Strife: Third Book of the Nameless Chronicle

by M. T. Miller

  I am not a god, the Nameless wanted to say. There was nothing to gain by telling the man what he was, so he remained silent. He waited patiently for the lock to click and the door to slide open, and when it did, he barely contained his surprise. The room did not have any active illumination, but the ominously gleaming handgun would have made it obsolete. Left alone, it lay in the center of a thick wooden table, itself in the middle of the stone-paved chamber.

  “Lock the door behind me,” the Nameless said. “I do not know what will happen when I grasp it, but in all likelihood I will be hostile for at least a while. Wait for me to subdue it, and if I do not succeed within a day, you have my permission to cut off the hand I hold it with. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly,” Emile said, now in his usual confident tone. He didn’t smile.

  The Nameless stepped in and the door closed shut. The lock clicked as he approached the table, reminding him that he was wholly in Emile’s mercy. If the priest wanted, he could leave him here to starve. The revolver’s proximity might provide some sustenance, but there was no way to know if it would be enough, and whether or not he would still need any food.

  “You and I have been through a lot,” he said to the weapon as his hand hovered over it. It was a magnificent weapon, as pleasing to the eyes as it was deadly to his enemies. Together, they had conquered a city. They had been apart for far too long. “I have need of you again. Help me, so we can both retire.”

  An absurd thing to say, he thought as he grasped the gun. No weapon wishes to stop killing.

  There was no flash of green. No jolt of energy flowed through the Nameless, and nothing fought for control over his body. He stood in place, free to move his limbs, face, and everything else. Nothing, he thought. At least until he looked at his gun hand, and noticed that it held nothing at all.

  Missing? Where did it go? He looked around, stopping when he laid eyes on a vibrantly colored figure that banged on the steel door. It was a man, tall, lean, and dressed in a long trench coat. The gun was in his right hand, while his head was covered by a cowboy hat. From head to toe, he glowed with the same shade of green emanated by the revolver.

  “Who are you?” the Nameless asked while approaching carefully. For all he knew, the man was unhinged. He might fire at the slightest provocation.

  “I’m not listening to any of you,” the man said in a Texan accent. His voice had an echoing quality, and was somewhat familiar. “Made me waste bullets the last time. You don’t matter. Not a bit. I’m getting out of here, and that’s that.”

  “Care to clarify?” The Nameless kept getting closer, ready to pounce should the man turn around and fire. The man responded in neither word nor deed, allowing him to get closer. Once he was directly behind his back, the Nameless went for the revolver. To his surprise, he grabbed nothing.

  How? The Nameless stared at his hands, then at the gun. It was impossible for the man not to have noticed, yet he kept banging against the door. Regardless, the Nameless tried again, this time slower. He extended one hand, reached for the pistol, and watched as his fingers harmlessly passed through those of the other man.

  “That won’t work,” the man said, finally stopping his banging and turning to face the Nameless. “You’re not real. Deal with it and disappear. Stop bothering me.”

  The Nameless stepped back. He had expected a human face. Instead, all he got was another talking skull. Baron? he wondered, but shot the idea down. The voice was different, and in tandem with the suit and revolver, the apparition’s identity became apparent to him.

  “Boneslinger,” he said.

  “In the flesh,” the Boneslinger said. Abandoning the idea of breaking through the door for now, he started pacing around the room. “Now, ghost, or whatever you are, mind telling me how to get out of here? There’s business I have to take care of, and I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

  He is the ghost. Of course, the Nameless thought as he followed the man’s motions with his eyes. But he does not know that he is dead.

  “No?” the Boneslinger said, touching the stones in the wall with his fingers, then giving them a slight poke with the butt of the revolver. “Didn’t think so. Now do as I ask and stay quiet. Big Man Bones’s got stuff to do.”

  Indeed he does. But that name is not yours anymore. The Nameless approached the Boneslinger. Standing in front of him, he let the ghost get a good look at his face. “You are dead. I am not a spirit; you are.”

  The mask that now comprised the Boneslinger’s face contorted as he started laughing. “I’m not the one who can’t touch anything, ghostie. Nice try, though. Now shut up and let me work.”

  He cannot recognize me. The Nameless stepped closer, leaning in before the Boneslinger’s inhuman face. He looked him straight in the empty, burning pits of his eyes. “You shot me in the head, Boneslinger. I beat you to a pulp, and then you shot me dead.”

  The Boneslinger didn’t speak. However, the way his skeletal lower jaw began to move told the Nameless to continue.

  “The bullet came in here,” he put a finger on his forehead, then at the back of his head, “and it exited here. Does that ring a bell?”

  This time, the Boneslinger stepped back.

  “Then I fell on top of you, and pierced your skull with the rod that stuck out of my shoulder!” The Nameless followed in, determined to maintain eye contact. “Some of you may still litter that camp! The few pieces that weren’t found by a lucky scavenger! You are dead, Boneslinger, and I’m the one who killed you!”

  If there was a way for a skeletal face to communicate shock, the Boneslinger found it. He looked down at his gloved hands, the gun, and then up to the Nameless.

  “I… I remember,” he said with a voice that no longer radiated confidence.

  Having expected something more akin to despair, the Nameless pointed to the gun. “I will be needing that, Boneslinger. Unlike you, I am still alive, and can make use of the revolver.”

  “Now, that doesn’t make a lick of sense!” The Boneslinger turned away from the Nameless and started pacing around the room again. “I’m dead, yeah, I remember that now. But you’re done as well. Gunshot wound, straight through the brain. No way you survived that!”

  Expecting him to believe I am alive would be a bit much, yes, the Nameless silently agreed.

  “So we’re stuck in some sort of Hell… or Purgatory,” the Boneslinger muttered. “No one’s torturing us yet, so it’d make sense that we’re in Purgatory. Damn that priest! He said he’d pull a few strings up above… Should’ve known, should’ve known…”

  The priest? The Nameless stood before him right as he came full circle. “Father Light?”

  “Who else?” the Boneslinger passed right through the Nameless as he kept pacing. “Asshole used me; used me hard! Should’ve just taken his cash and ran! The fuck was I thinking? Mob boss? Don’t make me laugh!”

  “Mob boss? Money?” the Nameless asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Fuck you is what I’m talking about!” the Boneslinger said. “I run their whole little charade for them, keep doing it for fucking years, and they can’t pull a few strings to get me to heaven after I kick it? Fuck them! Fuck them fuck them fuck them fuck’em fuck’em fuck’em fuckemfuckem!” The Boneslinger’s speech kept getting more and more abnormal as his pace quickened.

  “You were working for the Church?” the Nameless said in surprise.

  The Boneslinger stopped walking at the other end of the chamber. “Who else could spit out the ludicrous amount of resources I needed to get this whole operation running? Have you ever thought of that, huh? You think someone like me just sprouts out of nowhere, and all of a sudden every little inbred shithead just jumps at the chance to mutilate their mug and follow me into death? Hell, no! I was planned, one hundred percent, and from the get-go!”

  The Nameless’ eyes narrowed as he fixated on the gun. “And the First Skull…”

  “Assassinated,” said the Boneslinger, fuming, “to make way for me. H
is gang was getting too powerful and too unpredictable, and the assholes in white just couldn’t have that. I was given everything I needed to remake that group and run it in a way that drove the people into the arms of the Church.” He looked up, spreading his arms. “Want more, God? I’ve got enough dirt to spew on those bitches to put them into the deepest pits of Hell! You listen and take notes, okay?

  “Father Light likes to bang his nuns!” the Boneslinger screamed. “And when he doesn’t use them, the old goat gives them to others!”

  He is beyond himself with rage. The Nameless started to approach.

  “Sister Chastity on the other hand,” the Boneslinger continued, “is so in tune with her name, she refuses to heal genital mutilations! And if one believes the rumors, she may have even performed some!”

  The Nameless refused to focus on the remark. He would need to use this anger before it passed.

  “The Deacons, they bang little boys almost as much as little girls!” the Boneslinger continued with the Nameless a mere too feet from him. “Threaten them with hellfire or expulsion into the wastes if they tell anyone! And as far as I’ve seen, they make good on them! Oh, man, do they ever make good!”

  “You want revenge,” the Nameless interrupted. “Correct me if I am wrong.”

  “Was it that obvious?” The Boneslinger lowered his eyes.

  The Nameless refused to acknowledge the ghost’s cynicism. “I intend to strike at the heart of this Church, Boneslinger.” He pointed to the pistol. “Once more, I tell you this. I need the revolver. With it, I can end this horror once and for all.”

  The Boneslinger looked at the gun, then the Nameless. “You’re just as dead as me. What use would you have of it?”

  “I was,” the Nameless said, allowing himself a half-smile. “You definitely killed me with that shot. I was dead, just the way I was before I rose in that graveyard.”

  The Boneslinger’s skull tensed its jaw.

  “You were hired to hunt down a man who would rise from his grave at a certain time, yes?” the Nameless said. “I ask you this, then: what would prevent me from reviving again, after your shot? Think about it. Think about it good.”

  After a couple of seconds of staredown, the Boneslinger turned toward the nearby wall. “That’s impossible.”

  “After witnessing so much, you think that is impossible? I thought you were smarter.”

  The Boneslinger ground his teeth. “I thought I was smart, yeah. Turns out I’m just another dumbass in a field of dumbasses. And more keep sprouting. Could have been anyone, but it was me.” He turned toward the Nameless, the bones of his face arranged in a way that was almost sad. “I’ve done so much bad stuff, man. You wouldn’t believe half the things I did.”

  “Haven’t we all?” the Nameless said. “No use crying over it now. The mark you made on the world is there, for better or worse. However…” He let his gaze fall on the gun once more. “I can still make mine. And the first thing I will do is make those who sent you on your path pay. False saviors, messiahs, and those who would impose their will on their fellow man; they fester within the True Church. I will break that organization down, and deliver punishment to all who abused their positions within it. On that, you have my word.”

  He extended his hand, palm up. “You have nothing to lose, Boneslinger. In this regard, we stand as one.”

  The Boneslinger sighed, an altogether humorous gesture for a dead man. He stepped forward, turning the gun in his hand so the butt end pointed to the Nameless.

  “If you don’t do as you said, I’m gonna haunt you ‘til you die. And you don’t die,” he said.

  “We have a deal, then,” the Nameless said as he took the grip.

  An intense flash of green light engulfed the room, robbing the Nameless of all his senses. By the time he could see again, he found that he was standing in the position the Boneslinger had been in. In his hand was the revolver, now gleaming much fainter. The room was no longer as easy to navigate, but he could still make out both the door and the table.

  “Emile!” he shouted as he banged on the metal. “It is done! The revolver is mine, and the spirit has been… subdued.” He stopped for a moment, waiting for a potential sign of the Boneslinger’s disapproval. There was none.

  Emile’s muffled voice came from the other side. “How do I know you’re you?”

  “If I start shooting, you will know,” the Nameless said.

  “And what do we do then?” Emile asked.

  “Cut off my hand,” the Nameless confirmed.

  “Step back,” Emile said as the lock began to click.

  Doing as he was told, the Nameless found himself staring into the eyes of at least ten armed men. They mostly wielded sabers, unlike Emile. He held an automatic pistol.

  “I would let one of you hold this,” the Nameless said, showing them his own gun, “but I do not think you want to.”

  “Someone will have to, sooner or later,” Emile said as he pointed for him to step closer.

  “So you have been told of the plan?” the Nameless asked, stepping forward.

  “Yes,” Emile nodded. “We’ll proceed with it as soon as you’re out of this place.”

  “Has the Baron named Hillaire’s successor?” the Nameless asked, now face-to-face with the black priest.

  “He has,” Emile said. His tone was none too pleased. “You’re looking at him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For a whole week now, the bulk of Rush’s time had been spent staring eastward. Of course, this became repetitive quickly, but she had ways of dealing with that. Her favorite was moving to another window.

  The appearance of a sizeable black mass on the horizon caused her already rapidly beating heart to accelerate further. Running out of her room, Rush quickly stumbled upon others who’d noticed the same. Something was coming, and the city was well aware of it.

  The dark army continued to approach, and as it did, so did the city prepare. Rifle-bearing volunteers took their positions at the windows. The strongest men they had huddled around the recently repaired eastern gate. Rush herself was stationed near one of the few second-floor windows, ready to descend into the slums in case she was needed.

  A pair of riders set out toward the pyramid, their clothes as black as their mounts. They didn’t press their pace. Rather, they approached slowly, as if to say they came in peace. Although Torres wasn’t next to Rush, she knew him well enough to conclude what he’d do.

  The east gate opened, letting the riders in. She took a good look at them from above as they entered. Unless Bones found a way to disguise as a black guy, he’s not there. She considered going down to witness what Torres would speak with them about, but chose not to for the moment. Instead, she used her enhanced vision to scan the army.

  There were scarcely more than a thousand men, mostly armed with bows and blades. To their credit, the ratio of horse to man was almost one to one, but most of these animals weren’t used as mounts. Rather, they were chained to humongous, wheeled contraptions that didn’t seem to have a clear purpose.

  This is all they have? Rush almost broke into laughter. Even if the oversized carts were totally filled with explosives, this was a joke. The Holy Army outnumbered them all so much, they would stand no chance against it, even united.

  Then someone comes in to speak, and it isn’t our guy. She clenched both hands into fists. What was the Movement trying to do? This moving circus they’d parked before Babylon had no business trying to besiege it. It’d take forever, and they’d have to deal with the Army once it returned. No, they most likely didn’t betray the deal. But if they didn’t, why were there so few of them? And where the hell is Bones?

  Fuck it. She turned away from the window and went toward the elevators. She didn’t have to walk long before she ran into a messenger.

  “Champion!” the young man said, breathing deep from all the running.

  “Lemme guess,” Rush said, going past him and proceeding toward the lifts. “Torres wants m
e downstairs? Hot or cold?”

  “Erm…” The messenger turned around and walked in her footsteps, holding something in an extended hand. “Not exactly. There’s something for you. Seems like a letter.”

  “A what?” Rush stopped and turned toward the young man. She snatched the paper from his hand and started tearing it up.

  My dearest Rush, the letter said in a readable, if not too eye-pleasing, handwriting.

  As you can probably see, the negotiations have been successful. The Movement has sent its finest, and I have worked up a plan that has a good chance of success. You will learn the details, but that is not what this letter is for. Rather, I wrote it to explain why I cannot be there.

  Rush barely stopped herself from crumpling the paper.

  First off, allow me to say that I have loved every moment I have spent in your presence. Unlike anyone I have met since I rose from the dead, you manage to both soothe and amuse me when I need it most. And when push came to shove, you were the most reliable person to have around. The night you and I spent before I set east was, without exaggeration, the most enjoyable part of my life.

  Rush’s eyes began to water, so she turned away from the messenger.

  I would have loved to flee with you north. I still consider it as I write this letter. But as I was saying, my bill is coming due. I have a chance to do something with this overpaid life of mine. To give something back to the world and justify everything I have taken from it. This is something only I can do. If things were different, I would have asked for your aid.

  You will be angry. I understand. I am angry as well; at myself, and at those who have forced me down this path. I cannot ask of you to take the battlefield on Babylon’s side. If you wish, you are free to desert, and leave north by yourself. I will not try to steer you toward anything. I just want you to know that I have loved each moment we have shared.

  And I hope we get a chance to spend more time together.

  Horace Bones,

  previously Lord Nameless