The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun)

by Shami Stovall

  “What’re you trying to say?” Battery asked, flailing an arm at the soup. “Use your words, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s far easier to destroy than it is to create,” Vergess replied, giving the group a long stare. “Everyone who practices ruina sorcery, right down to the children, pick it up with ease.”

  Geist’s thoughts lingered on the discarded soup.

  “I hope you understand,” Vergess continued. “Because, without a doubt, there will be Abomination Soldiers in Spa with the same destructive power as my own.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  LIÈGE, BELGIUM

  “WHY DIDN’T WE FLY IN?” Battery asked. “Not that I wanted to use a parachute again, but it might have been faster.”

  “The British Empire controls the seas, but Germany controls the skies,” Vergess stated. “Fighting through a fleet of zeppelins and triplanes would have been suicidal.”

  Geist sighed. The roads of Belgium did not cater well to travelers: German soldiers stood in groups of ten to twenty on all the major thoroughfares, their rifles ready, some with machine guns, others with motorcars and explosives. At checkpoint after checkpoint they demanded IDs and barked dozens of tricky questions, even with Vergess disguised as a German NCO.

  The only other travelers made their way across the country with carts and pack animals. Geist, perched on the back end of their own wooden cart, glanced over at their toiling horses. The animals hadn’t come cheap, but the Belgians had been more than willing to sell the property for a fistful of bills. A motorcar would have been ideal, but the Germans had long since requisitioned all such vehicles.

  A great deal of Belgium’s landscape had been devastated in the fighting. When the Germans marched through their country, they’d sieged and sacked big cities and small towns alike. Geist could see the shadowed remnants of buildings and homes far in the distance. Black fields marked the location of devastating fires and craters smoldered in the wake of artillery bombardments.

  Most disturbing were the babies left in irrigation ditches along the side of the road. Dead infants—some a mere three days old—abandoned with nothing, not even a blanket. Their shriveled bodies and sealed, sunken eyes sent sharp chills through Geist’s body every time her gaze fell upon them.

  “What happened here?” she whispered, unable to look away.

  Vergess, walking alongside the cart, kept his attention forward, never glancing to the ditch of child corpses. “Boche babies,” he said. “Children of native women and German soldiers.”

  “The mothers commit infanticide out of spite?” Battery asked, his face drained of color and his hands shaking.

  “Such conditions drive even the sanest among us to extremes,” Dreamer chimed in, mounted atop the lead horse. “I’m sure it wasn’t a mistake that the babies were abandoned on the main road for the German soldiers to see. I pray the children find shelter in the arms of the saints in the world after this.” He stroked his nickering horse and calmed the creature despite the smell of rot that lingered on the air. He rode with the grace of a nobleman as Geist pondered the fate of the children.

  Blick, walking alongside the cart, motioned to the corpse-infested ditches with an outstretched thumb. “Any of these yours?” he quipped to Vergess.

  Vergess tensed but didn’t answer.

  “Blick,” Geist snapped. “You’ve had your fun. Now shut the hell up.”

  Blick gave her half a salute. “Yes, sir.”

  The exchange left a sour taste in Geist’s mouth. She kept her eyes on Vergess, and he occasionally glanced up and met her gaze. Something about his blue eyes kept her staring at him. Did he feel guilt for the children? Would he one day want them? Would he want them… with her?

  Geist shook her head, unable to dislodge the confusing thoughts. I don’t know if I can wait until we return to Fort Belleville. Could we be together? Would we continue in the war? Could we elope? What kind of life could we lead, two estranged sorcerers running from their houses?

  “Anyone here know sorcerers from the Royal House of Habsburg-Lorraine?” Vergess asked aloud, breaking Geist’s train of thought.

  Battery whipped his attention to the other man but offered no commentary.

  “I’ve met a few of them,” Victory said, almost disinterested. “Why?”

  “Have you ever met the crown prince? Leopold?”

  “Yes. On occasion.”

  Blick chuckled. He placed his hands on his head while he continued to walk, a smirk on his face. “You think I’m a wild dog? You should meet Leopold. That guy thinks every woman wants him.”

  “Is that right?” Vergess asked, sneaking Geist a sidelong glance. Geist looked away, clamping her lips shut.

  “That’s not the most important thing,” Victory interjected with a wave of his hand. “It’s his new proposal that worries me. Many sorcerers believe it’s him and his father that started the whole war.”

  “Oh?”

  It didn’t surprise Geist that Victory considered them the root cause of the war. The sorcerers of the Royal House were famously power-hungry. They had even stated, on multiple occasions, that ruling over all Europe was their right by birth. That they were the last true kings and queens, the only sorcerers left with a bloodline that traced back to the first sorcerer—and the only ones capable of wielding the ultimate school of sorcery.

  The magic they called The Final Argument of Kings.

  “Do you think they have magi-tech technology?” Battery asked.

  Victory nodded. “No doubt in my mind.”

  Geist knew Austria-Hungary had to be behind the fighting. They were an older nation, more established than the fledgling Germany, and they shared a common language and border. When Austria-Hungary wanted war, they called in their allies to attack—that was how it always worked. It was the same on the frontlines. If Germany had a devastating weapon like the GH Gas, Austria-Hungary would have it as well.

  Victory whistled, cutting the discussion short.

  “Pay attention to the road,” he intoned. “Something’s coming.”

  Blick nodded once, then his eyes lit up with a golden bioluminescent glow. He peered into the distance, his pupils widening.

  Geist scooted back down the cart to join Victory and Battery. They pressed themselves against each other and slumped their posture to maintain the ruse. Dreamer glanced over his shoulder: his sorcery had transformed their clothing into bloodied German uniforms, complete with bandages and pus stains. Geist, Battery, and Victory were disguised as wounded soldiers returning to the nearest base while Vergess, Blick, and Dreamer acted as their soldier escort. No German patriot would stop wounded men heading to a wartime hospital.

  “Three men coming,” Blick said to the group in a low voice. “All Abomination Soldiers.” His eyes still gleaming yellow, he turned to Dreamer and grimaced. “Ah,” he grunted, taken aback. “I knew you were hiding your real face from us.”

  Dreamer lifted an eyebrow. “Surprised by what you see?”

  “I guess it makes sense. But do you actually know how to use those all those knives—or are they heirlooms?”

  Dreamer responded with a smug smile, piquing Geist’s interest. How much did they really know about this man?

  Victory closed his one good eye and took a deep breath. “Vergess. When the men ask you who how we were wounded, tell them it was from fighting rebels.”

  Then the sound of heavy hoofbeats approached.

  Geist craned her head back and saw the sun glint off the chestnut coats of the soldiers’ sorrels. Their horses, beautiful beasts, closed the distance in good time, trotting up to the cart with powerful strides. They pulled to a stop in front of Dreamer and his horse, preventing the cart from moving forward.

  Vergess stepped up and straightened his posture. “Sir.”

  The lead German, a tall man with a gray cape over one shoulder, stared down at Vergess with squinted eyes. He wore the rank of lieutenant but held himself with the pomp and condescension of an emperor’s spoiled chi
ld, his nose up in the air, his expression judging them with obvious disgust. His coat bore the name Graf stitched in over the heart.

  “Soldier,” Lieutenant Graf said with a sneer. “Have you seen a group of five Belgians on the road within the last hour?”

  “No, sir,” Vergess replied.

  “Are you positive?”

  “I think I would have remembered seeing five people, sir.”

  Lieutenant Graf kicked his horse into a canter and walked around the cart, giving every detail the once-over. Geist kept her back and shoulders slumped over, feigning pain, but her sidearm was tucked in her lap, ready for use.

  “Three soldiers to escort three wounded men?” Lieutenant Graf asked.

  “We’re escorting a staff captain and his right-hand men,” Vergess stated. “Top priority, sir. We’re to get him to the hospitals in Spa.”

  Lieutenant Graf scanned the back of the cart and stopped once his gaze found the illusionary insignias of rank on Victory’s uniform. “Staff captain?”

  Vergess nodded. “Staff Captain Wolff.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And how were Captain Wolff and his men injured?”

  “Rebel attacks,” Vergess replied with the ease of a pathological liar. “We never saw it coming.”

  Lieutenant Graf frowned. He yanked on his reins and jerked the horse back toward the road with little regard for the animal’s comfort. “Those dogs. They never learn their lesson.” He rode out a short distance before glancing over his shoulder. “If you see anyone on the road from here to Liège, shoot them. If they run, herd them north.”

  “North, sir?”

  “Toward the Wire.”

  The Wire.

  Geist’s chest tightened. She had heard the stories: a German-constructed electric fence, ten feet tall and a hundred and twenty-five miles long, on the northern border of Belgium and the Netherlands. Six barbed wires charged with two thousand volts ran all along its length. Those who attempted to climb died instantly. Those caught within five hundred yards of the fence posts were summarily executed.

  News didn’t travel in Germany-occupied Belgium like it did in the rest of the world. While she knew of the wire, most Belgians would think only of escaping to the neutral Netherlands, a country virtually untouched by the war. But that’s just what the Germans wanted.

  The wire was a thing of evil, a true terror weapon. The line between war and peace. Between life and death.

  “I shall endeavor to do so, sir,” Vergess said.

  “Good,” Lieutenant Graf huffed. “Come, men!” He kicked his steed and set off at a canter. The other sorcerers followed suit, vanishing into the night.

  Blick shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Belgium is locked down. I’m surprised we’ve gotten as far as this without incident. At least we’ve secured an exit.”

  “Don’t jinx us,” Battery muttered, pushing away from side of the cart. “We had an exit plan for the zeppelin and look what happened. Let’s just focus on what’s ahead.”

  “You didn’t have your brothers with you on the zeppelin. Things will be different here.”

  “You tempt fate.”

  “If Fate is Lady Justice’s mysterious sister, I don’t mind tempting her.”

  Battery rolled his eyes. Victory and Geist shared a chuckle, Victory going so far as to swing an arm over her shoulders, brotherhood camaraderie in every regard, though Geist couldn’t help but tense as he touched her.

  “You three don’t have to sit so close anymore,” Vergess said, his stern voice reminiscent of the German soldiers, as though they were purged of humor at birth. “We’re almost to Liège. I’ll cover you in the sheets when we get close.”

  “No need to risk discovery,” Victory said, unmoving. “We’ll lie here until then.”

  Vergess glared but offered nothing else in return.

  It’s fine, Geist thought, wishing she could reassure Vergess. We’re just two wounded soldiers on the back of the cart. That’s all.

  The silence that followed was better than any quip Battery or Blick could dream up. Geist could only hope they were getting accustomed to each other’s company.

  They needed all the advantages they could get.

  The crack of gunfire rang out, and Geist’s hair stood on end. She wanted to sit up, throw off the blanket, and glance around, but she continued to lie on her back, playing the part of a dying soldier to the hilt. Battery fidgeted to her left, but Victory made no move, holding still enough to make her worry. Was he even awake? Of course he is. How could someone sleep at a time like this?

  Wind swept over the cart and agitated the horses. The evening chill brought Geist to the edge of shivering. The blanket and her heavy breathing kept her warm enough, but her feet were locked in icy boots that hung out the back of the cart.

  The gunfire intensified.

  Vergess threw back the blanket, and the cool night air wafted over Geist. The cloud-covered sky above offered little light, but the street lamps and distant fire kept the city visible.

  “There’s fighting,” Vergess stated. “The Belgians are swarming the streets.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked, knowing they were in the heart of Liège with no easy escape.

  “The Germans were executing rebels and burning buildings. The Belgians didn’t like that.”

  “Can we avoid it?”

  “I think the fighting’s gonna find us.”

  A blast and tremor shook the cart, agitating the horses and setting Geist’s nerves on edge. The sounds of war swirled all around them—screams and cries and sudden bursts of gunfire. Whatever happened descended upon them in one lightning-fast moment, as though they found themselves in the middle of the storm.

  Geist sat up and glanced around, her eyes frantically panning over the commotion. Liège was torn apart by a cacophony of violent flashes and bombastic sound, waves of heat following behind artificial booms of thunder. Civilians, men and women alike, were rent apart by explosions, gore and offal flung in every direction.

  A board with dynamite tied to it, no doubt a handmade weapon from the Belgians, landed next to the cart. On instinct, Geist hauled Battery up by his collar and pushed him out the back. In the second she had before the explosive followed through with its damage, Geist yelled “Get out!” with her voice no more than a hot rasp.

  Victory, perhaps already knowing, leapt out the front of the cart and sprinted away. Dreamer produced a dagger, seemingly from nowhere, and cut the leather strap holding his horse back before kicking his animal into motion.

  Blick and Vergess were outside her vision, the only two not confined to the cart.

  Time slowed as Geist flung herself from the vehicle, sensory overload filling her brain with static. The roar of the world died away as the dynamite blast deafened her. She staggered and swayed, but all she was capable of achieving was a half-crawl as she clambered away from the destruction.

  German soldiers answered with suppressing fire. They opened fire onto the crowds of Belgians, mowing down anyone and everyone in their path. One in three bullets hit their targets while the rest shredded buildings, shattered windows, and struck animals. Geist kept her belly to the ground, struggling to focus.

  In the fleeting moments of clear thought, she noted that Dreamer’s illusions had disappeared, leaving her dressed as a civilian. Then her thoughts flew to Vergess.

  Where is he?

  Undeterred by the machine guns, the Belgians continued their bombardment. Grenades, dynamite, Molotov cocktails—anything was fair game. The blasts mutilated and burned the frontline soldiers while the grenades thrown behind them tore up the men hiding behind cover.

  Battery grabbed Geist by the shoulder and shouted something she couldn’t hear. Instead, Geist took his hand and squeezed hard, needing his sorcery more than ever.

  Time snapped back into place as Battery’s power flowed through her, restoring her hearing and even clearing her head despite the chaos surroun
ding them. Battery tried again to yell something to her, but his own throat was hoarse and his words came out in broken fragments.

  “Stay with me!” Geist commanded.

  She jumped to her feet and cloaked herself in a shroud of invisibility. Through the black smoke and red flashes of fire, Geist could only make out silhouettes. She grabbed Battery by the arm and dragged him through the street, running as fast as her body would allow, coughing back the smoke with each ragged breath.

  When soldiers stood in her path, Geist didn’t hesitate. She released Battery and lunged forward, using her incorporeal form to slide into the men and become physical, scooping out a chuck of innards with a swipe of her hand. She tore through their uniforms and the blood splashed across the cobblestone streets in cinematic splatters. The crimson that remained on her body became invisible with her.

  Battery pulled his grandfather’s Lancaster pistol and shot at oncoming soldiers too confused by their teammates’ sudden deaths to notice his presence. His pistol shots were nearly silent amidst the rage of sound and destruction swirling around them. Some soldiers, struck in the arm or side, carried on as though they hadn’t been hit, blind adrenaline fueling their assault and numbing the pain of their wounds. Those struck in the head and chest crumpled, limbs continuing to spasm as if the body didn’t understand yet that the brain was dead.

  “Get back!” a man’s voice yelled, his voice muffled by gunfire.

  Geist spotted Victory amidst the smoke, Blick standing by his side and his glowing gold eyes piercing the darkness to match her gaze. They motioned for her and Battery to move.

  “Get back!” Victory repeated.

  A thick line of flame lit up the night, fifteen feet long and oozing black smoke. German stormtroopers wielding flamethrowers stepped through haze, their faces covered in thick leather gasmasks with glass over the eyes that reflected the demonic glow of the fire belching from the mouths of their weapons. They turned the flame in an arcing wave, the lit petrol and pressurized tanks spreading the heat over the streets of Liège. The gates of hell billowed in their embers.