Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  French waved dismissively. “Handling her memory like glass isn’t going to bring her back.” He looked into the waves of light that pulsed high above like aurora borealis. “I know I couldn’t have saved her, no matter how much I love to fight. She wasn’t made for this world. She was gentle.”

  Saavin looked at him with soft eyes and gave a wan smile. “There were a lot of people like her. I think that the only survivors are too tough to be good friends, sometimes. That’s why my dragon is so dedicated to me, I think.”

  “Why you? Why Banshee?”

  Her shoulders twitched with the ghost of a shrug. “We’re alike. We both love the fight, and we know the truth about what’s happening.”

  “Which is?” French asked. He was looking for confirmation, not revelation.

  She delivered. “We’re losing. So, yeah, when you ask if we’re along for the same reason. . . . yeah, I am. I’m twenty. I don’t want to have even more to lose than my own life. Than Banshee. I don’t have any more to give than that.” Saavin scuffed at a bone chip that shone pale near her black-armored foot. “What are you going to give? To New Madrid?” Her gaze was level and frank.

  “I’m not giving New Madrid anything, it’s only a beginning. We are losing, even though it seems like we have stable pockets of humanity, but the truth is we’re one accident away from being erased. I know that, because I saw it happen. The only way to win is to become so enormous that they can’t hurt us anymore. We have to grow. We have to reclaim what was ours, and we can build it with tough people still left after the first sixty years of this bloodbath,” French said, with the fervor of a true believer.

  “And you’re the person to do it?” Her brow arched with mild derision. Such delusions of grandeur seemed outside his normal personality.

  “No.” He shook his head decisively. “I am one of the people who can start the process. This war goes over the horizon of my life. I’d be vain and stupid to think otherwise.” A lithe blue insect with an impeller for a tail flew past them, darting up and away into the murk of the thin clouds that drifted overhead. It was an alien comment on their human discussion, and they both smiled.

  She stood, stretching her long legs with a grimace. “I’ll be here for the fight. I like the idea, and you’re going to need help. Now let’s go blast this place and bring the mountain down on their heads.”

  His answering smile was brilliant in the phosphorous light. “Just so.”

  10

  Dragons

  “Seven billion people died from vanity. Wait, that isn’t entirely true; if I were a coroner, I may have put the cause of death as avarice or even pettiness. Perhaps even outright evil if one believed in such things. As a scientist, I didn’t have time for the supernatural. My demons were United Nations wonks declaring every single shard of pottery to be a World Heritage Site before closing it entirely to research. Their goal wasn’t to preserve the past; it was merely to avoid being seen as bigoted against cultures that couldn’t defend themselves against the curiosity of well-funded investigators, no matter where they hailed from. If they were European or American, then the archaeologists or paleontologists were immediately suspect, and incredible evidence was wrapped snugly in the jargon of institutional graft and bribery. If you couldn’t pay, there was no digging, and eventually, the locals would scour the site you had painstakingly uncovered right down the bedrock. The items would be for sale online in less than a day, and gone to private collections, never to be seen again, in less than week. It was a plundering of the most ancient secrets our world had to offer, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  “I soldiered on, partially due to some unspent grant money and my third divorce, but also for love. I loved fieldwork. I always had. There was something about being the first to shine lights on something that had once been a wonder, but was now buried in muck and fig roots, lost somehow between drought or war and left to molder unseen. My own wanderlust and funding led me to a meaningless project on an unnamed island in the Southern Ocean. I was to excavate the area where a dragon had risen; it seemed that there were carved stones intimating some sort of human presence well under the surface of the uninhabited rocky outcropping. The island itself served no other purpose than threatening ships and collecting flotsam; it even failed miserably as a windbreak. I arrived via a research vessel that rolled no less than thirty degrees with each wave for what seemed a month, my sea sickness having progressed well past what one might call a malady. I was nearly dead with dehydration, despite the best efforts of the quite competent ships’ doctor, a Russian woman who gave me the most relentless care I’ve ever known. Her refusal to let me simply flop to the deck and surrender was the best thing that had ever happened to me. And the worst.

  “Professionally, it was the discovery of a lifetime, hell, of a dozen lifetimes. For in that strip of frigid water known as the Roaring Forties, that island held not one secret, but dozens. A medium male dragon named Fabian had emerged from the center of the island, leaving a slumping hole and causing a landslide that led to the collapse of a minor volcanic shield remnant. When asked about his place of birth, so to speak, the enigmatic Fabian simply demurred, flicking one blue wing in the direction of the island and telling all who asked, ‘If you wish to know so badly, you may visit of your own accord.’ His distaste for the desolate rock was legendary, and there was only one solution to answer persistent rumors that were only inflamed by a series of grainy satellite images seeming to reveal a stone arch of indeterminate age. Two months later, I stood at the edge of the pit with three assistants, my Russian doctor, and hope that at the very least I would survive the howling winds of the Southern Ocean. The island was raw, the wind was frigid, and the sea a merciless spume of icy droplets that soaked me to the skin despite the finest foul weather gear money could buy.

  “I forgot all of it when I looked into that scarred hole in the ground. Where the dragon emerged was clear; his claws had raked the stones with astounding power, and the cavity, presumably from his tons of mass, had collapsed and begun the process of deterioration that ran roughshod over the pit. Beneath Fabian’s former crèche was something entirely unexpected. My heart leapt as a tingle of dread climbed my spine in a most unwelcome touch, for in the dying light of that weak sun, an arch climbed up out of the stygian unknown before fading into obscurity under the angled shadows. The sun struggled to pierce beyond the first half of the walls descending downward, and a faint odor of antiquity drifted upward in subtle warning.

  “My eyes lit upon the arch, and the world fell away. The relic was certainly hand carved. Blackened with age, it was covered in a series of frescoes that were clearly visible, even from my vantage point. I think I stopped breathing altogether, jolted from my reverie only by my doctor, Luba, who touched my arm gently. The Russian woman peered into the depths, assessed the twisting serpents that were carved into the arch of stone, and looked at me with something between pity and fear.

  “‘I think you are glad that I did not let you give up and die, but as for me, I am not so sure,’ Luba said, then turned away from the site and crossed herself in the manner of a lapsed Eastern Orthodox sinner who was faced with a childhood fear. Her sudden renewal of faith led me to take another long look at the bas reliefs before I rigged some means to descend the twenty feet to the uppermost reaches of the arch. I was weak, thirsty, and my eyes wept at the mercy of the hissing winds, but in ten minutes, I was descending on brilliant red climbing rope to hang twisting slowly above the curved stones that were more alien than the dragon that had emerged ten yards away. Hoarfrost and dirt partially filled the gyrating designs, but it was clearly a story. A history, if you will, and I am skilled at deciphering histories.

  “In seconds I knew I would need none of my nuanced abilities to discern what this column of stone was intended to do. After a brief lowering to the bottom sections, I had the burly assistants pull me up at a steady rate as I photographed each scene, my stomach roiling with the clear meaning of images that bordered on ins
anity. When I reached the lip, I disentangled myself from the harness and walked swiftly from the darkening hole. I rousted everyone from the island, using my authority to its limit, and we were churning the waters once again in less than an hour. Luba regarded me with suspicion for some time before she approached me with a cup of broth, placing it before me without a word.

  “‘Will you tell others what you have seen?’ she asked, and I knew she was asking a series of questions in that one sentence. Would I risk my tenure and reputation on the findings in a place so remote it was unlikely that anyone would verify anything I claimed? Was I ready for the knife fight atmosphere of academia, in which ideas were torn apart, along with careers, simply for presenting evidence outside the current, profitable orthodoxy? Was I a fool? And, perhaps most importantly, did I believe my eyes?

  “The answer was simple, despite the underlying truth of her question. I was fifty-five years old. I was nearing retirement, and I lived in a world where dragons—who spoke, no less—were emerging from the ground and calmly informing humanity that a war with hell was just over the horizon. In that context, my decision was exceedingly easy. I didn’t present my beliefs for peer review. I wrote no stodgy paper or treatise. I merely compiled my pictures, labeled my interpretations, and dumped the entire thing online.

  “In days, four other well-respected scientists cut through the blizzard of doubt with similar reports of their own. Like me, they found their sites in remote areas. Like me, there was a clear narrative rendered in stone, although in the Welsh site there was an inlay of wood that was thousands of years old, preserved in some heretofore unknown method using smeared animal fat and ashes. All of our findings were nearly identical, save one terrible difference, but before I comment on what variations we found, it helps to understand the story. Simply put, each cave had an ever-expanding column or arch that was carved from the beginning of recorded time, and possibly well before our accepted version of that timeline. The Welsh site was dated at more than 14,000 B.C.E., and that’s being generously skeptical. It could be much older. The story begins with mankind learning to build and grow crops. He masters the animals, and then turns his eyes to the heavens where he begins to ask basic questions about what it means to be human. Then, as he is on the cusp of something great, building a civilization without compare, the gates of hell open and he is cast down to the depths again to be enslaved, and eaten, and degraded beyond recognition.

  “Then, to the horror of everyone who read the stones, the cycle begins anew, and man begins the long climb back to where he once was, doing so without the knowledge that under his feet lurk the beasts that will once again feast on the bones of his achievements. It happened time and again, an oscillating cycle of triumph and blood that was left undiscovered by the enormity of the crime; what man could not reclaim from the depths of legend and time, he was doomed to experience again when the whims of demons needed satisfaction.

  “I’d gotten noisily sick in my office when I realized what we were. Cattle. We were pets, sheep, clever toys, and we were allowed to flourish and reach heavenward only at the pleasure of some unseen malefactor for whom all of the pain and blood in the universe were not enough.

  “I cast my doubt aside that day and, while I did not believe that there must be a supreme being, I knew without a doubt that there was an ultimate evil, and the dragons had come to fight it by our side.” —Dr. Alec Gauthier

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

  11

  New Madrid

  Until the day before French and Saavin returned from their foray into the black underneath, dragon wings had been a sign of victory, or hope.

  Not that day.

  A tumult arose from the town’s hub just in time to spy the lean silhouettes of descending dragons as they circled New Madrid in a powerful cavalcade. Four lean, athletic dragons curled hurriedly downward, lighting in the open town center just as Banshee and his companions had days earlier. They were quickly identified by their color and nearly identical size; the Four Explorers had risen together, fought as a team, and shared a coloration of blues and cream that made them seem like a single beast with four parts. They were noticeably riderless, a fact that escaped none of the townsfolk who gathered around them to shout greetings.

  Before their wings had settled, Banshee swept in from his resting place near the river, his eyes bright with distress. He knew harbingers when he saw them, and there were four in front of his eyes.

  “Why have you left Trinity?” Banshee asked the four, making room for Dauntless, whose lumbering, groggy approach bespoke the depths of his sleep only moments before. Bertline and Rae muscled their way through the crowd to stand near their dragons, worry creasing both their faces.

  “Where are Jindy and Hert?” Meri spoke for the Explorers, his clear tenor strained from a long flight and worry.

  “Hunting to eat. You know Hert.” Banshee’s answer caused a ripple of laughter among the crowd; his legendary appetite was already well-known in New Madrid. The amiable dragon’s tone grew serious again. “Why are you not defending Trinity?”

  The Four Explorers shifted in place, their body language telling a collective story that even the least perceptive resident of New Madrid detected. Something was seriously wrong. It was Nicolet who broke the news.

  “Trinity is gone.” Nicolet spoke in a clear tenor, her words saturated with carefully-marshalled sadness. Dragons were notoriously skilled at forgetting; they were slow to anger and reliable in a fight. Their strength didn’t end when the fighting died. Dragons suffered no remorse, no adrenaline bleed, and no shakes. Above all else, they washed themselves of regret as soon as their minds turned to the next task. From the body language of the four blue dragons standing before Banshee, it was obvious that the death of their home was going to challenge that ability to the fullest. “All of it,” Nicolet growled. Her frill rose slightly as the anger took hold anew.

  Banshee emitted an involuntary hiss. “Where are your—”

  “I said Trinity is gone.” Nicolet’s tone invited no second question. The gathering tension around dragons and townsfolk went black with grief. “A few dragons were with their riders on regular coastal patrols. An entire wing is deployed permanently to the villages along the inland sea. Whatever killed Trinity will not strike there; they are forewarned.”

  The dragon’s head slumped in a remarkably human gesture. She was tired from the flight and riven with sadness.

  Banshee dipped his muzzle in apology before asking, “Who gave the command to protect the fishing outposts?” It was a swift and sensible decision, and he wanted to understand what, if any, order remained in their former home.

  “I did.” It was Bartolome who spoke, his deep blue head tilting to one side as he regarded the gathered crowd with a level gaze.

  “Why?” a wheezing voice asked from below. Harriet Myers looked up at the quartet of dragons, shielding her eyes with an angled hand. Perspiration beaded her sallow skin and she swayed slightly. Despite those signs of weakness, there was power in the woman.

  Bartolome sensed her innate strength. Perhaps it was the deference accorded her by the crowd, but each dragon adjusted their stance to bow slightly in Harriet’s direction. “Good lady, you are ill?”

  A quick nod was all Harriet could manage. “I am not long for here. Go on, please.” It was factual and succinct, dismissing any attempt to bring her personal situation into the discussion.

  “It is quite simple. We were poisoned. Nearly 3000 dead, even some of my dragon brethren were sickened. Briefly.” Bartolome uttered this last bit of news with a touch of incredulity; dragons were impervious to toxins of every kind save one.

  “Demons? How?” Harriet sputtered. Short of biting a dragon, there was no known way to deliver the venom of a hellbeast. Dragons were too tough.

  Nicolet spoke again, and this time she sounded cautious. “Something new. We think we remember them, from a time before, but we are not certain.”

  The brighter
souls among the crowd began to murmur, but it was a tall, lean farmer who stepped forward to put a calloused hand on LaSalle, who was the dragon closest to him. Lynn Prestagaard was a quiet man with a preternatural skill at solving problems. His blue eyes narrowed in the sun as he raised his voice above the low level chaos.

  “From when? Do you remember things from before the world fell?” Prestagaard’s question fell into a momentary lull brought on by his boldness.

  The dragons said nothing, but not from an unwillingness to speak. Their collective silence was indication of group thought.

  Meri, the largest of the four, broke the odd quiet. “I dream about the time before this place.” He looked abashed, if a dragon could be such a thing. “I feel echoes, sometimes. There are images of places I have fought, and the land is . . . different. Less civil than the world that just passed us by. The beasts are ancient things, hairy and wild, and they do not fear me in the dream.” He spoke with great precision, scrutinizing his own memories. “I have risen and fought near a lake. There were people nearby; they wore animal skins. I assume they were what you call Indians, but I can’t be certain. We fought demons on the ice of a long shore. That I remember clearly; I feel this was the most recent of my awakenings.” His voice grew more confident with the telling. “I know that we carry our histories with us and, in filtering mine for knowledge, I remember a beast that sickened us. They are shadows to me now, but they are present. We will consult one another to sift this particular set of half-saved secrets.” Meri gave a curt draconic nod and stepped back slightly, his outburst complete.

  “Racial memory seems plausible, since you rose from the earth speaking and informed of the wider world.” Curt Moscowitz was an engineer first and foremost, and he applied that logic to the problem before him. If the dragons spoke of many lives, Curt accepted that and moved immediately to use such knowledge. His pragmatic side knew no limit, especially when confronted with the musings of a thoughtful dragon. “When you can speak more of these creatures who sickened you, will you meet with us? We may be able to prevent other deaths.”