And he flipped off the front line of the advancing Fae.
Wulfric winked over at him. Or blinked. I sighed. Whatever. He looked happy.
Talon stepped up beside me, glaring out at the army with utter hatred. When he spoke, he didn’t turn to look at me. “My people have a tradition,” he began. “When the chief is chosen, the most dangerous out of the remaining tribe becomes his Shadow – his protector.” Before I could state the obvious, Talon scratched my arm, drawing blood. Then he held the claw up to the moonlight, revealing the crimson stain on the tips.
My instinctive anger faded as I watched his next action in horror.
He sliced through his own face with that claw, basically inserting my blood directly into his face, from above the eye down to about the center of his cheek. Then he did the other eye.
He turned to look at me, silver eyes flashing as he licked his lips, the two wounds bleeding slightly. Lucky for him, he hadn’t sliced his eyes out on the way down his face. He dipped his chin once, and then spoke in a clear tone. “You gave me a name. I give you my life. I am your Shadow until death, Wylde Fae.”
Then he slammed the butt of his spear into the earth, crouching lower in a ready stance, because the fight was almost upon us.
“Give us a tune, Pan!” I howled, my arms pebbling with the excitement of battle. He did, and I sprinted at a troll trying to shove through the front line, swinging a giant club in one fist.
“This is where the wild things are!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.
His giant misshapen teeth opened back in a snarl, and I felt Wylde pull through me, yanking the ground out from under him like a rug. He flipped up into the air, horizontal, back to the ground. Faster than I could blink, Talon was there, his spear propped up directly beneath him. The troll fell, impaling himself on the spear, his innards exploding with white fire as he screamed.
Just in case, Talon gripped him by the head with both paws, and jerked him down until his back slammed into the earth with a heavy thud. The spear was pristine, poking up into the air like a flag. Talon jerked the spear free and bowed to the Fae staring back at him, dumbfounded.
Then he began spinning, slicing, tearing, and cleaving.
And then he began to sing, a haunting battle chant. “Talon kneads the flesh, rakes the flesh, presses the flesh, rips the flesh, to make the perfect dough for our Lord Wylde’s favorite pie!”
Not wanting to miss out on the fun, I joined him, unleashing my trusty whips, letting them remain fire and ice – one liquid lava, and the other chips of razor-sharp ice that broke off and reformed as needed when I struck, so that each crack of the whip either slashed or splashed the opponent with droplets of lava or shrapnel frost.
And I realized for the first time that this was appropriate.
Fire and Ice.
Summer and Winter.
Life and Death.
Balance.
Like the Queens had once taught me.
I truly was a man in the middle. A man of opposites. Contradictions.
A Catalyst.
But I made it look damned sexy.
Death rained down on the Fae, and the Manling and his friends had the time of their lives.
Chapter 41
What felt like an hour later, I realized that Talon and I were momentarily clear of any immediate threats, giving us time to catch our breath. But I didn’t feel tired. I felt… alive. As if each enemy’s cry, whimper, or splash of blood had been fueling me.
Talon was actually strutting, coated liberally in both blue and red blood, licking his paws fastidiously. Despite the gore covering his body, his spear was still perfectly white.
But there were still so many enemies left on the field.
Wulfra and Wulfric fought back to back against a skulk of purple-eyed foxes. They were small – only about waist-height – but there were dozens of them, and they wielded hatchets as if born with them in paw. They also wore expensive-looking silver muzzles, complete with purple jewels down the top of the nose. This jewelry prevented them from opening their jaws, which I found… odd. Why prevent them from using their teeth? But Wulfra and Wulfric didn’t really care about their flashy bling. They were too busy murdering them to death.
The two fought like one being, seamlessly merged with their inner savages and each other. When Wulfric’s diamond claws tore through flesh – even if not a fatal blow – the victim screamed and smoked, the wound spreading through them as it turned to ashes, crumbling away to fill the air with a thick, pungent scent like charred meat. Piles of silver muzzles littered the ground.
Wulfra abruptly darted away from the pack as if fleeing, drawing the foxes after her and away from her one-eyed wolf king. But I realized she hadn’t been running away from the foxes – she had been running towards a twelve-foot-tall, pot-bellied ogre – a real ugly son of a bitch. The ogre spotted Wulfra in her Nemean Lion Cloak, blinked in momentary confusion as if unsure whether she was a lion or a wolf, and then decided to bash whatever she was with his club.
But instead of rolling away, Wulfra swung her fist in a full-bodied uppercut directly at the club – which was easily as wide as her entire body. The club splintered on impact with her furred fist, pelting the pursuing foxes with splinters as large as arrows. Half a dozen dropped dead, but the others jumped over their fallen brethren without concern. The cute factor of their bushy, orange and white tails was slightly diminished by their brandished hatchets winking in the moonlight. The ogre blinked at Wulfra in surprise, bleeding in several places where the club had pierced his own thick hide. Then she climbed up onto the ogre’s knee, jumped up onto his shoulders, and then began tearing at his face with her razor claws. The ogre howled, caught by surprise, but the foxes weren’t about to let their chance to catch her from behind go to waste.
They lunged into the air, directly at her back. As if having a sixth sense, she sprung backwards in a flip, directly over the foxes. They slammed into the ogre, hatchets buried deep into his face and chest in a dozen blows. He grunted in shock, crashing to the ground, thrashing back and forth as he rolled in agonized screams, crushing or injuring most of the foxes.
Wulfra calmly walked up behind them, snapping their necks before turning back to Wulfric.
He hadn’t budged, simply watching her with folded arms – he must have lost his Rarawk antler club at some point. He may have grunted back at her, but that glint in his eyes was the very definition of pride. They reconnected, embraced, checked each other rapidly, and then sought out new foes.
A roaring shriek made me glance up to see Yahn beating his wings in the skies. Three flying beasts flew at him – their archer riders launching arrows as fast as they could draw them. The projectiles struck him and ricocheted away harmlessly. Yahn beat his wings once more, tucked them into his body, and then flipped backwards into a double flip. The flyers stared at him, unsure if their attack had harmed him.
But Yahn’s wings snapped out again and he spat a wave of glass spears at the attackers, impaling them all several times over. Both flyers and riders screamed in anguish, falling down to the earth in sickening splats. Yahn cackled, and resumed his sweep of the skies. I glanced back to see Pan healing Grimm and Pegasus behind us.
But the things I had seen those two doing to their foes… I shivered, forcing it from my mind. They probably had the highest score if we had been competing for number of dead Fae.
“Come to me!” A honeyed, southern drawl laughed. I spun to see a glowing Alucard standing in a slight depression in the field, surrounded by a circle of at least two dozen Hatchetmen.
“Enough talk, vampire. I don’t care if you are a Daywalker. It’s night time, and that’s when we feed,” a helmeted voice shouted back.
Talon took a few stealthy steps toward them, but I grunted, holding up a hand. He frowned at me, but finally nodded, looking uncertain.
The immediate area was silent for a moment, and then Alucard spoke again. “Do you have enough men to guarantee victory?” he asked in a s
oft voice.
I frowned at his tone. It didn’t sound powerful. In fact, it sounded saddened, and I began to wonder if maybe Talon had been correct to offer help. But the choice was taken from me as the crowd swarmed him from all sides.
Alucard’s response was as sad and final as a prayer over a grave, his face one of sorrow, regret, and forgiveness. He didn’t even try to move.
But when the first attacker on either side was within arms’ reach, he abruptly shifted like liquid metal. The two attackers slammed into each other, impaling the other on their blade. But Alucard wasn’t even looking. He dipped, ducked, dodged, and adjusted like a cobra, letting the Fae kill each other as he moved like a silk ribbon in a hurricane – harmless, but untouchable. Then I heard a chiming sound, and his wings snapped out, ripping entirely through a dozen attackers. The tops of their bodies simply fell to the ground, smoking where his wings had sliced them in two.
Only then did he begin to laugh, and his claws stretched longer, as if he was holding four swords in each hand.
“I wanted to introduce myself!” he shouted in a clear, crystal voice. “My name is Alucard Morningstar, and I’m a Fae-o-holic. Because I’m addicted to your blood.” He sighed, shaking his head sadly as he casually decapitated another Fae with one of his wings, not even looking. His devilish smirk slowly returned as he stared down the survivors, who looked suddenly uncertain. “I’m the one your parents told you stories about. I’m a Manling monster. And it feels soooo good to say that out loud,” he chuckled darkly.
Then they tried to run.
And he killed them all in a tornado of laughing, golden blades.
After only a few seconds, he was entirely alone amidst a circle of smoking, groaning bodies. He assessed the bodies with a casual look, a light smile on his face, and then his wings stabbed down, each sword-like feather impaling anyone who made a noise, until all was silent.
He turned to me and licked some blood off one claw, moaning in delight. “I guess I fell off the wagon,” he admitted, licking his lips. “Oh, well. Zero days without an incident.”
I burst out laughing. Terribly inappropriate – but the best one-liners usually were.
And then he walked over the bodies, the forms erupting in fire under each booted step. His tattered robes seemed to absorb the blood, the crimson color climbing up higher on his clothes as he moved. Then he was clear of them, staring outwards, looking for a fresh drink.
I realized that the Fae army had retreated behind two royal palanquins. Great, four-legged monsters as large as elephants – but resembling feathered warthogs – who stomped their feet impatiently, forced to carry their Queens into battle.
Two utterly nude women stood from their respective seats atop each platform, faces tight with anger. “Nate Temple is to be tried and judged for his crimes of invading the Fae, and stealing one of our most treasured artifacts. Submit or perish,” they said in unison.
I stared back at them, and then began to laugh. “Nate Temple isn’t here right now,” I called out, spreading my arms wide for all to see as I spun in a slow circle. “Please leave a message.”
Then I began to walk closer, my friends slowly angling behind me into a V formation with me at the point, well within range of their archers. Yahn screamed from the sky, reminding anyone who might be trigger-happy that it wouldn’t end well for them.
The Queens shared a look, frowning. “We see you, right before us, wizard. We followed Oberon here, sensing something was not right when we found his Hunt abandoned. The call was raised for war, letting us know our precious artifact had returned, but the Hunt sat idle.”
I managed not to grin in relief. Oberon hadn’t given us up. At least, they made it sound that way. “Oberon was forced to make a deal with me,” I said in a calm voice.
The Summer Queen – her hair flashing in the moonlight sniffed. “No agreement with a mortal – and a thief, at that – could bar him from his duty. Only those from Fae could bond him so.”
And a very dark, hungry smile split my cheeks as I slowly nodded back at them, relieved that I had guessed this correctly. I mimed a finger gun, pointed at her, and said, “Pew! Pew!”
Their army actually flinched, lifting their shields in alarm. Talon burst out laughing.
I lowered my deadly finger gun and took three steps closer. “Behold!” I shouted, drawing from Wylde’s natural talent for authority. “A Manling, born in Fae.”
The army grew utterly silent, many shaking their heads in disbelief as my words seemed to echo throughout the land. “What ridiculousness is this?” The Winter Queen demanded, her purple nipples standing out in sharp contrast to her ivory skin. “You are a wizard, not a Fae.”
I sighed. “I’ll give you a demonstration for free. But if you want details, you’re going to have to request an appointment.” I pointed a thumb behind me. “And my receptionists are gigantic assholes.”
And without further warning, I opened up to Wylde, letting him cut loose. With a roar, he began moving like a force of nature. He snatched the darkness from the sky and slammed it down on top of the army like a lead blanket, smothering their muffled cries. Then he plucked three stars from the sky, and tucked them underneath the Shadow blanket. Three muffled flashes incinerated anyone caught too close. My legs were shaking from the effort of moving so much power so rapidly, but I kept my face devoid of any strain.
Ashes drifted up from the earth where a large chunk of the their army had stood.
The Queens hissed in disbelief, and their surviving army began to break.
With my last bit of power, I coaxed Wylde to call out to the earth itself. The vines and foliage used to make the Hatchetmens’ armor erupted to life, and they screamed as trees suddenly erupted from the earth, growing centuries old in a span of seconds, trapping the bodies inside their trunks. Soon, all was quiet. The leaves dripped blood, swaying slightly in the breeze.
The rest of them simply ran screaming, shedding their armor like Autumn leaves, not wanting to risk becoming a permanent woody.
“Your allies have taken gifts that do not belong to them,” the Summer Queen snarled.
“We shall retrieve them now,” the Winter Queen promised. And they both lifted their arms.
My friends began to scream, falling to their knees in agony. I spun to see what looked like fish hooks tearing the souls from their bodies, and the fishing line led right back to the Queens. Wylde lashed out to either side, slicing the lines with what looked like gray fire, and the souls slammed back into my friends. The fishing lines whipped back into the Queens and they shrieked in a primal cry, their jaws suddenly elongating like snakes.
They rounded on me and flung out their hands again, but Wylde groaned in exhaustion, unable to fight back. Pure willpower struck me, knocking me onto my ass. The same spiritual fish hooks ripped into my chest, and latched onto my soul, lighting it on fire. I wheezed, grunting and groaning as I tried to fight back, but my power ebbed, growing weaker with each passing second. My satchel sat on my lap, and as my mind began to splinter, I saw a haft protruding from the opening.
Before their attack could drown me, I jerked my torso with every ounce of strength I had left. My unresponsive arm flipped up over my body and my hand hit the handle of the war hammer.
Their attack winked out as if it had never been, my soul slamming back into me. I let out a shuddering breath.
And then a maelstrom of lightning erupted from deep within the depths of my being, crackling up through my body like a bag of popcorn in a microwave.
Wylde screamed in ecstasy, laughing and crying simultaneously.
I climbed to my feet, small arcs of electricity zapping out of me, striking nearby blades of grass. I slowly lifted my gaze to stare back at the army. Then I opened my mouth to speak.
“I… am… Wylde Fae,” I whispered.
And a hundred bolts of lightning flew from the hammer into every single Fae before me.
The Queens flung up their hands and dove off their mounts – which w
as the only thing that saved them. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew how dangerous it would be to kill them, but I hadn’t tried to do anything. I’d just… spoken.
The army exploded in a single boom, and the earth rocked as if struck by a meteor – bodies and huge clods of earth flipping up into the now incredibly warm air. I heard my friends shouting behind me, scrambling as they struggled to keep their balance, but I stood as solid as a boulder in a river. The ground around me was perfectly flat in a wide circle. But beyond that…
Was a landscape of ruptured earth with rivers of blood flowing like tributaries.
When the dust settled, I was panting, the war hammer hanging forgotten in my fist.
I saw the Queens peering out from behind the carcasses of their mounts, eyes wide with fear and outrage. And then they simply disappeared.
I turned back to my friends, dropping the war hammer.
And passed out before I could even open my mouth.
Chapter 42
I awoke to the sound of splashing water and just knew that a giant god was taking a giant piss near my tiny head. It just goes to show you that things can always get worse, and that my level for shock was pretty high.
I peeled open my eyelids, which felt crusted with too much sleep.
“He’s awake!” a low purr announced.
“Rest… Wylde,” another familiar voice responded, as if choosing the name purposely. “Rest. You’re safe. I’ve put a healing balm on your wounds.”
I sat up with a groan, eyes finally focusing enough to separate blurs into familiar shapes. I was on the floor. The air was humid, and I realized I was in the Sanctorum inside Chateau Falco, right beside the waterfall – not a golden shower, then, praise Odin. I tried to talk, and instead dove into a coughing fit.
War Hammer: A Nate Temple Supernatural Thriller Book 8 (The Temple Chronicles) Page 22