what unit you work for. Master Sergeant Clark and Staff Sergeant Hollis are at the Williamsburg Bridge, providing sniper fire directed at C2 elements of the enemy. When you get a chance I want you to give my intel people a fifteen minute brief on everything you’ve learned from inside the occupied zone, then you're on your way to defend the Brooklyn Bridge. Have you ever commanded a line company?” He was blunt and to the point, which I appreciated.

  “If you’re asking, sir, CAN I command a line company, yes. What have you got?” I sipped gratefully at a cup of extremely hot coffee.

  “A platoon of Bravo of the 69th and two companies of the First Brooklyn Volunteers. I can give you a heavy weapons squad, but we’re low on ammunition. The Air Force has lost air superiority and we can’t get anything in that way. There’s some trucks coming with supplies from Fort Drum, but I suspect the 10th Mountain is going to grab all that. They have two brigades here covering the north end of Manhattan and the GWB; most pulled in late last night, and we’re about to lose the Triboro.”