by Faith Hunter
Evan sipped from his coffee cup, considering the kylen.
“I am here at the promise of Achaiah the seraph, the discoverer of the secrets of nature. He sends me to bring back Avena, the mate of Marcus Walker.” Marc lowered his head in a kind of formal acceptance.
Evan studied the two and shook his head. It was all a bunch of mage crap. The kylen looked like a pretty-boy—too . . . delicate . . . to fight, too fragile to be a soldier. But the scars across his shoulders and the leathery patches on his wings where plumage had burned away suggested he was no neophyte, but a battle-hardened warrior.
Nireonel spread his wings and snapped them down tight. The mage closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the agitated air. He looked drunk. And horny. Crap. Time to get this show on the road.
Evan spoke into his throat microphone and the soldiers under his command moved forward, checking weapons, adjusting radios. There was a spike of adrenaline in the air that even Evan could smell before he pulled the gas mask over his head, adjusted his night-vision goggles and his automatic weapons. He nodded to the mage. The man lowered his head and called up his magic—his creation energy—whatever the hell they called it. The kylen lifted his head to the cloud-shrouded sky and prayed aloud. Evan ignored the kylen’s words. He didn’t hold with EIH, but he wasn’t a religious man. His men were, however, and he heard them murmuring “Amen” to the kylen’s words.
Instead, Evan considered the battle. By nightfall, the walls of the quonsets would be decorated with spawn and dragon parts. And, if Marc was to be believed, they might have saved a mage princess and earned kudos from the Most High for saving one of his winged warriors. There was gold and a place in the history books for that alone. Blood, guts, and glory, huzzah!
Together the mage and the kylen turned as if it was a dance, clanged swords together in a ringing salute, and shot forward toward the hellhole. They moved faster than Evan’s eyes could follow. Behind him, Evan’s men screamed their individual battle cries, Scripture each had chosen as his or her own personal mantra. And they gave chase.
Evan was human, which meant he didn’t get lost in bloodlust like mages, but the adrenaline rush and endorphins were nearly as good. He shouted “Victory of A’albiel!” and slung his weapon from rest to ready, flipping the safety to “off” at the first hint of the stench of brimstone and the reek of old blood.
It wasn’t full dark yet, but he heard the skittering of spawn close by. Spawn were fully nocturnal unless a major Darkness inhabited the hellhole with them. Then spawn could wake at any time, though they were still bound to the deeps as long as the sun shone. Their chittering rose to a roar; a fact that meant their master was a BBU—a big bad ugly. Ahead, the kylen and mage had stopped, standing battle-ready, weapons out to their sides, as they shouted Scripture and challenged the Darkness.
The spawn came into view—a huge swarm of red-bodied, clawed beasts, visible beyond the mage and the kylen, whose wings were fully extended, partially blocking the tunnel. At the last second, they leaped, landing on the small armored car behind the first row of troops. The second rank soldiers opened fire. Automatic combat shotguns blasted. The pellets ripped into the beasts, quickly eliminating the first spawn wave.
The first rank didn’t break discipline to witness the carnage occurring behind them, so they were braced when the next wave appeared at the tunnel mouth. The stench of Dark blood and burned gunpowder filled the air as spawn fell by the tens. The hundreds. Maybe thousands.
Evan waited until the first rank soldiers were each down to a single spare ammo magazine and then ordered the second line of troops forward. They took up positions behind the front line, then each tapped his front-rank partner on the shoulder and slipped forward into the line. Once the new trooper had started firing, the relieved soldier lowered weapons and stepped back. Now to the rear, first-line warriors checked for heat-related weapon failure and stocked up on fresh magazines, prepared to move forward again when he gave the word.
The spawn were dying so fast they didn’t have time to eat their own wounded, leaving twitching heaps in front of the soldiers. There wouldn’t be time for the darkuns to heal and return to the fight before the mission ended, and he had a holy-oil-fire exit planned that would burn the bodies to ash. And maybe the carnage would encourage the torturers to leave off their fun and games and come to defend their territory. It wasn’t much of a plan, but Evan had gone into battle with less.
After an endless ten minutes more of firing and trading places and firing again, Evan saw the flow of spawn into his killing field slow to a trickle. He barked into his mike. “Hold fire. Phase two.”
The two lines moved back, parting into equal-sized groups on either side of the entrance. The shooters would hold the hellhole open for the party that would descend into the hellhole, stopping any egress of the Dark to lay a trap, covering their retreat, and keeping open essential communications.
The armored car ground gears and inched down the incline, into the maw of the hellhole. Perched on and behind the armored car came the shock troops, four mules and six humans, an assortment of ethnicities, male and female and questionable.
Evan grimaced. He didn’t like working with the mules, especially the jenny mules. Women should be women. Not . . . whatever the mules were. But he had to admit they were damned fine fighters.
Evan, the kylen, and the mage followed the special forces soldiers. The screams of human pain had died away, and now there was only an eerie silence marked by echoing plinks of water or perhaps blood.
From a side corridor, a blurred form raced at them, a dragonet, two, three, wings making the zzz of buzz saws. Evan got only a glimpse but he catalogued the traits. One was scaled, one was covered in knotted and snarled hair, and the last one looked as if human DNA had gone into the bizarre mix, putting human skin on a snake-like body, and human hands instead of pincers near its insectoid mouth.
All three landed between the shock troops and the trio of Evan, Marc, and the kylen, who all crouched instinctively. Unable to use firearms without hitting the troops in front, Marc shouted “Orbs!” and tossed a half dozen metal balls at the monsters. He and all his men hit the cave floor.
Muted explosions concussed the air, detonating at exactly three feet off the ground. He rolled and came up fast, his weapons ready, but the dragonets were obliterated. Dark blood burned on his uncovered skin. Around him, his men were shaking dragonet splatter off themselves and a couple saluted, a casual half-wave that meant, “Good job, boss. Got them without getting any of us.”
Marc looked up to him, his skin doing that weird thing mage skin did, glowing like pearls. “My wife is near. According to the map, to the right is a branching corridor with a small series of rooms. Cells?” The armored car would have to be left behind in the larger tunnel.
“You,” he called to the kylen, “Winged wonder, you go first.” It was a sound move. A kylen would have a good idea where any mage was. The mating instinct would be better than bloodhounds.
The kylen nodded and positioned his shield, sword at the ready, held low across his body. Marc moved to his left. The small cadre of special forces followed.
With a screech, a creature burst from the cave shadows, taking down half the shock troops with one slash of demon iron, some missing limbs, two bisected.
The dragonet—greater dragonet—was now in the clear, however, and Evan threw a CC24. His men hit the deck again at the familiar whistling sound. With a whump that he felt in his chest, the device went off. The dragon exploded.
Evan called the surface on the com unit. The unit was starting to have static, the result of being around mage energies. He just hoped the coms lasted long enough to get through this. Moments later medics swarmed in, patching up the ones who could be saved and loading them on the armored car to return to the surface. The kylen tossed amulets at them and a weird energy pattern opened over them. It was pink. Nireonel smiled at him. “A gift from the High Council of the Seraphim. Healing domes.”
“A
nd the captives?” Evan ground out.
“I sense three. They are close.”
Marc raced from the dark. “Third cell on the left,” he gasped. “My wife.”
Evan followed, hearing the crackle of disconnect in his com unit. Damn mage energies. Between the demon iron bars of the cell, he threw an illumination sphere, a human device powered by human batteries running on energy gathered by a Sun mage. In the sudden burst of light, he saw a woman, a female mage, chained naked to a wall with demon iron manacles. Blood pooled beneath her; long gouges were ripped into her flesh. In the cell with her was some sort of human-dragon crossbreed, its scales the patterns of a diamondback rattler, if rattlers were red and orange. It hissed at them and spread its wings.
Marc shouted to his wife, “Avena!” The woman looked up, seeing through strands of oily hair. “Your belt!” With an underhand toss, he threw a mage-spelled silver chain through the bars. It tore through the thin dragon skin of a wing and landed at Avena’s feet, touching her toes.
She bared her teeth and, Evan would swear later, growled at the dragon-man. Power flared up from the silver links into her body, and she glowed so bright Evan had to squint against the glare. “Frozen iron demolish,” she said. Ice rippled over the manacles and they shattered, freeing her. At the cell mouth, Marc hit the bars. They too shattered into brittle shards.
Avena bent and took hold of the silver belt and held it toward the dragon-man. “You wanted children from me? For that, ‘Blades and shock and blood there be, burned near death ’til eternity,’” she spat. A burst of light came from the belt and seemed to meld with the mage. Purple energies whipped around her, offered by Marc. And the crossbreed went up in flames, his death screams tearing at them.
“Son of a goat,” Evan swore.
The kylen turned to him. “Yes, it was. And the seraph is next door.” He raised his head and wings. “Jehovah! To war!” he shouted.
The Magnificent Seven
Spring 105 PA / 2117 AD
Faith Hunter
Ramah and the other five second unforeseen stood in a clearing surrounded by stunted trees. Each of them was a battle mule, the best of the best—heavily armed and ready to fight. Each was sworn to her, well-trained and prepared for war, groomed to be bonded to a seraph. Eliab, Abinadab, and Shammah were jacks. Simone, Kaylie, and Ramah were jennys. Together with a seraph, they would make a troop of seven, an auspicious number for defeating Darkness. For four months since Ramah had been bonded to the seraph Yarashiel they had trained together, working day and night to become the perfect fighting unit, to purify themselves, and to prove themselves acceptable to the seraph.
Now, a cold wind blew off the ocean and whistled through the twisted myrtles. They waited with Ramah for her liege seraph to appear. Together they chanted the Scripture they had chosen as their battle mantra. It was longer than most, but they’d agreed that it was perfect for their cadre. “Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield. But I come to thee in the name of the Lord of Hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou hast defied.”
Yet Yarashiel still did not appear. The tide came in and began to recede. The moon rose to brighten the darkest part of night. Still they chanted. And still they were alone. Ramah knew he would come. Her dream had been too intense, too sharp, and too foreign to be just her own imaginings, yet she was beginning to worry—to wonder. Had she imagined it all? Had it all be her own longings, and not a true call to battle? Was that possible?
The dream had been one of gore and the stink of spawn blood, rank with death and the stench rotting meat. Swords had flashed. The boom of weapons had been deafening. And Yarashiel had stood beside her, his wing behind her, flight feathers touching her back, fighting shoulder to shoulder.
A light brightened the sky and Simone pointed. Excitement filled the small group, swirling around them like mist. “Yarashiel comes,” Kaylie said, a thrill in her voice. She drew her two-handed longsword, huge and well-balanced, perfectly suited to her bulk. “He comes.” The rest pulled their weapons free, battle-ready the instant the seraph appeared, yet all still chanting their mantra.
The light grew in the sky, brighter than the moon, and Yarashiel swept over them, his wings the bright yellow of a bunting but far more fierce, the tips of the flight feathers edged in black, with wide scarlet triangles at the nervure. Down covered the underside of his wings, his chest, stomach, and along his arms and legs. His fighting armor was translucent, revealing his black and yellow vestments and downy flesh.
The cadre had, many times, viewed the ancient video of the seraph fighting, and the magnificence of Yarashiel rivaled even Michael, the Archseraph. Now he dropped into the midst of them, touching down lightly, bare feet visible through clear boots, his wings folding with a soft snap. His eyes sought out Ramah and he smiled. Simone sighed, holding her weapons across her body; almost a protection. Abinadab, who was known to prefer the touch of male flesh to that of female, fell to his knees, staring with near rapture. Kaylie fell back, staring. Their chant fell into silence; the hiss of surf and the whistle of wind were the only sound.
With eyes only for Ramah, Yarashiel cupped her chin. “You are well and strong,” he whispered. The seraph’s scent filled the clearing, dancing on the breeze, the top note of yellow roses, buttercups, and rich cream, the almost-bitter base note of lemon mint.
Ramah pulled in the fragrance, remembered from her healing. “Yes. Thanks to you.”
“I am pleased. And you bring warriors to fight with us?” Ramah kissed his palm. Yarashiel dropped her face, walking in a small circle, studying each of them—a long, probing evaluation. When he reached Shammah, the seraph frowned and cocked his head to the side. “You are not well. You have torn shoulder muscles and scaring beneath your shoulder blade. Do you desire healing?”
Shammah’s eyes went wide. “I have had pain here.” He lifted his left arm over his right shoulder and patted his back. “I thought it only a pulled muscle. Yes, heal me, Holy One.”
“I am not holy,” the seraph said, “but I give what I have.” Shammah dropped to his knees beside Abinadab, and when the seraph touched his shoulder he quivered as if from an electric shock and fell to the ground, twitching.
Yarashiel looked at Abinadab. “You will be his wing mate, fighting at his side.” To Simone he said, “You will fight near Eliab. Kaylie will fight to my left. And my chosen one, Ramah, will fight at my right side. We battle in the name of the Most High. We have been charged to find a seraph taken captive by a Darkness whose name shall not be spoken. And the Most High has gifted us with transportation. He has provided ophanim.”
Overhead there was a clap of sound and light like lightning and thunder in a terrible storm. The concussion threw them to the ground. When they raised up, above them, sitting serenely in the sky was an ophanim—a wheels, the fabled ship of the cherubim. A lion’s head bent over the gunwale, perilously close to the spinning rotors that circled the ship like the rings on a gyroscope. The ship was the yellow of citrine, flashing with light and holiness.
“She will take us to the hellhole,” Yarashiel said. “There now fight a contingent of the second unforeseen and mages, part of the human army. And they have discovered a seraph, chained to the wall on the sixth level and shorn of his wings. The Most High tells me that they are soon to call mage in dire. We will assist with the battle and rescue Schachlil, an angel of the sun’s rays. Gather your gear.” Looking up, Yarashiel shouted, “We mount up with the wings of angels!”
In an instant the cadre of mules was aboard the ship, dumped onto the deck like so much cargo. And with g-forces dragging their skin back, forcing them to the floor of the wheels, they were in flight.
A Start
Spring 105 PA / 2117 AD
Spike Y Jones
Step.
Step.
Pause.
Step.
Every step he took was deliberate, his feet placed precisely on the ground so that he didn’t make excess noise, d
idn’t leave an easy-to-follow trail, didn’t leave his scent on bushes and bracken or in the scattered snow along the way.
The trap lines had been a mixed bag. Hardly anything caught in any of his snares, but no blood stains on the ground to show that he’d caught something that had then been eaten. There should be more game at this time of year. He’d seen it before: Devil-spawn had eaten the area clean. But he’d caught some game, which meant that the spawn weren’t here now. He hoped.
But two rabbits weren’t going to feed the family. So John had dressed and packed his kills, pulled up the snares, and gone looking for bigger prey.
Step.
Pause.
Check the wind direction.
Step.
Scan the ground.
His movement wasn’t slow. It was natural. Animals didn’t race through the woods unless they were trying to get away from something. But they also didn’t dawdle; if they moved slowly, it was because there was something nearby that made them want to move slowly, like food to graze. John moved at the pace of an animal that was neither afraid nor distracted, an animal that was looking for something but hadn’t found it yet.
He’d heard someone say that a hunter had to become his prey, had to become the deer or the rabbit. He told his grandfather that one day. “Crap! Whoever told you that buys his game off the back of a pickup truck. Does the wolf become the deer? Of course not. He becomes a wolf. I don’t know why you listen to those friends of yours.”
Sometimes John’s grandfather had been wrong. John wasn’t a deer, but he wasn’t a wolf either. What made man a great hunter? Knowing when to think like a deer, when to think like a wolf. And when to think like neither of them.
Step.
If a hunter didn’t have the senses of a wolf, he found deer by thinking like a deer. If there were deer in these woods, where would they want to be?
A deer could roam anywhere looking for food—too much ground to cover. But eventually it would need water. Not just water, but also a safe place to drink. John continued until he came to a melt-creek. The stream was small, but the banks were too steep to tempt a deer, so he started upstream, paralleling the bank from far enough away that the gurgle of the creek wouldn’t prevent him hearing the noises of the woods around him.