The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel

by David Mack

  “Sensible. What do you need of me?”

  Niko’s trademark optimism faded. “You … are to be my insurance. If my plan fails, for whatever reason, and the train gets past us … I need you to get Camille out of Auschwitz.”

  Stefan’s courage faltered. “The camp is warded, Niko. I breached its barriers once, to get the Codex. The enemy has taken steps to ensure I cannot do so again. And you should know: Most prisoners are killed on arrival. If your sister enters Auschwitz, her chances will be slim.” Reading the dejection on Niko’s face, he was quick to add, “But I know their train routes. If need be, I will set my own ambush and halt the train before it reaches the camp.”

  “Can you get to Auschwitz ahead of the train?”

  He wondered how Niko would react to the truth. “I never left.”

  “You’ve been there this entire time?”

  “Since returning the Codex, yes. Watching. Trying to find a way to save those inside.” Stefan hesitated to play Devil’s advocate, but now he felt compelled to try. “Niko … the master has been correct before. And I think he is right about the train: this feels like a trap.”

  “It is only a trap if you do not see it coming. This is an invitation to a fight. And I plan to come ready to give them one. My only question is … are you with me?”

  Stefan couldn’t let Niko face this alone. He smiled. “Who doesn’t love a good fight?”

  “Merci beaucoup, mon frère.” From somewhere beyond the mirror’s frame, other voices whispered to Niko. He tucked his mirror out of view as he answered in a secretive hush, then returned to the conversation. “The train departs in four hours; I need to leave so I can get ahead of it.” He leaned in closer. “If we save her, I will contact you. But if you do not hear from me by morning, then our plan has failed, and my sister’s life will be in your hands.”

  “I understand. Depend on me.”

  A smile and a salute. “Until we meet again.”

  “See you in Spain, my brother.” He closed the astral window between their mirrors with a muttered “Velarium,” then tucked it inside his satchel.

  If Niko failed to stop the train from Drancy, it would reach Auschwitz in just under four days, assuming the Germans adhered to their notoriously rigid schedules. Stefan considered which spirits he had time to summon and yoke before that hour arrived. Most of those he could call up would be of little use, but he knew of at least three whose powers might prove decisive—assuming he could keep them under control long enough to wield them.

  It was a gamble worth taking, he decided.

  He unrolled his tools of the Art and set to work preparing the room for magick.

  * * *

  A pinpoint of light in the darkness announced the train’s approach from five kilometers out. The engine’s headlamp seemed to flicker as the locomotive raced through a cluster of trees in the distance. In moments it would reach the straightaway where the Maquis had set their ambush.

  Niko regarded his trio of accomplices. “Gaston, trigger the charges on my order. Jules, André, get on either side of the tracks and cover me while I free the prisoners. If any Nazis show their faces after we stop the train, kill them.”

  All three men acknowledged his instructions, then fanned out into the night to await the train, whose approaching mass shook the ground beneath them.

  It was an ideal spot for an attack—secluded, without any nearby German garrisons or Vichy sympathizers, and numerous farms where the escaped prisoners could find food and, if they were lucky, shelter.

  The most difficult part of the plan would be gauging the right moment to set off the dynamite on the tracks. If Niko gave the order too soon, the train would stop shy of the cross-fire point and give any German troops on board time to retaliate; if he triggered the charges too late, he ran the risk of derailing it and killing not only the Nazis but also their prisoners, including Camille. To time the detonation, Niko had set two bullets on the tracks, spaced a hundred meters apart, with the one nearest him two kilometers away. He would measure the delay between the bullets’ sparks as the train rolled over each in turn, and use that to time the detonation.

  He confirmed that his revolver was still in its holster, and that his athamé was in its scabbard. Then he crouched beside the tracks and watched for the sparks to start his countdown.

  Sweat teased the nape of his neck as the locomotive drew near. The first spark went off, and Niko started his silent count. Five seconds later, the second bullet sparked. After a fast round of math in his head, he estimated the train would need about one kilometer to stop to avoid derailing, which meant giving it one minute’s warning.

  He checked his watch. “Gaston, blow the tracks in three … two … one … now!”

  Gaston sank the plunger on the detonator.

  Nothing happened.

  Niko’s temper flared. “Did you check the wires?”

  “Of course I did!”

  “Then what—?” An icy shudder up Niko’s spine and the bite of sulfur in the air told him who had cut the wires: demons.

  He engaged the Sight, and his suspicions were confirmed. Two spirits raced in front of the train, clearing the tracks of obstacles. That meant there was at least one karcist on the transport, and a wily one at that. As I expected—we both have come ready for a fight.

  The demons flew past Niko and his comrades, apparently deeming them insignificant. That meant the train was only seconds away from passing them, as well. Time to improvise.

  Niko sprang to his feet and ran along the tracks as the train raced up from behind him. He shouted over its clamor, “Gaston! Get the truck! Follow me!”

  His bearded ally was befuddled. “Wait! What—?”

  It was too late for words. Niko had to act while he still could.

  A wedge of air traveled in front of the train and pushed Niko away from the tracks as the locomotive roared past like a speeding wall of noise. Niko stumbled in the dark over uneven ground, then righted himself and sprinted onward.

  If it is a fight they want, I will give it to them.

  Channeling the strength of MADRIAX, which a century earlier had been the favored spirit of a British prankster known by the nickname Spring-heeled Jack, Niko leaped into the air above the train—high enough that he feared what would happen when he landed. The demon excelled at going up, but coming down was a challenge it left to others.

  It was hard to see the train. Only the engine and a few forward cars had interior lighting, and those were far ahead of Niko as he fell earthward. Moonlight glinted off the metal frames of the middle railcars as they blurred past beneath him.

  He struck the top of one car and tumbled backward, as if he’d had a rug pulled out from under his feet. Landing on his back knocked the breath from his lungs, and he rolled to one side until his fingers found purchase between the wooden slats of the railcar’s roof.

  Wind stung his eyes and whipped at his hair and clothes. Struggling for balance, he recovered his footing. Steady for a moment, he commanded AMON, a spirit of divination, Find my sister Camille!

  Like an iron shaving drawn toward a magnet, Niko felt AMON’s guidance lead him forward atop the train, onto the next car closer to the engine.

  Gravity and momentum conspired against Niko. The train cars rocked through every curve and threatened to toss him over the side as the locomotive picked up speed.

  He hopped over the gap between cars and scurried forward. All he cared about was finding Camille as quickly as possible. With each step he bellowed her name over the roaring wind and the clattering of steel wheels.

  “Camille! Do you hear me? Camille! It’s Niko! Camille!”

  He heard her voice issue from the railcar beneath him: “Here! Niko!”

  He kneeled and peered through a gap between roof slats. He saw her huddled in the shadowy throng of prisoners. “Camille! Hang on, I’m going to get—”

  She shouted something, but the train’s steam whistle drowned her out. When it ceased, she hollered again, “Niko!
It’s a trap!”

  At the front of the train, movement. Niko stood to confront a foe whose face he had come to know all too well: Briet.

  She stood with her feet wide apart. Ribbons of dark vapor shrouded her right hand; licks of violet flame swirled in her left. “So predictable.”

  “Yes, you are.” Niko charged, hurling ghostly daggers and green lightning.

  She ran at him, unleashing fire and poisonous smoke, her strides as sure as if she were on solid ground instead of atop a swaying railcar.

  Fireballs slammed into Niko’s shield. He deflected them, then dodged her cloud of poison, which scattered in the wind. He tuned his shield to leach power from her next fiery assault to feed his counterstrike—a crack of BANOG’s barbed whip.

  She parried the spectral whip; then an invisible force swept Niko’s legs and slammed him onto his back. He bent his shield around himself to buy time to regain his feet, and as he did he used BARATO’s talents to unlock the doors of the railcars.

  Briet leaped onto the same railcar as Niko and hurled lightning at him. He reflected it toward her. The bolts slammed into her shield and knocked her backward, onto the railcar behind her. Niko used the many hands of ALASTOR to open all the railcars’ doors.

  Camille is almost free! I just have to stop the train.

  Briet charged again. Niko drew his revolver.

  A snap of her burning whip broke his hand and knocked away his pistol.

  He lashed out with the fist of ALASTOR, hoping to swat her off the train, but she blocked it. He tried to sense a weakness in her mind, one he could attack with mind control—

  A phantasmal spear ripped into Niko’s thigh, and a flurry of needles left his face burning, as if wasps had swarmed him. Briet’s fiery whip lashed his chest, and a barrage of lightning broke through his shield and left his limbs quaking and his tongue tasting of tin.

  Briet was on him. She seized his throat with her right hand and forced him to his knees. “Niko! You’ve no idea how much I’ve looked forward to this.”

  “That makes one of us,” he choked out.

  With a wave of her left hand, she closed all the railcars’ doors; a turn of her wrist locked them. She reached down, plucked the enchanted mirror from Niko’s coat pocket, and held it up like a prize. “Lead me to your master and his adept Cade, and I will set you and Camille free.”

  Niko felt his strength ebb. He couldn’t muster any more magick. His yoked spirits felt his weakness and broke away, retreating to the abyss and leaving him to his fate.

  Briet waved the mirror at him. “Tell me!”

  Niko thrust his left hand upward to pinch the mirror’s edge.

  “Discutio!”

  The looking glass shattered, peppering the right half of Briet’s face with burning-hot motes. She let go of Niko, then swatted him away with a titan’s strength.

  Half blind and racked with pain, Niko twisted through the night, soaring, then sinking into free fall. Then came the impact, hard and unforgiving.

  Stone and wood rent flesh and broke bones, snapped teeth and crushed gums. The world around Niko was black, his world was reduced to bloodred bursts of pain.

  An end to the rolling, to the confusion. He came to a halt surrounded by a scattering of split logs and large stones, and he realized he had crashed through a rock wall and a stack of firewood. It was agony to lift his head, but he needed to see the train with his own bloodied eyes. It chugged away without him, continuing its journey to Auschwitz with his sister locked inside and his nemesis on top of it, sorely wounded but still alive.

  His soul wanted to continue the chase, but his flesh was beaten. Jagged ends of broken bones protruded from one arm and leg; each breath he took reminded him of his cracked ribs.

  He would have wept, but his voice was lost, along with the battle.

  Camille … I have failed you. Forgive me.…

  The train disappeared into the night. From somewhere behind it came the buzzing of motorcycles and the hoarse growl of a truck’s engine. By the time Gaston and the others found Niko, he was too weak to move or talk—not that it mattered anymore. Without the mirror, he had no way to warn Stefan the train was too well defended for him to face alone.

  I should have listened to you, my friend. I should have listened.…

  His allies carted him away. Gaston pleaded in hoarse shouts for someone to summon a doctor. Niko wished he could ask his friends to leave him where he lay. What was the point of saving his life now? They were too late.

  His sister was gone.

  25

  Four days without word from Niko. Attempts to reach him using the mirror had failed. Stefan had considered hailing Adair to seek his counsel, but he knew what the master would say: that Niko should never have attempted a rescue, that Stefan should have told Adair sooner, and that he should abandon this foolish crusade and learn to see “the big picture.”

  I have seen enough of “the big picture.” Memories of Chełmno and Dachau, of Bergen-Belsen and of Auschwitz, haunted Stefan whenever he closed his eyes. If this was the wider world of which Adair spoke, no further reminders did Stefan need. It was time to fight back.

  Yet common sense nagged at him. There had been no word from Niko. That suggested his bid to halt the train had failed. Stefan knew from experience that Niko was a strong and clever karcist. If he had been neutralized trying to save the prisoners from Drancy, it was likely the arrest and deportation of his sister had been part of a trap, as they’d suspected. If so, the most rational course of action for Stefan was to retreat, to preserve his cover and await new orders.

  The very notion churned bile into Stefan’s throat. No. I have run for too long. Witnessed horrors and done nothing. I will not stand by and watch the Nazis deliver another thousand lives to that abattoir. Live or die, it is time to stand and be counted.

  Behind his courage, he hoped he was wrong. He prayed Niko had already stopped the train, freed its prisoners, and simply had been unable to contact him. If the train did not round the bend in the track within the next hour, Stefan promised himself, he would consider its passengers liberated, and he would slip into—

  A light pierced the darkness. The Drancy train was coming.

  Stefan was in no mood for subterfuge. In his mind the train was more than a machine, more than a simple conveyance. It was an engine of evil, a force unto itself, a cursed vessel bearing innocent souls toward a Hell made by human hands.

  He had come ready to meet its power in equal measure.

  It was half a mile away. Stefan stepped between the tracks and walked toward it, his mien proud, fearless, and vengeful. He raised his right hand, and it was ringed by a white halo as he reached out with the unyielding might of SATOR and forced the train to stop.

  The engine’s pistons screamed in protest, and the steel wheels whined as they scraped across the rails. The iron behemoth ground to a stop mere feet in front of Stefan. Clouds of vapor jetted from vents on either side of the train.

  Stefan stood bathed in the light of the train’s headlamp.

  On either side of the engine, Waffen-SS troops disembarked and charged toward Stefan, their submachine guns ready for action. He could have put them all to sleep with the breath of RAGORAS, but he felt no inclination to show mercy. The men on his left he cut down with a saw-toothed blade of VESCAEL; the squad on his right he slew with forked lightning before any of them had time to shout a threat or pull a trigger.

  All was quiet. Then three figures climbed down from the train’s first passenger car and walked toward Stefan. Their manner was calm, their pace unrushed. In the center was a man Stefan had heard described many times by Adair—the Nazis’ master Black magician, Kein Engel. He wore a suit that filled Stefan with envy.

  On Kein’s right walked Briet in a dark trench coat; Stefan recognized her from Niko’s wall of photos, though the pitted scar that marred the right side of her face was a new detail. On the dark magician’s left was Siegmar, the cruel-faced man Stefan had faced at Babi Yar.r />
  Kein moved ahead of his adepts and stopped several meters from Stefan. “Hello, my young friend. You—”

  “I am not your friend,” Stefan cut in.

  “As you prefer. I take it you are one of Adair’s pupils. I trust you know who I am.”

  “The Devil’s agent on earth.”

  The man seemed almost modest. “You give me far too much credit.” He made small gestures toward his adepts as he continued. “These are my adepts. Briet Segfrunsdóttir. And I believe you’ve already made the acquaintance of Siegmar Tuomainen.”

  Stefan watched their eyes and hands as he prepared his own magickal arsenal.

  Kein assessed the standoff with sad resignation. “Must it always come to this? Transparent deceptions and a futile struggle?”

  Stefan threw down the proverbial gauntlet: “It will not be futile as long as I take one of you with me to the grave.”

  Smoke and lightning filled the air; the world became a blur of blood and fire. Ghostly weapons clashed and cut flesh. Stefan deflected one of Kein’s own fireballs into Siegmar, snared Briet in a spiral of steel track that he bent like soldering wire, and nearly fooled himself into believing he might achieve a Pyrrhic victory—

  Then an icy stab of pain scattered Stefan’s thoughts, and his yoked spirits started to desert him, vermin fleeing his fast-sinking mortal vessel.

  He fell to his knees and looked down. A semitransparent spear jutted from his abdomen. It dissolved into mist as a burning whip snapped around his throat. Invisible forces seized his wrists and pinned his hands behind him.

  Briet and Kein were bloodied but unbowed. Siegmar remained on his knees while he slap-extinguished patches of fire on his scorched clothes.

  Briet searched Stefan’s pockets. Blood ran down her forehead; smoke rose off her back. Empty-handed, she faced her master. “He doesn’t have a mirror like Niko’s.”

  “Oh, I am sure he does. I think he has learned to hide it better, is all.” A shrug. “No matter. He will surrender it soon enough—along with the location of Adair and his adepts.”