Banshee

by Terry Maggert

  “Aimed fire only!” French bellowed, a call that the dragons took up and amplified. Unleashing gunfire toward the clinic was ill advised given the power of the rifles being used, but there was no choice. French had to depend on the aim of his militia.

  His trust was well-founded. There is a moment in each battle between demon and humans where time compresses and the participants are given an opportunity to ascend to heights unseen in terms of skill and aggression. Clarity descends on the field and one side will gain an advantage that is not to be relinquished. French watched Saavin guide Banshee through a fast, shallow arc that culminated with a crashing impact at the base of the demon’s graceful skull. Banshee’s arms encircled the long jaw, digging hard into the milky flesh until they audibly scraped bone. Tucking his wings, Banshee cleared the way for Saavin to fire ruthlessly into the depression of the monster’s right eye, while dragon and rider gave the invader a short, powerful lesson in applied physics.

  Banshee’s corded muscles flexed as he used the demon to brake his turn. One talon hooked deeply in the monster’s nostril as Banshee drove his shoulder hard into the back of the unprotected neck, all while shedding velocity in the span of an instant. There were only two options in that collision; either Banshee’s hold would rip free and wound the creature grievously, or something in the physiology of the demon would fail.

  The resulting crack of bone could be heard over the entirety of New Madrid. The slender neck of the demon could not withstand the brute force of Banshee’s rotation, and the spine parted in three places. The nervous system switched off without fanfare and, before Banshee could release his bloody hold, the giant demon began to topple sideways in a liquid tumble.

  The collective gasp at Banshee’s brilliance was soon replaced by cheers. For good measure, Saavin fired a round into the beast as it quivered in death, then raised her hand and screamed, “Next!”

  The militia still capable of speech broke into rabid shouts of bloodlust at the awesome display of draconic combat skills. French looked up to see fewer stretchers being carried away by Delandra’s relentless staff. There were dozens of still forms above and below the berms where the main militia had been arrayed. The blood cost had been high, and many people would not survive the night, let alone the next few minutes.

  Banshee came to hover again, his eye glittering dangerously. Saavin was covered in filth; the demons tended to come apart under enough fire from the rifles of New Madrid, and the battlefield had been churned into a paste of unearthly fluids and mud. Saavin waved down from above, her smile brilliant in the firelight.

  “One more. Are you hurt?” She motioned to Banshee that they should land, and French realized that his breath was coming in short gasps. He was in excellent condition, but sweat sluiced from his face as if it was the high point of a July day. The lull in fighting left him bereft of adrenaline and, for the first time, he realized a fever blazing within him. His skin was dry and hot.

  “I’m not hit,” he grunted with some effort. “I got dosed with something from one of the second wave, that has to be it. Not a scratch on me.”

  Saavin dismounted and strode to him with possessive care. A hand on his forehead caused her eyes to go round with shock. “Gods above, you’re burning. Are you certain you haven’t been bitten?” She held his face in her hands while peering into his eyes. The unmistakable brightness of fever lit them from within, and he blinked repeatedly to clear his vision.

  “Whatever it was, it isn’t fatal. I—it’s not inside me, I didn’t ingest anything. I’m thirsty,” he added before she thrust a canteen into his hands, then tipped it up again when he failed to drink as much as she thought necessary.

  “Can you fight?” Saavin asked. She pointedly didn’t inquire if he wanted medical care; she knew the answer and, even though he wasn’t a falsely prideful man, it made no sense to waste energy in disagreement.

  He flexed his shoulders with a delicacy that revealed his pain, then nodded. “I have to fight, but yes, I can fight. Stay close to the entrance and circle the dragons. This will be the final assault, and we can’t withstand another loss like what just transpired. Damn good flying, Banshee,” he offered up to the dragon, who nodded gravely. Banshee knew humans were a stubborn lot, so he fixed an eye on French and leaned closer.

  “If you go down, I am coming to get you. No questions, no protests. You’re leaving the field no matter what. Understood?” Banshee’s tone invited no discussion, and French was incapable of resistance.

  “Agreed. Now get aloft. It’s time.” French slapped Banshee’s muzzle as Saavin leapt up nimbly. She gave him a searching look before pumping her arm skyward to signal that the dragons should rally to her. French leaned back as far as he dared, savoring the delicious crackling of his spine, then twisted, rifle in hands, to continue releasing the tension and heat that plagued his body.

  Whatever is happening to me better hold off for an hour. I’ll be disappointed in myself if I die before being eaten by a demon. His graveyard humor brought him a half-smile and nothing more, so he began checking his weapons wile trudging slowly back up the slope to his vantage point. There were noticeably fewer shooters aloft; many of the platforms were simply gone. Thirty-foot sections of stripped pine littered the ground, their tenants eaten, missing, or whisked to the clinic by the unstoppable staff Delandra had crafted. If they survived this night, French meant for that doctor to have her choice of houses and all the salvage she wanted to fill it. He looked up at Colvin Watley’s armored platform and marveled that there were still six men present, weapons at the ready. Watley himself leaned out, his rifle trained on the cave in anticipation. Whatever reservations French harbored about Watley’s courage, they were gone. Posturing could only drive a person to be brave for so long before evaporating in the face of real danger. Their eyes met and French nodded slowly before turning back to the darkness before him.

  Do not take counsel of your fears. That phrase reverberated within every fighter still standing. French had repeated if often enough in hopes that it might stick. They’d seen creatures of such twisted flesh and vile purpose that fear no longer seemed possible; at some point, the natural acceptance of horror becomes the floor, not ceiling of wartime emotion. New Madrid’s militia were past masters at the art of pragmatic battle senses. Decades of war like clockwork will do that to the human spirit so, for the longest three minutes of their entire lives, they merely waited. Dragons circled tightly above, and French noted that Dauntless favored one foreleg, having drawn the limb tightly against his body. So our dragons are not immune to this fight, French noted. This fight was going to take years to erase, if ever.

  Thump. Thump. Every set of eyes turned to the cave as the bass reverberation died away. Thump. Impact tremors shook fragments of rock loose, to fall pattering from the rocky lip that led underneath. Whatever was coming, it was enormous. Thump. A blast of carrion-laden wind rushed from the mouth of the cave like a harbinger of pain. The smell was sulfurous, wet, and dead. Nervous calls echoed sporadically as shooters confirmed range until Arvin’s voice cracked with authority as he called for focus. French leaned forward as his fever spiked, vomiting onto the rocks with a heave. His forehead was slimed with sweat and he went to one knee, using his rifle as a prop to keep from collapsing entirely. His vision swam with floating lights, and reality detached from the scene before him until he shook his head violently enough that his teeth cracked together painfully.

  “Yessssssssssss.” The single word drifted like a curse as the demon emerged and, for the briefest second, French stood in admiration of hell’s efficiency. With two heavy steps, nearly 100 feet of luminous beast posed before them, surveying the battlefield with the carriage of a conquering king.

  It was a worm. A single pair of thick legs supported the front of the obscenely plump body, its skin glistening with the pallor of the grave. Four eyes blinked above a wide mouth that had no teeth; rather, there were two razor plates of bone that met perfectly in a dual inverted delta. Saliva fell free
ly to the ground, sizzling where it struck the corpse of the first demon. With a disdainful look, the master demon surged forward to surmount its dead compatriot, but not before taking a shearing bite of flesh from the inert form. The bone mouth slammed like an industrial press as the monster bit and chewed. “Failurrrrre,” the beast intoned around a mouthful of gristle. French struggled to understand how the creature could stand—it was hideously top heavy to be walking on a single pair of columnar legs— before realizing it was contracting like an earthworm to move forward. The repulsive creature was bifurcated by a line of pink running down the middle of the demon’s face, before vanishing over the crown of the skull. When it finished chewing, the entire militia of New Madrid shook off their collective awe at the horror before them and opened fire. Round after round crackled across the translucent skin of the monster, as flaps of skin were torn away with each impact. The demon seemed confused by the assault, and a wet tearing noise joined the fracas of gunfire and shouts. The front legs separated into four thinner appendages, while the hands were surprisingly human, if not for the black claws that curled out from the fingers.

  With a tilt of the cumbersome head, the creature spoke again. “We have commmmmmme.” The beast turned its own hands upon itself and began to methodically rip its chest apart. Following the reddened line, the black claws sliced knifelike through the watery flesh until it split with a shower of fluid. The remaining vestigial legs spread apart with ease and the creature turned to its thick tail, mouth snapping as it tore equal halves apart before the skull began to crack with an ominous boom. Taking a step forward while still under fire, the creature wrenched its own body apart with the inertia of its own massive weight. Both mouths closed spasmodically as the pair of newly freed worms moved forward in perfect synchronicity. French lurched to one side as the fire inside him reached a critical stage, but he kept his weapon firing, despite his lack of vision. The creatures were too huge to miss at this range and, as he toppled to one side from the pain, the dragons announced their presence with an attack.

  The Four Explorers swept in low through the drifting smoke, their speed high and their claws low. In matched pairs, they struck in an attempt to roll the worms back together, making a more centralized target for the remaining guns of New Madrid. The crackle of gunfire was noticeably depleted, and for a moment the tactic worked as both worms slammed together in a spray of gelatinous ooze. The advantage evaporated in seconds, as both creatures contracted and struck forward, covering the entire distance to the shooting platforms in a squelching rush. The Patty-Macs hammered both beasts without fail, but the left flank collapsed when a worm wheeled and swept the few shooters down from their perches in a shatter of wood and screams. The second worm was not idle; it rose up to snatch at Hert and Jindy, who were circling the pale monster as their riders clocked on ammo in a ruinous barrage.

  Then New Madrid heard a sound that curdled the blood of everyone in the fight. A dragon screamed.

  The worm that raged among the shooters executed a near-complete turn and succeeded in biting LaSalle’s outstretched neck. Again, physics took over as the blue dragon’s body continued forward at speed, despite being held in the bony mouth of the worm. A cavernous thud erupted from somewhere in LaSalle’s neck, and the magnificent dragon fell lifeless to the ground. The worm bellowed in triumph and began to rip great chunks from LaSalle’s noble frame, a violation that would haunt every survivor of the battle until the end of their days.

  Fury erupted among the dragons, who abandoned all efforts to combat the second worm and dove at the murderous demon with a collective howl.

  Some dragons are exclusively airborne warriors, but a few select beasts are known to relish the idea of combat on land. Every dragon present dropped from the sky onto the worm with horrific impacts. The worm was slammed downward, trying in vain to raise its mouth in defense against the repeated landings of the insane dragons. Unintelligible cries of bloodlust burst forth from the throat of each dragon as they abandoned all hesitation to sink their teeth into the worm, their claws raking and tearing in an orgy of killing that rendered the shrieking demon into a hundred feet of fleshy rags.

  Dauntless hopped to his friend’s body and threw his massive head toward the stars, screaming for LaSalle’s memory until he could no longer breathe. The grief was catastrophic, and the advantage New Madrid had was gone. The second worm broke out during the revenge and began to mount the final ridge into the town, when French stepped forward and began to fire methodically into the demon’s mouth.

  “Parker, it’s over. That thing is getting into the town and we’ve lost. It’s time to go,” Colvin said reasonably. He was still calm, and the men who survived the battle to that point looked upon him with a mix of horror and admiration. How Watley could remain unfazed by the death of LaSalle—and New Madrid, it seemed—was beyond them, and they averted their eyes, fearful that he might sense their judgment.

  “I’m not going anywhere with that thing loose down there. There’s no way to get down unless someone brings a ladder. The fall will kill us if the demon doesn’t,” Parker explained.

  “I thought you might say that.” Watley shot him with a pistol, then fired rapidly at the other men, striking each. He stepped over them one by one, putting a bullet in each man’s head and noting their shocked expressions. Everyone always dies surprised, he thought, then heard Parker’s wet cough.

  “You’ll die up here,” Parker wheezed. The bullet had made a salad of his lungs, and he was drowning in his own blood. Rage colored his face, but Watley paid it no mind.

  “No, I won’t.” He held up a small key. “Safety door with a rope ladder. I don’t take chances.” Watley left Parker to die, then lifted the plastic that covered a square metal cutout under his corner shooting position. He’d purposely taken the spot closest to the action, not from valor, but a sense of preservation. With one fat hand, he lifted the d-ring that was recessed into the floor.

  The door stayed closed.

  Panic flared in Colvin’s mind as shouts began to drift up to him from outside. With a quick look outside, he saw the dragons had rallied. They were attacking as one, trying to drag the worm back down the hill with sheer force. Watley’s eyes settled on the heroic form of French Heavener, who was kneeling in a shooter’s position with his back to the platform, and the decision was made. Colvin raised his rifle, aimed it at the pack on French’s broad back, and fired.

  There’s something to be said for the art of shooting. A truly great rifle may seem plain to the uninitiated, but functionality and flash are rarely connected. Watley’s glamorous rifle failed him as the round went wide and right. It didn’t miss French entirely; it struck a glancing blow in the backpack and threw him forward in a tumble.

  Saavin saw the event from a height and dove her dragon to reach French, who lay unmoving. His pack was torn open and spangles of glass winked in the firelight as Saavin dismounted in a roll. The battle intensified as the worm gained some advantage by hurling itself in tight circles, slamming the grounded dragons about in a dizzying roil of violence.

  “French. French. I’m here,” Saavin said.

  He lay on his back, his face nearly ghost white and seared with an internal heat. “Can’t breathe,” he muttered. His eyes flickered in a spastic dance.

  “Let me sit you up,” Saavin said. Banshee’s muzzle was a foot away, his eye fixated on the man who his rider had come to respect and possibly love.

  A storm of light erupted when she moved French to a sitting position, and hundreds of golden motes surged up and out, vanishing down Banshee’s throat in a frenzy. The dragon gasped, drawing the invaders deeper within him, and reared up in fear at the violation of his body.

  “The flask!” Saavin cried. “It shattered!”

  French cracked his eyes and coughed. The relief was nearly instant, and he sagged against Saavin in exhaustion as his body began to shed the lethal buildup of heat and power.

  Saavin whirled to face her dragon, who regarded her with
a quizzical expression. “Banshee?” There was a world in that question.

  The dragon grumbled, a deep, glottal noise of satisfaction. He shook his head like a dog, a comical gesture if not for the approaching demon brawling with the other dragons. Fires had burst into being across the field, and the first purpling of dawn was cresting the mouth of the cave.

  Banshee rose to his haunches, expanded his chest, and roared a challenge so visceral that every man, woman, and child in New Madrid cringed as if the voice of heaven commanded them.

  “Leave the worm.” The order was clear and succinct. Draconic curiosity interrupted the fight as even the demon paused at the undeniable power of Banshee’s shout. The dragons fell back.

  Saavin looked up at her dragon as French gained a knee. “You are complete?” She understood.

  “I am,” said the dragon, and he gathered himself to attack. A soft glow suffused ridges along Banshee’s neck and chest. The demon leaked ichor from dozens of wounds and, for the first time since its arrival, it hesitated. “You are right to fear me,” Banshee announced. “I have defeated your kind before, as I will now.”

  The worm knew fear. It leapt forward in a pulpy surge of desperation as Banshee’s jaws opened and the Godbolt burst into existence. A cone of sorcerous black fire ripped from the dragon’s throat with the sound of a dying world, coursing over the pallid skin of the worm with a cleansing heat that blew the demon apart into its most basic components. Banshee played the weapon across the trunk and tail of the monster until nothing was left save a fragment of the bony mouth plate. Drawing in another breath, he directed a tightened explosion of the Godbolt at the offending evidence of hell and, in seconds, the worm was no more. Silence descended on New Madrid. Every soul looked to Banshee with naked awe on their faces, dragon and man alike. Only Saavin reached out to him, her hand resting lightly on his jaw.