Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  “It took the dragons another week of feeding to get strong enough to reach us and, by then, they weren’t in combat shape. Nothing close. ‘Course neither were we. For that matter, I’m still not sure how we held out during the last charge of demons. I lost 60% of my men. Half my support staff. We surrendered nearly every piece of artillery we’d scrounged, and then I lost my wife and kids. One minute, they’re in the rear with the gear, the next, they’re 200 feet down a hole. I wasn’t there, which is probably for the best. I’m told . . . I’m told the bloodshadows turned them into husks inside of a minute, but it wasn’t quiet. My men lowered lights to cook off the attack, but it was too little, too late. There was just enough darkness to let those fiends survive, and they were filled with the blood of innocents within seconds. We ended up firing the entire pit just to close it off; but that was long after the battle ended.

  “We made our final stand in the rays of dawn near a crossroads on Highway 521 just west of Salters, South Carolina. Didn’t make sense to run, we’d lost our entire column of evacuees, and morale was crap. We were exhausted, hungry, cold. There was a wet chill in the air that made you want to crawl under a blanket, but we didn’t have any blankets. Those were in one of the holes that opened up under the survivors of Charleston. It still makes me sick to think about my city. Even with thousands of soldiers defending her, that beautiful place was buried under an avalanche of monsters. We had fallback instructions—everyone on the coast did—so we left when the sun was well up, convinced we could make safe distance by nightfall.

  “We were right. But then, the attacks would come every night. I thought only the killing moon was dangerous; I was wrong about that. Every hole, every ruin, mine, factory, even highway underpasses were clogged with the creatures of hell. There was no safety, only the goal: get to Asheville. Stay alive. And for the sake of everything holy, don’t turn your back on the dark.

  “There were three groups of demons in pursuit; two aboveground, and one dogging us like a burrowing rumor. We couldn’t outrun them, and now, without people to protect, there seemed to be no reason. I had us fan in a crescent, since military discipline wasn’t going to help. It was over. We passed bottles, and whatever candy remained tucked away for the last day on earth. For a few minutes, we watched the gray turn to that soft rose that tells you the day is drawing a waking breath. It was beautiful, even though I knew I’d be dead before the sun burned the frost from the grass, then I felt a rumble from ahead and knew the demons were close. They were massive tuskers, six legged and bigger than African elephants. Bone frills sloped back from their thick skulls, and airy screams preceded their charge. I fingered my rifle and thought about weeping. Several people laughed, or cried. I couldn’t be sure which.

  “I saw the lights behind us first before I heard anything, then I was stunned stupid by a half dozen airport courtesy vans roaring up the highway, engines wound so high that I swore they were going to melt before they could go another yard. Over this armada of white vans flew three dragons, and I’ve never felt such sick relief in my life.

  “I never will again. I know it.”

  “The vans lurched to a halt, rocking on their springs as the doors flew open and pairs of drivers leapt out waving guns and shouting.”

  “‘To us! Fall back!’ they shouted over and over, and then the dragons roared at us to get our asses in gear. That was a command we could obey, so we hightailed it from our resting places to push near the vans. Just then, I saw the drivers waving us down. I heard Marling shout something about scalehounds, and thought he’d lost his mind. But then I saw. Damn near fainted, too. We would’ve clocked our ammo on what came pouring out of those tinted vans if hadn’t been for the dragons telling us to stand down.

  “One woman who seemed to be in charge waved about 100 scalehounds in collars past her. Each of the monsters had a bell on their neck, as ridiculous a thing as I’ve seen in my entire life. They jingled like reindeer when they loped by, hissing and spitting in the direction of the charging behemoths.

  “Marling swore again in my ear, ‘Tamed scalehounds?’ I didn’t have time to answer because the dragons and hounds smashed into the wave of demons like a heavenly hammer. Scalehounds would slide under the charging enemy to rip a hamstring, and the dragons dropped from above to bite behind those bone frills that covered the huge demon’s vulnerable necks. For good measure, the drivers snapped off a few rounds, adding to the chaos of what swiftly became a rout. It was over in minutes. They caught the second group of demons, too. To our left, the dragons found a mass of wooly serpents with two heads that had chased us for over a week. The hounds nipped at them until the snake demon would rear up, at which point a passing dragon severed the long body with one slash of a hissing talon. As victories go, it was total. And perfect.

  “The kennel master, or mistress, I guess, was Alice Hoefler, formerly the owner of the Green River Family Gem Hunt. It was a mine of sorts, where kids could paw through a bucket of mud that had been salted with gems. The Carolinas used to be lousy with them; I went to one myself for a friend’s birthday party, back when we celebrated such things. Alice was quite the dog person and, when she found a wounded scalehound in the mouth of her mine, she decided to see if it could be tamed.

  “Turns out, she was right. When dragons from Britain showed up, lost and hungry, she arranged for them to clean out a trout hatchery that was a mile away. Alice was a natural-born leader. In a matter of days, they found out a few key bits of news. The hounds laid eggs. Lots of eggs. And they grew fast. If you had them from hour one, they tamed like any other wild animal—which is to say they didn’t entirely, but enough to use them. In a year she had a fighting force, the dragons had their leader, and Alice decided it was time to go on the offensive.

  “She did so with a vengeance. I’ve been with her since that day; we make a good team. I know how to sneak, her hounds know how to track, and the dragons know how to smash. We’ve cleared an area of over 200 square miles, and we’re never going to stop. We’ve got maps of every hole in the world, and we intend to root the devil from his pit and tear him limb from limb.

  “Hell better listen for the songs of our hounds. They love to sing when they track, and that’ll be the last thing those demons ever hear.” —Major Preston Radavich, U.S. Army

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

  Book Four: Upwelling

  1

  New Madrid

  There are times for panic, and there are times for calm. French looked out over the buzzing crowd that packed the Grange and made his decision. This is no time for panic.

  Harriet was dead. They’d buried her while the entire town was caught in a fugue state, wondering what came next. She’d been capable, honest, and then she was gone. Now, the fissures that ran through the people of New Madrid were as dangerous as those that ran under it. Colvin Watley promised a special announcement tonight; French and Amy Delacroix expected nothing less than a soft coup. Trusted friends of the council were placed discreetly at each entrance; if things got rough, they need only whistle to summon additional men waiting outside. Their instructions were unambiguous; order was to be preserved, but not with any loss of life. French hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but his plea to the better angels of Watley’s faction had been rebuffed on two occasions. Watley himself had ignored French completely and, for such a large, obtrusive presence, he’d been invisible for days at a time. His views remained opaque through absence, even though Wesley Yarnell inexplicably agreed to meet with Amy Delacroix and the dragonriders that morning. When pressed about Watley’s intentions, the evasive Yarnell responded with a question by asking what New Madrid needed most for the oncoming killing moon.

  “Trained killers,” Amy Delacroix quipped, adding a dubious glance at the forgettable, weak appearance of the man before her.

  Wesley Yarnell had smiled knowingly before excusing himself, and the rest of the day had been a blur of planning and implementation. The shooting platforms were in place, an
d special preparations according to French and Saavin’s exacting instructions had been achieved, albeit with grumbling from the agricultural workers asked to dig a ditch that went seemingly nowhere. The modest trench veered wildly from the black of the underneath, ending in a deeper square in the earth. Dragonriders modified the terminus further, then Jindy positioned himself nearby to keep curious onlookers at bay. The dragon hadn’t been busy rebuffing the curious; there was simply too much work being done in New Madrid to allow anything other than casual interest.

  “We have less than one day until the killing moon,” French began. His use of that phrase brought a swift hush to the emotionally-charged room; everyone present tasted the fear in their throats, as unwanted memories pushed through the door. After a final moment to allow calm to descend, he continued with a nod at Amy and spoke again, letting his voice carry. Orontes sat nearby, and favored him with a nod of encouragement.

  “In case you haven’t heard, I took a little walk,” he began. A ripple of nervous laughter trickled forward. “Saavin and I have seen the past. And the future.”

  “Which one’s better?” shouted someone from the brewers. They were gregarious by nature, and the tension lessened with their collective chuckles.

  “The future,” French replied with conviction. “Let me explain what we saw, what we know, and how it’s going to help us. For starters, we know that there are indicators—yes, those giant lice, for one—warning us that giant demons are on the way. At our previous military capability that would have been the end of us, but we have dragons, and we have a plan. Saavin, if you’d help me out? Tell everyone about the city we found. Tell them about what’s possible.”

  Saavin rose, timidly, and cleared her throat. She was used to commanding ten tons of dragon, but speaking was nothing she chose to do of her own free will. Behind her were a series of white boards salvaged from office buildings far and wide. French had sketched outlines of the pyramids, the kennels, and elements of his plan. With a final look at French and the silent Orontes, whose eyes glittered with interest, she began to speak, but halted at a commotion near the entrance.

  “Before you continue with your plan for victory, might I interject some much needed balance to this discussion?” Colvin Watley’s voice carried smugly from the back door as he stepped into the Grange with a group of men French didn’t recognize.

  Cynthia Pennyroyal erupted from her chair and pointed a calloused finger in his direction.

  “Parker, you idiot!” she cursed. The slim man behind Watley merely smirked, then mimed shooting Cynthia with his finger.

  So this is how he makes a scene. Let’s see how this plays out. French kept his expression bland during the tumult, unwilling to give the interloper any advantage whatsoever. The division in New Madrid was deeper than anyone imagined, and heated arguments burst into life throughout the crowd.

  “Please! I’m only here to add to our defense!” Watley shouted. “I wholly support the council and whomever they choose to carry on after the tragic loss of Harriet!” That caused a buzz of confusion until he’d repeated it in various forms, patting the air for quiet all the while.

  “And how do you propose to help us, Colvin?” Paul Harrah asked. There was naked rage on the horseman’s face, and French made a note that there was little question about which way Paul’s loyalty broke.

  Watley sensed his moment was at hand, and took an operatic pause to straighten his shirt. “Some time ago, I asked the good engineers of New Madrid to create a durable, armored shooting blind. You might recall my family was killed during the great hurricane that took Charleston, and I’ve never forgotten that senseless loss.” He paused to let the crowd digest his revelation. “I drew plans that have been made into reality by our own Honor Dolarhyde, and the results are superb.”

  All eyes turned to Honor’s dark face, who looked increasingly like she’d been duped with each passing second.

  She slouched even further in her chair before Watley continued, “My team has just completed the installation of this enhanced shooting platform.” Before French could protest, he blurted, “I know you don’t think I’m worth a damn, so anything I can contribute is a bonus to us, right? Right?” he pled in an unusually humble tone. There were mutters and downcast eyes, but little resistance to the admission that he was hated. “I know what you see when you look at me. I know what you think. I’m a liar. I avoid work. I only care about myself.” He paused with a rueful grin. “I was a damned good hunter as a kid, and I’m still worth something. To prove it, I used my own funds to recruit these people.” He waved at Parker and a dozen other grim-faced men behind him. “They’re good with rifles, have their own weapons, and all they ask is that New Madrid welcome them as citizens after the shooting has stopped and we, as a community, are victorious. Any consideration for me as a public servant of our town can wait until the dust has settled.”

  “Where will you be when it’s hot and heavy, Colvin? Tucked safely back away from the screamers?” Amy Delacroix spat. She was far from alone in her assumption, but French stayed silent, knowing that Watley would have that angle covered.

  Watley nearly beamed at her insult. “Why, good lady, I’ll take my place in the shooting platform with my other men. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  An hour later, Saavin sat down, wrung out and still dizzy with tension from the pointed questions hurled at her. The plan was good. The people were ready. Watley had been more sideshow than catastrophe, but the infusion of cold, calculated tactics by the dragonriders quelled any notion that a handful of men would turn the battle in either direction.

  When they finally left the Grange, French whispered in Saavin’s ear, his voice rough with anger and relief, “You did well.”

  Her answering smile warmed him, and he felt the dread of their situation being replaced with that tenuous calm that exists before every battle. Her teeth were brilliant in the starlight.

  “I’ve fought many times before, but this is the first time I’m doing it before the great unknown,” she said. Her smile flickered.

  “We don’t know, do we? Orontes might be right. He may be wrong, and we’ll be left with a civil war, or we could be overrun.” His worries returned in a rush.

  Saavin’s hair shook as she refuted his statement. “Not about that. I’ve been down there. I know they’re coming.”

  French let his shoulders slump in admission. “Right. What then? What else is there to understand?” He tilted his head at her, noticing again how her smile gathered the glow from the sky.

  She tapped his chest with one finger, then moved it to his cheek, letting it trail delicately across the plane of his face. Her fingertip was warm, and the gesture left French short of breath. He hadn’t known a touch like that in a long time.

  She grinned again, her eyes dancing in the dark. “You’ll figure it out.”

  2

  Dragons

  “I killed the last demon in the Great Lakes. I did it with my claws because it was so repugnant, I could not fathom allowing any of that creature to sully my palate. I’ve spent the better part of two decades collecting—some would say stealing, an ugly term, that—wines from around the remnants of the United States and Canada. I do so love the giant vineyards of Western Pennsylvania; their concept of a yearly crop warms my draconic heart.

  “To be sure, I’ve been accused of having pedestrian tastes. That mongrel Nicolet tried to lecture me about the distinction between Germanic whites and the sweeter, more accessible, vintages of Austria. To think I wasted an afternoon arguing with a barbarian who had the remains of a nurse shark in his teeth. I’d sooner eat a roll of that dreadful shag carpet that they send me to Georgia for on occasion, but there’s no reasoning with a dragon that’s read stacks of ancient wine collector magazines. It does no good to argue with the proletariat once they’ve seen the good life.

  “Ahh, but back to the demon of Lake Erie. As you may have suspected, he wasn’t the first beast to attack Cleveland. That honor would go to a
band known as Flirty Sanchez, whose mistaken admission into the rock and roll hall of fame touched off a three day orgy of debauchery and rioting some years earlier. As repulsive as their music—and I use that term in the loosest sense possible—might have been, at least they didn’t eat an entire ferry filled with geriatric Canadians. That honor went to Lord Scalubrus, after which the giant, scaled cougar descended beneath the waves and hid like a coward. That is, he hid until I found him.

  “I was winging north to collect a particularly good shipment of Canadian whiskey—yes, I like variety—when I noticed flotsam emerging in a pattern near the shore of Long Point. I saw the most extraordinary sights. Long lost ships were hurled onto the shore with complete disregard for their integrity or worth—I’m a student of history, you know, and I simply cannot abide that type of wanton hostility toward objects in the marine archaeological record. I traced the debris inland to a place once known as Port Dover, and found what I suspected; the loathsome Lord Scalabrus had risen once again in all his scaly, pestilent glory. What a vulgar beast. I’ve always resented his choice of names; I find it rather vainglorious that he should be so chuffed as to title himself with that of the nobility. He was busily stuffing screaming pigs into his repulsive mouth when I first circled. The herdsmen, whom I later met and shared a fine cask of raw spirits with, were at a distance, in full flight. Their lifelong work curating such a magnificent herd of pork was gone down the gullet of that most-unworthy demon. I admit to a heated rage that was wholly unbecoming, and flew away to look for something special to make my displeasure known.