by David Mack
He stood at his desk and set his hands on a map of Normandy. “When we are done, Briet, humanity will swear off Science for at least a century. Only then, when the world lies in cinders, will we be able to begin the long work of remaking the world—this time, in our own image.”
39
AUGUST
Machine-gun fire ripped through the streets of Kharkov, a city of ruins shrouded in dust and the smoke of burning tanks. Russia’s dead here outnumbered German casualties by a ratio of five to one, a number that was growing daily thanks to the Red Army’s tactic of throwing lives and resources at its enemies until it wore them down by the weight of numbers. It was a wasteful, stupid strategy, but an effective one.
Piercing whistles announced incoming mortar rounds—Anja’s cue to dive for cover with her comrades. A shell dropped in the street ahead of them. Its detonation shook the earth and scoured her with grit and shattered glass.
It was impossible to see the sky through the brown haze choking the city, but it didn’t hide the drone of Stuka bombers making another run. The Luftwaffe had run out of its usual ordnance and so had been hitting Red Army positions in Kharkov with the sorts of bombs it normally used to punch holes in battleships and aircraft carriers.
Her platoon leader barked, “Get down!”
Anja, Nadezhda, and the rest of their unit scattered in a race to shelter as falling bombs screamed down from above. Booms ripped through the stifling air and turned hollowed buildings into storms of pulverized concrete. Cracked cement poured into the streets from all directions, followed by the chatter of the Stukas’ machine guns strafing the rubble.
Down the road, through a curtain of smog and fumes, Anja picked out the silhouettes of an advancing line of German Tiger tanks. She shouted to her comrades, “Heavy armor! Rolling in from the west!”
The platoon leader yelled back, “Who still has tank-shredders?”
Anja’s hand moved to the RPG-43 handheld antitank grenade slung from her belt. A few other voices returned confirmations to the platoon leader before Anja added, “I have one!”
“Shredders, move up! Flank the street! Hit the lead vehicles to block the others. Everybody else, dig in and lay down suppressing fire! Go!”
There was no time for debate or questions. Anja sprinted toward the approaching panzer column, hoping the dusty churn from the tanks’ treads would hide her from their gunners until she could find cover from which to strike.
A staccato buzz of machine guns filled the streets as the tanks’ crews fired blindly into the haze ahead of them. Two of Anja’s comrades twitched and fell, torn to shreds, as she darted off the street and took shelter in a heap of broken stone and steel.
She and the rest of her unit went quiet as the tanks drew near. The street trembled before the sheer mass of the Nazi juggernauts and the power of their engines. Crawling like a spider, Anja ascended the mound of debris shielding her from the Germans. At its crest she paused to unclip her antitank grenade from her belt; then she clambered forward.
Sighting the first tank, she armed her RPG-43. Landing the grenade on target would be tricky. It had a shaped charge on its end, and it had to strike at the perfect angle or else the force of the explosion would be deflected with minimal damage. Of course, taking the time to aim and set her stance would make her a prime target for the tanks’ gunners.
I did not come home to die a coward. She stood and aimed.
Below her, the panzer column rumbled past.
She planted her foot and threw. As her grenade sailed toward its target, she saw more thrown by her comrades from the other side of the street.
Fiery tracer rounds from the tanks, a thudding percussion of automatic gunfire. White heat lanced through Anja’s side. She fell, delirious, suddenly cold in spite of the summer heat, disoriented as explosions rocked the street and turned the sky above black with oily smoke.
Awareness came back to her in flashes.
The grind of dirt against her face.
Her own ragged breathing.
Sick pain welling up inside her.
Then she was in motion, the street drifting past her, the earth tugging at her dragging toes, her arms almost yanked from their sockets. Short of breath, barely able to focus, she struggled to understand what was happening. She lifted her head to see Nadezhda pulling her by her wrists, towing her up the street, away from the blazing husks of Tiger tanks heaped one upon another in the middle of the street.
“Nady? What … what are you—?”
“Saving your life,” Nadezhda said between grunts of effort. She wasn’t strong enough to heft Anja over her shoulder in a proper carry, so instead she was endangering herself and Anja with this foolish attempt at pulling her to cover.
Anja croaked through a mouth caked with grit, “Leave me.”
“You didn’t leave me in Stalingrad, or in Kursk.”
A month before, on the ugliest day of the battle to liberate Kursk, Nady had been pinned down by German sniper fire. Their platoon leader had written her off as a loss, but Anja had refused to accept it. She had skulked into the ruins under cover of darkness and outwitted a German sharpshooter in a sniper battle that had lasted nearly until dawn.
I should have known Nady would make me regret—
A burst from a German submachine gun.
Bullets slammed into Nadezhda’s chest and gut. Red mist filled the dust cloud behind her. Her hands went slack and lost hold of Anja’s wrists.
Red Army soldiers charged past Anja and Nady, returning fire on the German troops, the cracks of their rifles crisp and precise against the chaos of the Nazis’ automatic barrage, but all Anja heard were her own anguished cries as she watched Nady collapse in a bloody heap.
Other hands took hold of Anja: two male soldiers each grabbed one of her arms. They hauled her away from the tanks and left Nadezhda’s tattered corpse behind. Remanded to the care of medical volunteers, Anja kept her eyes fixed on her friend’s lifeless body until the fog of war, the sting of a needle, and the shadow of morphine stole Nady from her for the last time.
* * *
Twists of smoke rose from unsteady flames. Incense smoldered in brass cups Adair had placed within the chords of the six-pointed star he had scribed around his operator’s circle. On an altar inside the triangle situated northwest of the top of the circle, a live young goat hung trussed to a spit, its coarse white fur painted with violet Enochian glyphs.
The kid bleated twice in fear, and with good reason.
Adair raised his wand. In his left hand he clutched a handful of finely ground herbs and flammable powders, a well-tested recipe from an ancient grimoire. “I invoke and summon thee, Great King of Hell—appear or feel my wrath, PAIMON!” He threw the dust into the brazier at his feet. Violet sparks geysered from the pot and scorched the rafters above his head.
Sickly yellow fog rolled around the outer circle. An atonal keening: faint at first, it grew louder and more shrill as, in the northwest, a parade of shapes appeared. All wore the garb of medieval troubadors. They emerged from the swirling vapors, revealing their true natures—ghouls with glowing embers for eyes, all reeking of putrefaction.
With them came a horrible music never meant for mortal ears. Some of the horde played long trumpets festooned with tattered banners. Others strummed mistuned lyres, crashed rusted cymbals, or blew conflicting melodies through steel flutes or wooden panpipes. It all combined to fill the conjuring room with a dissonance that made Adair’s skull ache.
In the center of their formation was a lone figure mounted on a colossal dromedary. The steed wore a crown of gold attached to its bridle, and a blanket of Persian design was draped across its back, under its saddle—upon which sat the terrifying majesty of PAIMON, Adair’s patron spirit.
Its imposing frame was garbed in robes of black and vermeil. A mane of sable framed the demon’s effeminate face and reptilian eyes. It wore a jeweled gold crown, around whose ten spires writhed a serpent ever in motion. A diaphanous veil billowed behin
d it, as if caught in a perpetual gale. The demon’s long, ratlike tail twitched to and fro.
As always, PAIMON took its place astride the triangle without delay, then shook the bedrock with a voice that married a tsunami to an earthquake. STAY THY ROD, EVE-SPAWN, I AM HERE! WHY HAVE YOU DISTURBED MY REPOSE?
“To invoke my rights as per the terms of our compact. I need to know where Kein Engel and his apprentice Briet are, and where they’re going to be—and I command you to tell me.”
PAIMON reached toward the altar, extending one of its arms as if it were made of some forgiving elastic, and snatched up the bleating kid. The demon’s jaw gaped open and its face stretched into a horror as it devoured the animal in a bite of sharklike teeth.
Once the sacrifice was consumed, the demon’s face returned to its previous aspect, but now its fangs were stained vermilion, and dribbles of dark blood ran from the corners of its mouth. Its voice boomed again in the close quarters.
YOUR SACRIFICE PLEASES ME, ADAIR! I WILL BE GENEROUS AND NOT REPEAT THE ANSWER I GAVE THE LAST TWO TIMES YOU ASKED ME THIS.
Twice before PAIMON had failed to locate Kein, both times for the same reason: Kein’s wards against scrying and divination were too powerful for PAIMON to overcome. Encouraged that something seemed to have changed, Adair became impatient. “So? Where is he?”
I NEVER SAID I COULD ANSWER YOUR QUERY, ONLY THAT I WOULD NOT REPEAT WHAT I HAVE ALREADY TOLD YOU IN THE SIMPLEST POSSIBLE TERMS. BUT I CAN TELL YOU THIS: YOU ARE ASKING THE WRONG QUESTION.
Adair was tempted to stab his wand into the coals to punish PAIMON for taunting him, but he knew from centuries of experience that there were harsh consequences for karcists who abused their patrons. He curbed his wrath, cleared his mind, and considered the demon’s counsel. “What do you know about Kein’s actions that might be relevant to my quarrel with him?”
A diabolical smirk tugged at the demon’s delicate lips. HIS ACTIONS ON EARTH ARE WELL HIDDEN—BUT HE CANNOT CONCEAL THOSE PARTS OF HIS LABORS THAT AFFECT HELL. HE HAS RECEIVED AN UNHOLY DIVINATION FROM HIS PATRON, LUCIFUGE ROFOCALE.
“What kind of divination?”
A PROPHECY. OF WHAT, I KNOW NOT. WHAT MATTERS IS HE HAS RESPONDED TO THIS VISION BY EMBARKING ON A WORK UNPRECEDENTED IN THE ANNALS OF HELL. HE HAS CALLED MORE SPIRITS INTO ITS SERVICE THAN ANY KARCIST HAS EVER DARED BEFORE.
It was an outrageous claim that left Adair doubting his patron’s veracity, which was always a wise policy when dealing with demons. “I’ve tracked the signs, watched my Lull Engine. There’s been no uptick in demonic activity. In fact, it’s been falling off for weeks.”
YOU HEAR BUT YOU DO NOT LISTEN. KEIN IS NOT CALLING UP SPIRITS TO SEND THEM ABROAD, NOR IS HE YOKING THEM. HE IS BINDING THEM TO A UNIQUE WORK OF UNKNOWN INTENTION. THE SIGNS AND PORTENTS ALL POINT TO A DISASTER ABORNING.
“That’s all you can tell me? Can you say where? Or when? Or anything that might actually help?”
His plea seemed to amuse the spirit. I DOUBT HE COULD EXECUTE SUCH A GRANDIOSE EXPERIMENT ALONE. KEIN CAN WORK FROM THE SHADOWS—BUT HIS APPRENTICE CANNOT.
All at once, Adair remembered Niko’s warnings of Briet directing the installation of anti-magick defenses along the Atlantic coast. If Kein’s working up a doomsday plan, Adair reasoned, that’s where it will be. “Thank you for this insight, Great King. Is there anything else I should know before I give thee license to depart?”
THIS CHALLENGE WILL BE UNLIKE ANY YOU HAVE EVER FACED—AND THE PRICE OF ITS DEFEAT MIGHT BE MORE THAN YOU ARE WILLING TO PAY.
“We’ll see about that.” He dismissed PAIMON and its band of music-mangling demons, who vanished in gouts of green fire.
Alone in the smoky aftermath of the conjuring, Adair stripped off his robes and put away his tools. Until that moment, he had dismissed Niko’s hunt for Briet as the product of vengeful obsession. Months of near misses by Niko had made the search start to seem futile.
Now Adair saw it in a new light: Finding Briet was the Allies’ only chance of uncovering Kein’s latest scheme and putting an end to it while they still had time.
He could only hope it wasn’t already too late.
40
SEPTEMBER
Death’s stench greeted Anja as she fought her way to consciousness. It was a fetid odor, with metallic undertones of dried blood and tangs of disinfectant overpowered by sepsis. It was rotten meat and the vinegary stink of vomitus. The closer Anja came to recovering her faculties, the less she wanted to. Fearing she might find herself lying among the fallen in the streets of Kharkov, she opened her eyes.
The cots in the Red Army field hospital stood in rows and columns. All were occupied by maimed or dying soldiers of Mother Russia, each lying head-to-head with a fallen comrade. Anja winced at the bloodied sheets draped on top of her before she realized the stains were old and dry. Holding the frayed hem of her sheet, she lifted it to inspect her wounds.
Her abdomen was a mess of crude stitches and bright pink scar tissue. She probed it with her fingertips. Some of the wounds still felt raw and wet. A bit of pressure provoked deep echoes of pain, a warning of how extensive her wounds were. Against her better judgment she tried to sit up. Agony knifed through her and left her sweating and short of breath.
A nurse—or perhaps a medical volunteer in a nurse’s uniform—hurried to Anja’s bedside. The woman was rail-thin, with wide-set dark eyes and hacked-short black hair. “Comrade Kernova? It’s good to see you awake. How do you feel?”
“Terrible.”
“That’s to be expected. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“How long have I been here?”
The nurse lifted a sheaf of papers from an envelope hanging at the foot of Anja’s cot and paged through them. “Just over three weeks.”
Anja struggled to spy a familiar face in the legions of wounded. “Did anyone bring in Comrade Nadezhda Proschkeva?” She parsed the nurse’s lack of recognition from her expression. “Small, blond hair. She was part of my unit, the Central Front.”
“We don’t have any patients here by that name.”
Despair settled over Anja. She knew it had been too much to hope for. Her hands still felt the strength vanishing from Nady’s grip as the Germans’ bullets ripped into her; her memory was seared with the image of the light going out of Nady’s fierce eyes.
What was I thinking? Russia has no place for miracles—especially not in wartime.
Noting the nurse’s discomfort, Anja changed the subject. “My gear—I had a leather tool roll. Where is it?”
“Under your cot, with your rifle and pack.”
“Hand it to me. The tool roll, I mean.”
The nurse reached under the cot, retrieved the bulky, heavy leather roll-up, and set it gently into Anja’s arms. She wore a curious expression as she watched Anja embrace the bundle of tools. “Prized possessions?”
“Something like that.” It would have been difficult for Anja to explain the value of the tool roll to a non-karcist. To most people, the hand-fashioned implements would be little more than a curiosity, objects of no particular value aside from their metal content. But to Anja, these would all be costly and difficult to replace. She smiled at the nurse. “Thank you.”
“Let me know if you need anything”—she rolled her eyes at the tragic absurdity of the filthy, understaffed setting—“not that we’re likely to have it.”
“I will. Thank you again.” As soon as the nurse moved on to tend to another patient, Anja unwound the tool roll to inspect its contents. To her relief, everything was in its place, and nothing appeared to have been damaged or tampered with. She rolled it up and tied it shut.
The next part, she knew, would be harder.
She turned slowly onto her right side, which hurt a tiny bit less than trying to turn to her left. Perched at the edge of her cot, she reached under it and found her pack. She dragged it out from under her, untied its flap, and rooted inside it until her hand found her grimoire. Its silk binding was still in place, its war
ding seal unbroken. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Deeper inside the pack, she found a small aluminum canister in which she had stored a smidgen of enchanted unguent. Its most common use was to focus magickal healing on particular wounds while protecting the patient from any of the side effects of contact with a demon. On this occasion, Anja had other plans for it.
She set the canister at her side, pushed her pack under her cot, then put her tool roll on the floor before nudging it underneath, as well. After checking to make sure no one was watching her, Anja pried off the canister’s lid and scooped a dollop of unguent onto her right index finger. She lifted her sheet over her head and scribed two ancient Enochian wards on her ravaged torso—the first beneath her breasts, but linked by an elegant S to the other above them. The former was a symbol to keep demons at bay; the latter was an appeal to the healing powers of Heaven—not that the Celestial powers owed her any favors.
She wiped her finger clean on the cot’s top sheet, then closed the canister and hid it among her other possessions. The wards were feeble gestures in comparison to her wounds, but it was all she had the strength to do. It might be weeks or even months before she could conjure her patron and resume yoking spirits.
Until then, whether she lived or died would depend on the healing prowess of human doctors and so-called modern medicine.
In other words, Anja brooded, I am at Fate’s mercy.
It was a troubling thought for Anja—not because she harbored any fear of Fate, but because life and war had taught her never to believe in mercy.