by Allan Cole
Sleepy eyes getting their focus— hunter’s eyes, black as night. They looked old in his young man’s face— high cheek bones, aquiline nose, long chin. Brooding lips.
As Davyd groaned awake, the lieutenant memorized everything about him. This was something he could tell his grandchildren. About the time when he met Davyd Kells, the deadliest— and therefor most famous— member of the Odysseus Corps.
Davyd felt terrible, every muscle aching, still deep in the throes of PostMission Stress. But the juice the magtech had pumped into him was starting to work.
The first thing he realized was that he was no longer on the Puffship. The loud roar of its turbos had been replaced by the distant but powerful hum of big SpellEngines hurling a ship through space.
The second thing he noticed was the absence of Jonz.
Shit, oh dear. All bad signs. Apparently the chewing out Davyd had expected was coming sooner than he thought.
“Sir, sir,” the lieutenant was saying, “are you listening, sir?”
Davyd scraped away more of the wool. He’d missed whatever the lieutenant had been talking about.
He shook his head. “Sorry, lieutenant,” he said. “Repeat your last.”
“I said, sir, that I have orders for you to report to CommandStar immediately. At General Link’s request.”
The last of Davyd’s weariness fell away. Now he was up. Now he was alert. Now his greenies were cutting in.
Aw, fuck, General Link! Head of Allied Ops. I’m in bigger trouble then I thought.
Davyd was beginning to regret his act of mercy.
He started framing his excuses, getting his mind set for a locked heels reaming from the foulest tempered four star general this side of Hell.
“Aw, come on, sir,” he’d say when the first storm had passed. “So I gave the kid a break. Somebody jumped him too fast, that’s all. Think of it this way, sir. Think of Jonz as government equipment. And maybe I saved the taxpayers a little money by sending him back to the motor pool for a tuneup.”
Yeah, that’s how he’d play it. Old Link was a notoriously tight-fisted bastard. Davyd would appeal to his sense of economy.
“Sir? Uh, excuse me, sir?”
“What!” Davyd jumped at the interruption, then regained control. Sighed.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to shout, lieutenant. Guess I’m still pretty keyed up. Now, what were you saying?”
“I was asking, sir,” the lieutenant said, “if the Major wanted me to call up the latest news feed. So you’ll be up to date about the incident when you speak to the General.”
Davyd swallowed hard. “Incident? What incident, lieutenant?”
The lieutenant was amazed. “Haven’t you heard, sir? We’re damned near at war. It’s the Rooskies, sir! Shot down a passenger ship. Full of innocent —”
Davyd lost the rest.
He was thinking, so that’s why I’m wanted. They don’t care about Jonz at all. It’s the damned Rooskies again.
American blood had been spilled by the bucket and now somebody wanted paybacks big time, so they were calling in the ultimate Paymaster, Davyd Kells.
Then an old ghost crawled out of the sinpit to haunt him. The face of his first victim reared up. Then the name. Shit, he’d almost forgotten the name.
The Rooskie bastard he shot at the Olympics who would have blown the good old U.S. of A. to kingdom come if he’d lived.
Vladimir Putin.
Davyd got the shakes and called for a sleeptab. Washed it down with cold coffee. As he waited for dull oblivion to take effect, other ghosts joined the first. And then everything came back in a mad rush, his heart pumping, adrenalin flooding his veins, muscles twitching like an old dog caught in a nightmare chase to end all nightmare chases.
KGB killers pursuing him through the streets of Athens. Then they had him cornered and all was lost. Oh shit, and damn, damn, damn, you can kiss your ass goodbye, Davyd Kells.
But suddenly they were withdrawing. Davyd in his fragile hiding place staring after them in wonder. What had happened? Why were the wolves being called off?
Then he remembered the flash he’d caught from the corner of his eye. Of George Bush getting tagged. A real pro hit, too. Boom! Smack between the eyes. And the 43rd president of the U.S., was history’s meat! Davyd recalled that Bush was some kind of spook, like Putin. Except he was CIA, instead of KGB. No, no. It was Bush’s old man who was the spook. George Bush Sr. The 41st President of the Untied States. Bullshit. Spook old man equals spook kid. Father Zorza had taught him that.
The intelligence services kept a tight rein on the families of their operatives and recruited them whenever possible.
Davyd sighed and eased back. Forcing his tense muscles to relax. Sometimes he wondered about the other fellow, the Rooskie who’d shot Bush Jr.
He’d heard the guy had gone on to bigger, bloodier things. The ultimate shooter on the other side.
Some said the Rooskie hitter was almost as good as Davyd. Maybe even his equal. Or better.
For a long time Davyd had dreamed of finding out once and for all. He’d even run into traces of the guy— the faint, yet unmistakable spoor of a Sword Church killer. But nothing more.
Then sleep, warm sleep, stretched out her arms to gather Davyd.
But just before he sank into sleep’s embrace he thought:
I wonder where he is now?
Damned Russian!
Maybe, just maybe, if the Hellgods are kind, this time he’d get to meet him.
In his imagination he saw a blurred face through his laser sights.
He centered the cross hairs.
His finger curled around the trigger.
One breath, maybe two, and…
Davyd fell asleep.
CHAPTER TEN
Vlad opened his pale eyes. He was in own apartment. Yes, he thought bitterly, home, sweet damned home!
The memories were painful, almost more than he could bear. Yet it was necessary to remember, no matter how uncomfortable they were. He had to report. And with that report would come forgiveness and relief.
Father Onphim would say the healing words, the words that turned victim into deserving villain. And after all, Father Onphim would say, quoting his favorite quote, “… ‘victim’ suggests innocence. And innocence suggests guilt.”
Another favorite saying of Father Onphim, his mentor and teacher, was, “Never mind what your country is doing. That’s your country and that’s good enough.”
Good old Father Onphim. Once he was a field-priest. Then, wounded in combat with insurgents somewhere in the New Colonies, he retired from the army. Only a few people, Vlad among them, knew that Farther Onphim was the supervisor of Combat Arts for the Brown Bears.
Onphim was only the last, but hardly the least, of many such priestly figures who had long opened a glittering path through the hidden halls of the Church Of The Sword for Vlad.
Then, to his relief, Brosha was at his elbow, handing him a restorative drink. It was a special drink prescribed for Vlad whenever a mission came to a close.
He took one sip and his good mood flew to sweeter heights.
And from those narc-tinted “Lucy In The Sky” vaults he heard his batman say:
“Dinner will be in a minute, master. Maybe you want to have a shower before?”
Vlad chortled with lovely glee.
“Damn it, you woolly-minded Brownie! I don’t have your cursed magic. More’s the pity. Never to wash and never to stink!”
He sucked down the last of his restorative and was still laughing like a stoned madman as his batman pushed him into the shower.
A moment later Vlad was standing under the hot spurs of washing foam.
And he let go his dreams.
First he’d call Nadya. They’d take a trip somewhere outside. He’d have his rightful leave, by God. No matter what the priest said.
Shit! He still hadn’t reported. The damned rules were always in the way. Even in the shower. He slammed it off, jumped out, wrapped
a towel around his slender waist and approached the computer. He fumbled around his desk and then fed it a green-and-silver card.
“Hello, dollies,” he hummed to himself, still in his heights.
Inside the computer a team of tiny creatures rushed to work. The display flashed. A column of fanciful whirled color beams rose up.
“Hi!” squeaked a small but brave voice from inside the machine. “Hi, master Vlad! Enter your code, please, master!”
“It’s always the same, Bick,” Vlad teased. “The code. And nothing but the code. How long will you keep asking me that? Ten years? A century?”
“A millennium would not be enough to make me stop, master Vlad,” answered the prissy little Operation System-Loading gnome. “Now, enter your code, if you please…”
Vlad make a face. His computer gnome, Bick, was quite intractable. Well, what was the damned thing?… 2:5030/318… Okay?
“Code’s not accessed!” shrieked the triumphant Bick.
Not accessed?
What the hell? Oh, God, really!
“Are you tired, master Vlad, or what? Have you forgotten your own code!”
Vlad shook his head. One more time… 2:5030/48.
“Code’s accessed!” came Bick’s triumphant announcement. Then: “My eyes and ears are closed. Let them wither if I only dare to catch…”
This was a very pompous and solemn pronouncement. Vlad had heard it many times and was bored with it. Bick was swearing not to pick even the slightest piece of Top Secret Information.
If he had, it would have been Master Vlad’s duty to notify the proper authorities immediately.
“Stop it, Bick, for God’s sake!” Vlad pleaded. “Get back inside the computer! Continue there! I can’t stand it! Drop dead, you hear me! Drop dead!”
The Gnome lapsed down. “Drop dead, drop dead,” he grumbled in his comic voice. Vlad ignored him.
The computer swallowed the reports like a hungry beast. Unseen messengers carrying the burden of Vlad’s report on their thin shoulders were already marching forward to the headquarters of the Brown Bears Task Force— and to the hidden temple of the Church of the Sword.
Father Onphim must have his report at once… the faster the better. From there, if the good father chose, the report would go to the highest of high. Or maybe not. It was up to the mysterious whims of Father Onphim.
Vlad knew well enough that all of Onphim’s orders were confirmed by the Brown Bears commander, but not all of the commander’s orders were confirmed by Father Onphim. And the highest SPETZNAZ leaders were always at Vlad’s enchanter-supervisor’s side.
It didn’t matter. The task force was only a cover for Vlad, after all. As a government sanctioned assassin, Vlad’s job was to deal with Mother Russia’s most important and dangerous enemies— both mortal and fiendish. Rebel leaders, runaway devils, and corrupt politicians.
Although he wore the uniform of the elite SPETZNAZ strike force, Vlad was a force all on his own. A force controlled by Father Onphim and the Church of the Sword. He knew his report would be of great interest to Onphim.
Particularly the story about the runaway devil and the stolen SelfGuard Charm…
* * *
… It was a rather strange place. The yellow river was slowly rolling past banks of rich red stone, covered with black rooted serpents.
Unable to move, the creatures could only hiss at him as he moved by. Nothing special— the common madness of the Fiendish World.
The demon’s trail led Vlad onward. Deeper and deeper into the strange land. Once again, he’d left Carvaserin and the others far behind. After a time, Vlad decided to let them catch up.
He crouched down, resting. Finally, they arrived. Brand Carvaserin, grim as if attending his own funeral. The Brown Bears team stood with lowered heads— a single man had succeeded where they had failed.
Brand and the two master wizards said nothing to Vlad. The only thought in their heads was that they must obey a common major. This was intolerable to them.
Vlad smiled. Let the snakes hiss.
He continued onward, the others trailing him. A fat knuckled range confronted him. Vlad crossed it, following the devil’s trail.
The fiend’s angry thoughts shone red at the edge of Vlad’s magical view. Still, even for Vlad, it wasn’t easy to stick to his track.
Ignoring Carvaserin, Vlad gave several short, soft-voiced orders. The Brown Bears nodded. Everything was clear. The stormgroup prepared for a chase. They stood still as stone, faces tense, fiery eyes searching the dead banks of the river.
Vlad hefted his crossbow. It had poisoned bolts, powered by WarSpirits. He heard them whisper and bent his head closer to listen:
“Tis a bad smell here,” he heard one of them say…
“Some kind of a rogue?”
“Yeah. A rogue. And I do not like it.”
Suddenly Vlad barked— “Target in range!”
The team heard him and reacted. Blue flame whirled around Vlad’s hands and then, like a waterfall, rushed down along the sharp slope of the red bank.
“All, switch to Tear-Up and fire at will!”
A common soldier might have asked— “Fire at whom?” But not the Brown Bears Company.
Before Vlad’s brain had time to sort the information, his body, reinforced by the contrivances of field surgery, reacted faster than an ordinary man’s eyes.
The BattleSpirits howled in bloodlust. The bolt hurled along the red rim of the stony slope and from below came a howl of agony.
“Down!” Vlad shouted.
This was too much for the Brown Bears. They smelled the enemy, they could feel the enemy, they were upon the enemy— and there was no terrain that could stop them now.
They jumped forward as fast as that bolt, moving in Vlad’s swift wake.
Vlad leaped over the cliff’s edge. There, near the line of yellow water, a strange cloud was swirling— an immense black cloud— but it had already been hit by his crossbow bolts. Fire gouted from one side. The cloud had eyes— huge, burning red holes. And those eyes glared at the commandos with a terrible hatred.
New bolts tore into its black spiritflesh and orange tongues of fire soared over the smoke. An invisible sword smashed the stone near Vlad’s feet, but he was swift, too swift for the demon cloud.
The bolt speared through one of the red eyes and with a blood-chilling roar of triumph, the BattleSpirits sank their teeth into the enemy’s body. A banshee shriek blasted the soldiers’ ears.
And the devil fled, smoke puffs falling like drops of blood. But it was too late. Vlad had him.
He shouted the devil’s true name.
“Ben-Shin!”
The creature jerked to a stop, as if it had hit a wall. Vlad rushed over and encircled it with a pentagram.
A moment later Carvaserin came up. He tried to ignore Vlad, pretending he was in full control.
He addressed the demon: “Well, we meet at last. You’re a lucky fiend to have made it so far.”
“Down with him!” growled one of Carvaserin’s wizards. “Down with him!” echoed the others.
“Not only him.” The smile on Carvaserin’s face was vampire bleak.
“And not too fast,” said one of his magical aides.
“Surely,” gloated the master wizard. “And we’ll slow roast his kin as well.” Another death mask grin. “And also the humans who helped him escape. We’ll make them pay, by the gods.”
“Leave these traitors to me,” Vlad said softly.
It was not a request. It was an order.
The wizard’s face drained of all blood, making him look even more like a vampire. But he could say or do nothing. There was still the SelfGuard charm to be recovered.
“Squad!” Vlad bellowed to the Brown Bears. “Forward!”
Carvaserin and the other wizards remained behind with the wounded demon as the team moved on.
Vlad knew there was only one way to end this mission. Never mind the SelfGuard charm. The demon had committed
the ultimate crime when he fled. Down with him! Let all others tremble! Let their nightmares be filled with him, Major Vlad Projogin.
There was only one way to finish with this kind of resistance— total extermination of the transgressors. Hell, the Amers would do the same. Had done the same. It’s a cruel game, nothing more. Shoot first, interrogate later. Or you yourself will be shot.
The choice was simple …
The yellow water smelled as if it came from a sewer. Vlad and his men crossed the torrent. Another bank. The air was hot and thick. You could hang an ax from it, as the saying went. Unseen eyes were looking at the squad of softskins through the rock.
Vlad ignored them. Let them think we’re still blind.
“Up and left!” Vlad commanded.
Without a word the squad responded. It was a good path, narrow but carefully blocked. The wizards were covering the task force from a distance.
Then the first demon force struck. It was a desperate attack. But the hated softskins were too fast. Flame bolts pierced the black smoke which appeared from nowhere to blanket the path. A narrow gorge, cut in the very flesh of the rocks was suddenly filled with a blue fire.
But Brand Carvaserin was alert and cast a searing magical counter attack.
Vlad’s magical senses, faint as they were, caught screams of pain, fear and despair. His lighting bolt tore the smoky figure before him— and suddenly all was gone.
Some of the devils fled. How many of them remained, only a Master Wizard could say.
The path ended on a smooth plateau, green as spring grass. Far above the stars were shimmering and the black sky stood in strange contrast to the stony surface below, lit with a magical light.
Vlad turned for a moment and suddenly the yellow river was gone. Gray cliffs rushed to the heights, stubbed by roots all mossy brown picked with the deep green of the forests. In front there was Nothing. A Night of Naught, colorless, shapeless.
Then an icy wind sprang up, stinging their faces.
“Don’t let it bother you, boys,” Vlad hastened to say to the others. “It’s one of those damned devils’ tricks.”