Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  “Banshee rose from the last clear patch of water in the lake. It started with a rumbling boil and escalated to a geyser of water and muck; my friends ran screaming and, I wish I could say I was brave, but I wasn’t. I was frozen. His tail emerged first, and he flicked it like a whip to clear the duckweed from his skin. The noise . . . it was like a gunshot. The lake scum hit me across the face and chest with a sodden plop. I remember looking down at my chest, my legs, all covered with that muddy slop, and I got pissed.

  “When his head broke the water, I’d already launched my first ball of weeds and silt at him, and it hit him hard on the end of his muzzle. He was a little smaller then, and he gave a squeak of outrage that didn’t really fit the big, badass dragon that hovered over me, gray mud and weeds hanging from the horn of his nose.

  “And he started laughing.”

  “After a minute, I joined in, and he lowered his head to me and swept that horn across my chest with the delicacy of a mother’s touch. Flipping the weeds from me, I took a good look at him. He was exquisite. So beautiful, and he was real. I touched his jaw and ran my hand over that gorgeous pebbled skin, feeling the tips of my fingers rise and fall in the story of his magnificent face.

  “‘Banshee,’ he said, and I withdrew my hand as if burned, but he waggled that great head and reassured me that I could touch him, and that he was quite real. So I did, and I asked him to turn to and fro in the sun, just so I could marvel at him, like I was inspecting a stallion in all his muscular glory.

  “‘Saavin.’ It seemed to be the right thing to say, because he cocked a foreleg and offered his neck to me, streaming with water and beginning to shine in the day’s heat. He was red, or I should say all colors of red, and gray, and his wings deepened to the black of the winter sky. He was, and still is, the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen, and I climbed onto his back like I was born to it. I was, you know?”

  My friends stood in rapt silence, and I waved helplessly at the stacks of bamboo, telling the dragon—my dragon, my friend—that I could not leave them and the job at hand. Banshee laughed that curious bass titter that I know so well after three years together, and fixed me with the first of his signature stares.

  “We have better things to do than gather sticks, my dear,” Banshee said, laughing. He leapt into the air for the first flight of our lives, and flew me directly to my parents, informing them that I had a calling to fulfill, and it would be done on the front lines of the war, astride him.

  That was three years ago, and we’ve fought and killed every creature from the guts of hell. I watch people I know and love be torn into their most basic elements—flesh, bones, blood, and their last screams, their final reach toward home, oh, I see and hear it all, but I still wouldn’t ever go back to being the girl standing in a stagnant lake, sweating in the sun and wondering if some boy would kiss her at a bonfire.

  Like Banshee said, there are more important things to be done.

  Saavin Roark, Banshee’s Rider

  —Bulwark Archival Materials, Access Date 96 A.R.

  6

  New Madrid

  With dragons came a renewed sense of industry to the people of New Madrid. What was essentially an agricultural trading outpost transformed into a social hub as people streamed in from outlying areas, some as far as the ruins of Kansas City. Dragons were news, but to see the beasts winging over a heartland that had been considered lost was nothing short of a battle hymn. In addition to being weapons, the dragons were symbols. Like a crusader’s sword, they served many roles. The dragons flew in ever expanding concentric rings, scouting the lands and establishing friendships first based in awe, then amazement, and finally, trust. People tended to admire dragons, despite the initial reaction decades earlier; the surviving human populace had never known a time before the presence of their draconic saviors.

  After a random afternoon flight filled with lazy arcs and soaring on updrafts, Dauntless landed in a small crowd gathered at the outermost edge of the town fields. They were sharing a jug of the excellent town beer and discussing strategy for the wedge-shaped field before them. It was rowed with low mounds from which cucumbers ran riot. To Bertline’s trained eye, it appeared that this field alone could provide pickles and relish for a year, not to mention the daily pickings that would be eaten fresh. He was preparing to comment on the abundance when Dauntless sat up on his haunches in full alert, doing his best impersonation of an enormous prairie dog.

  Bertline’s hand went to his gun belt and drew. A pair of nine millimeter Berettas were in his hands when he asked Dauntless, “Threat?”

  The dragon’s eyes locked on a copse of trees some half mile distant, staring so intently that he didn’t reply or even indicate he’d heard his rider speak. The party of farm workers took direction from his glare and began to examine the group of trees as well, although not to the same degree of detail that Dauntless could manage with his predator’s sight. With a shudder of leaves, a sixty-foot poplar shuddered, leaned slightly, and began to vanish into the earth in a snapping series of jolts. Other smaller trees followed suit in seconds, causing Bertline to leap astride his dragon and run toward the unknown event. After several powerful strides, Dauntless growled and hurled himself skyward, flapping hard to gain altitude before performing a wingtip turn and hovering less than thirty feet above the ground. The silhouette of Bertline’s weapons drawn and pointed downward was the catalyst that broke any calm the farmers retained. They were tough people who were used to a fight, but the sudden action of the dragon and rider were coupled with the unknown; that mix proved to be impetus enough for the entire party to retreat pell-mell toward New Madrid. When they heard the crackling report of gunfire in the direction of the trees, the race was on.

  Bertline landed Dauntless in town, even as the hysteria began to break free. He roared once for silence, quelling the incipient riot that was being fanned by rumor and the fall of night. Before anyone could ask a cogent question, Bertline raised his large hands for calm. Despite the crush of people, he got it, although the stern visage of Dauntless certainly helped him achieve a fragile sort of calm.

  “No one is in danger.” Bertline’s voice boomed out over the crowd, only to be greeted with more uproar founded in disbelief. Dauntless, never the most patient of beasts, began to emit a rolling growl that rattled his gigantic chest cavity before erupting into a wordless roar. He let the rumble subside before filling his lungs again and lowering his wedge-shaped head to glare at the mass of shifting people.

  “Enough!” Dauntless let his jaws clamp together like the slamming lid of a coffin, and total silence blanketed what had been a near riot only moments earlier. “I will not repeat my need for quiet in order to answer your questions.”

  “Or what? You gonna eat us?” A lone voice carried from within the crowd. Now it was Bertline’s turn to growl as council members began to push their way toward the dragon and rider.

  “Is that what you think? Are you brain dead, or just incapable of holding your tongue?” Bertline’s heated gaze raked the crowd as the normally easygoing rider squared his bulky shoulders in anger. There was no response.

  Dauntless shook his wings into a more comfortable position. The resulting sound was the rustle of a deep forest creaking under a spring wind. He pulled his head back in disgust before a human sigh of resignation flumed from his chest.

  “I thought we were past this sort of thing,” Dauntless stated flatly. The accusation hung men and dragon.

  “We are,” Harriet Fleming spoke weakly. She used exaggerated care to shape her words, and her face was pale.

  “Good lady, you should be resting, or at the very least not here,” Bertline said.

  Dauntless nodded, his eyes never leaving the sweating form of the councilwoman. She looked stricken.

  “I know, but . . .” The rebuttal trailed off with a wave of Harriet’s hand at the crowd. That was all the explanation needed.

  Dauntless leaned down, his scaled forehead drawn in concern. “We need a mee
ting as soon as possible. This isn’t anything that can be meted out in doses. Can you arrange for that after sunset?”

  A competent looking young woman stepped forward. “I can. I’m the part-time assistant to the council, Jenn Alberville.” She addressed Dauntless and Bertline with a tight smile. A small woman with brown hair and hazel eyes, she exuded confidence and ability. “Harriet, go home and rest. I’ll get word out and prep the hall.”

  “Thank you, Jenn.”

  Dauntless nodded graciously for the intervention.

  “What do you do when you’re not arranging council business?”

  With one hand on Harriet’s elbow, Jenn looked back and made a gun gesture with her free hand. “I do the same thing everyone else does. I shoot demons.”

  7

  Underneath: Day Three

  Saavin and French alternated shifts, sleeping for two hours and standing a silent watch from high above the cavern floor. They sprawled comfortably on a shelf that was reachable only by a narrow ribbon of stone that had resisted erosion over time; it acted as a chokepoint that made the small area naturally camouflaged and easily defended. Saavin woke last to find French listening to something intently.

  “Do you hear that?” His eyes were discs in the low light. Every muscle of his body seemed carved from stone, and his breathing was barely visible.

  Saavin listened, but heard nothing save the odd click from the expanse of space below them. “What is it?” Her voice was low, nearly a whisper. In the silence, she felt rather than heard a low noise. It was a distant boom, fading to nothing, and then it was repeated.

  “This way.” French found a small path that went higher still and began eeling upward along the cave wall. It was an easy climb for the experienced outdoorsman and, twenty feet up, he found what he was seeking. It was a small opening, tight but manageable. Saavin watched him lever his body halfway through before dropping back and turning to her, a broad smile on his face. “I’m coming down.”

  “What is it? Another opening, or just a grotto?”

  French shook his head. “It’s big. And there’s lichen enough to see once we exit the throat of the passage. It’s only about three feet before it opens up. I see lights of some sort, but I can’t tell what they are. They’re flashing.”

  “Do we go there, or continue further in this main? We’re going in the right direction to link with the subsidence. That’s our goal, right?” Saavin asked.

  “Mm-hmm. It is, but the main deviates up ahead, I can tell by looking at the lichens. If anything, it gains altitude. We can pass through here, scout the direction, and if it doesn’t pan out, double back,” French explained.

  “Let’s grab our bags, then.” Saavin gave a decisive nod of agreement, and in minutes she was following French through the narrow opening.

  She pulled herself through to see French holding his hand oddly above his head. “Watch.”

  The noise repeated once again, a low rumble. White light illuminated his outstretched palm, throwing lacy shadows across his hand. It was a thunderstorm, viewed through a tiny opening in the ceiling high above, and the lightning projected through to cast flickering shadows where they stood.

  Saavin looked up at the thin wedge of storm dancing though the wedge of open sky. “We’re close to the surface. Maybe we double back now?”

  French didn’t answer. She turned to see him crouching, his head tilted in concentration. Ahead was a rockfall that angled upward, creating a mounded wall nearly ten feet tall.

  “What is it now?” Saavin asked. His hands were poised over something, as if he feared damaging it, but was too enthralled not to reach for it. She leaned over his shoulder as the lightning flashed once again, revealing an open-mouthed smile and a frayed woven hat.

  The skeleton was fully clothed and nearly complete, bones scattered only so far by the denizens of the cave. It rested against the mounded pile, leaning back in an angle of repose that seemed almost casual. After her initial shock, Saavin knelt to join in the examination. It was male, tall, and clothed like pictures of people from the middle of the last century, she thought. The cause of death was patently obvious; one leg was splinted with a hewn piece of root, the bone broken cruelly inches above the ankle.

  “Did he fall in?” she asked.

  “Looks like it. He may have caused the collapse for all we know. It looks like there was water coming through here at one point. Maybe the erosion ate away at the ceiling until . . .” French quieted as he turned the skeleton to the side with great care. “Ahh.” He slid something from the pocket.

  “What’s that thing?”

  “It’s a wallet. Men used to carry them for money and other things.” French opened the brittle leather and showed her the interior panel. “His driver’s license. You were required to have them in order to use cars and such, my grandfather showed me his,” French elaborated before falling silent.

  “What’s his name?” Saavin asked, curious. If nothing else, the skeleton was different from what her expectations had been of the underneath.

  When French didn’t answer, she carefully pulled the wallet form his hand, noticing that he was squinting at the license in disbelief. Saavin read the name like a jolt of the lightning that danced through the rocks high above. The man had been Peter Bruxton.

  “Is he . . . family?” she asked.

  “Yes. I know his name. The stories that my grandfather told me about the family’s land always turned to this man lying right here. Peter Bruxton. He’d sworn that the Bruxton farm was on top of something unearthly, possibly even valuable. Typical crackpot stuff, but he never veered from his claims. When he was pressed for evidence, he referred to old accounts from more than a century earlier, but he could never produce anything. Eventually, he went missing, and now we know where he ended up. And the why of it, too,” French said. His voice was heavy with regret as he thought of this man living the life of the eternally doubted.

  Saavin examined the remains with renewed interest. The bones had a name, and ceased being random evidence of a life unknown.

  “What’s he wearing? The fabric seems undamaged.” A red hiking jacket held the ribs and shoulders together, and Saavin stroked the fabric appreciatively. “Is it metal?” She tugged lightly at the front zipper, undone nearly to the belt that remained stubbornly attached to the faded pants.

  “It’s, ah, some artificial fabric. I can’t recall the exact name; there were many. Nylon, maybe?” French asked, pulling gently on his ancestor’s bones.

  Saavin looked up the slumping pile of stones and pointed. “He fell down those stones. Look, he dropped something. Or things.” She was in motion up the defile when French hissed in shock.

  In his hands, he held a small glass jar that glowed with the dancing points of a winter sky. Motes of gold and blue drifted, collided, and shimmered in a languid current held entirely in the confines of the jar. French’s eyes were filled with light of awe and wonder. “Saavin.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Look.”

  She didn’t hear him. Her back was turned and she stood at the top of the rockfall, wavering with shock. “French, you need to see this.” Her voice was flat and chilled.

  He ripped his eyes from the jar, reluctant to look away in case it was a mirage. “What is it?”

  Saavin’s eyes filled with tears, and she made no notice of the blizzard of light he held in his hand. She spoke softly, as if at a grave.

  “The people. I found all of the missing people.”

  French looked past her in disbelief. The slope fell away into darkness cut with intermittent lichenoid emissions that gave hints but no clear definitions of how the landscape was actually shaped, and over this mystery lay a cover of bones. Endless skeletal fragments tumbled down in a jackstraw whimsy, polished and glowing softly under the warring factions of light. Ribcages poked upward at all angles; some were intact, while others were partially dissected and lazing to one side due to their unnatural imbalance. Eye sockets gaped at them from skulls that had long lo
st the jawbones. Some were obviously cracked open, even at a distance, and there were shattered femurs and hips tangled amongst the myriad of unidentifiable chips and partial vertebra that covered the cavern floor like shells at a beach. The scene stretched away into unseen depths of wide, high passage that could encompass any and all of the cave system they’d walked to that point. Rustling in his bag, French withdrew a monocular and put it to his eye. After a minor adjustment, he withdrew from the lens as if stung.

  “It’s an ossuary,” French said into the silence. Neither of them moved, too stunned by the enormity of ancient death sprawling before them.

  “What about him?” Saavin recalled the presence of his lost ancestor, a look of mild shame crossing her pretty features.

  He waved it off, kneeling carefully next to the skeleton. “There’s nothing to be done for him.” He looked again through the clothes and turned over the remnants of a small knapsack. It had been leather, and very little was left, except for the tough edges. There was nothing inside, save a small piece of paper and the nub of a pencil. Both were encased in a plastic bag. He turned the paper to catch light form a nearby patch of lichens, then frowned and clicked on the small flashlight from his bag.

  “What’s written?” Saavin asked. The pencil marks shined dull under the artificial beam, showing words scrawled in a blocky masculine hand.

  French looked at the jar again, whirling with warm colors and secrets. The lights formed, broke apart, and reformed in an endless series of elegant collisions. Saavin reached for the jar and, when he handed it to her, she smiled in amazement.

  “It’s alive.” Her voice was thick with emotion.