by Jack Conner
Next, Malie sent her own soldiers into battle, and behind them, the second Collage. After that, it was over in minutes, and she had herself borne up the stairs to survey the bloody battlefield. It reeked of death and spent weapons, but she didn’t mind. All she cared about was that her army had prevailed. Ten of the sixty zombies still “lived”, as did both Collages. No humans had survived, but then they hadn’t been meant to. Twenty-eight of Raulf’s people and five of her own had been slain, but those were acceptable losses.
Bleeding from a thousand wounds and still with a sword skewered through his midsection, Captain D’Aguila approached her litter with something like distaste. “It’s done,” he said. “Lost some good men, but it’s done.”
“There’ll be more fighting ahead.” She turned to Greek, the zombie Junger and Jagoda had given her as a go-between between herself and them. “Your masters are pricks, Greek. Why’d they have to blow up the Courtyard? I was going to give my coronation speech there.”
The zombie shrugged. “The Masters, they work in mysterious ways. Be happy they did it, though, else you’d have to fight another two hundred aught Castle-men, you would. Did you a favor, they did.”
“Maybe. They could’ve asked permission to use my damned nuke, though.”
“But would you have allowed it? Also, keep in mind me masters’ Collages and my brethren zombies are the only things that let you prevail this time. Also, insofar as the nuke is concerned—”
“God damn it,” spat Raulf. “Now’s not the time for this discussion. Jesus, we’ve just come the first step and have many more to take, and I’ve lost too many good men already. Let’s hold off on the zombie-babble and get this show on the road.”
Malie decided not to punish him for his attempts to undermine her authority. “Yes. Let’s get me my Castle. Gather your men; we need a brief strategy session before we continue.”
“We’ve been over it before.”
“Mind yourself, Captain. I’ve got some new orders to give. Once we’ve taken the Castle, we’ve still got Subaire and her Half to worry about.”
Raulf glared at her. “So you’re actually going through with it. Roche Sarnova or no Roche Sarnova, you want to be queen.”
She laughed, but even to her ears it sounded off. How had this obsession with power grown so strong, so fast? Why did it eclipse even her desire to avenge Ludwig’s murder? She didn’t know. All she knew was that, though it didn’t feel particularly right, it didn’t feel particularly wrong, either.
It felt ... good. Exhilarating. She was glad to have been swept up in it, even if she was betraying the woman she used to be. Then all that had mattered was loving Ludwig and securing a better world for the future. The new Malie was different, and she embraced the difference with open arms.
“Yes, my dear,” she told D’Aguila. “I want to be Queen. And before the night is out, I will.”
* * *
Before he felt the shockwaves of the nuclear explosion, Harry Lavaca had been in the visitors’ lounge of Rosie’s Din. Most of the staff had gone up to witness Mauchlery’s speech, but several had stayed behind to cater to the clients who’d declined to go. So, thinking how odd this world grew every day, Harry settled into an armchair in the funky lounge and leafed through a copy of one of the underground immortal presses, this one called the Nightwatch. The article that caught his interest was about the War of the Dark Council, and he couldn’t help but notice how out-of-date the story was, even though it had only been published a week ago. Little did the reporter then know that the whole war would probably be over tonight.
Nevertheless, he concentrated on the article, trying to block out the image of what Cloire was doing in the other room. Some poor mortal would be sedated and lying on a plastic cover while she would be gnawing on his arms and legs, perhaps in her beast form. He shuddered but consoled himself that the human would be healed immediately after by an infusion of shadeblood and would feel no pain—and would be compensated well. Still, the whole thing was pretty grisly. And this is the woman he loved? God, would Marcela have had a heart attack. He wasn’t far away from one himself.
He was just about finished with the article when he felt the rumble.
Cloire stumbled out into the lounge, mouth smeared with blood.
“Fuck!”
“We failed,” he said, going to her.
“They fooled us,” she said, hawking a spatter of blood onto the carpet. Brusquely, she wiped the blood off her face with her sleeve. “Byron ...”
He knew what she must be thinking. Had the exchange between herself and Byron, before Harry and the others arrived, been genuine or merely a trick of the Balaklava? Had they been laughing at her through their zombie’s eyes as they pulled his strings and flung him into the abyss? Harry could see the idea eating her up and wrapped his arms about her. For a moment, she laid her head against his shoulder and shook.
“I’m here for you, darling,” he said, and meant it.
She broke away. She examined the stub of her left arm and seemed to note that it was beginning to regenerate, then lit a cigarette and stared coolly at Harry for four puffs.
“I’m not sure if I want you calling me darling,” she said. “I mean, you left me.” But there was no venom in her voice, only hollowness, and ... maybe ... hope.
“I’m here now,” he said.
“For how long?”
“I ... For the duration, I guess. If you’ll have me, stupid jerk and mortal lush though I am.”
“No more this-is-for-our-own-good shit? I’m talking about the walking out on me part, in case that wasn’t clear.”
“No more.”
“For the duration, huh?”
“Yes.” He searched her face. “I don’t know why I feel for you what I do, or you for me, but it’s there.”
He took her in his arms again and kissed her, and, after a stiff moment, she let him. When they parted, Harry noticed the few occupants of the Din were running out of the rooms and either up into the Castle or farther down it, seeking to help or to flee.
“What a mess,” Cloire said. “What now? Ruegger sending you anything?”
“Nope.”
“Then it’s up to us.”
“’Us’?”
She didn’t exactly smile, but there was warmth in her eyes as she nodded. “Us. I say we go up to the courtyard and see what we can do. First let’s stop off at my room and get some guns. I’ve a feeling we’ll need them. Sound good?”
“If we can do something, let’s do it,” he agreed. “But the blast ... the radiation …”
“That’s right. It won’t hurt me, but it will you. Better take some of my blood.”
“No, Cloire. I’ve told you before—”
“Quiet, luv. I’m just going to give you a little to ward off radiation, that’s it. Then we go get some guns and see if we can lend a hand—just one in my case. I figure we owe them that much, seeing as how we screwed up so bad.” She fell silent, probably thinking about Byron again, then said, “Deal?”
“Okay, but only a little.”
“Trust me.”
* * *
Even while Francois was still giving his doomed speech in the ivory tower, the dragons had grown restless. Danielle thought, as the great wyrms swarmed about the bottom of the lake, that they seemed like nothing so much as horses in some fantastical corral. She turned her gaze to Ruegger, dressed in black from head to toe and with eyes and hair of the same hue, and thought how regal he looked straddling that massive red dragon. She was about to send him a message when something else captured her attention—and that of everyone else in the lake.
A ghastly skinless apparition rose like a demon out of the hole in the basin of the lake and stared about in fear and awe. Undoubtedly, the nine dragons looked to him like circling sharks out of some dreamscape he would’ve preferred to have stayed out of. Then the ghoul saw Jean-Pierre atop his gleaming white-scaled dragon and smiled.
Ladrido rose up to the level of the dragon
s and gave each one, and each rider, a bow as they passed. Danielle was impressed with his sense of propriety. Next he sent out a message to all the dragons, who in return relayed the message to their riders.
Good to see you all again, Ladrido sent. After a dunk in the spring to get this body whole, I decided to take you up on your kind offer and get the hell out of Dodge. Anyway, I see you’ve a couple of dragons unmounted. Would you mind if I joined you? Dragon-riding and ass-kicking sounds like something not to be missed after hundreds of years in a hole.
We’d be glad to have you, sent Sarnova. Just so you understand that it will be dangerous, and you will not be able to control the dragon yourself.
Thanks for the warning, my lord, but if you’ve convinced nine dragons to fight for you that’s argument enough for me. And I suppose I’ll have to trust the dragon. Ladrido fixed his eyes on Damara and grinned broadly, if hideously.
She accepted him. In fact, the flirtatious wyrm even smiled a little, despite the glower Gethraul shot her way. Just then the massive green dragon slowed to a stop in his circling, halting the others as well, but jealousy was the last thing on his mind, as Roche quickly explained.
Thirty-nine percent! he sent, enraged. Francois just reported to me that only thirty-nine percent of the assemblage voted in favor of my Jerusalem. Damn them! And I’ve been letting them live in my castle all this time! Over sixty percent, too weak-willed and closed-minded to think of announcing ourselves to humans. I hope Francois gives them a mouthful.
He stopped, but Danielle could see his face was red with anger. She turned to Ruegger, who nodded. Sarnova had, apparently, made the right decision in wanting the full support of the Dark Council before approaching his subjects with the plan. She swore to herself, realizing the full ramifications of the vote.
I guess this means the war is off, she sent to Ruegger.
Damn it, yes. We’ll surrender and Subaire will have her way. I only hope dealing with Malie and the Balaklava slows her down enough so that humanity has a chance to rally against her. From all I’ve heard about her, once she’s in control of the empire she’ll try to bring mortals to their knees.
Even as Danielle was shaking her head, all nine dragons seemed to jolt with electricity. Then the coven, plus Ladrido, heard Francois’s battle cry.
The dragons began circling again, only this time even more rapidly than before, so that as they approached the surface they found it shimmering from their movements. In a brilliant explosion of water, the nine dragons erupted from the lake and into the glorious night sky. Smoke trailed from their mouths. Danielle knew then, even as she felt the wind tearing through her wet hair, that the engine of death had only just begun. It was no longer a fight for the Homeland. It was a fight for survival.
* * *
In the Upper Courtyards, Francois Mauchlery enlisted the aid of one of the soldiers sent to search for survivors. The group of soldiers drifted out of one of the battlements, one which the Ambassador had been approaching, as he’d seen movement through the windows; the group saw him and stopped dead.
He knew his appearance must be ghastly. All his hair and clothes had been burned away and the front half of his body was burnt and blackened. These soldiers probably didn’t even recognize him.
He stopped ten feet from them. “Good to see I’m not the only one alive out here.”
At the sound of his voice, the soldiers relaxed.
“Dear gods,” their sergeant said. “Lord Mauchlery, is that you?”
“Well, what’s left of me. I beg your pardon, but would one of you mind lending me some blood? If I’m to help anybody, it’s best I don’t scare them to death before I can begin to administer aid.”
The sergeant himself stepped forward and knelt before the Ambassador, one arm outstretched, the sleeve pulled back to expose the flesh.
As Francois brought the soldier’s wrist to his mouth, he could feel tears forming behind his eyes at this display of loyalty. Once the transfusion was complete, the Ambassador stepped back and said, “Thank you, Sergeant. I can already feel my skin reforming.”
“Yes, my lord. The blackened parts are already knitting up nicely.” Sharply, the sergeant turned to one of his men. “Maynard, go back inside and fetch some clothes for our Lord.”
“Yes, sir,” snapped the subordinate and within minutes returned with a suit of clothes, overcoat and boots.
“Thank you, again,” said Mauchlery as the clothes were handed to him. The soldiers tried to help him put them on, but when he shrugged their efforts away, they backed away, and he was gladdened by the respect he saw in their eyes. Once dressed, he ran a hand across his scalp and felt bristly hair beginning to grow back.
“Are there other survivors in the battlement?” he said.
“Not this one, my lord, but in others. We’ve spoken via mortal and have organized a rough search party.”
Francois glanced toward the other battlements, but their lowest levels were screened by the hedge-maze, parts of which still stood. He surveyed this group of soldiers and spied the mortal “radio”. Not for the first time, he wished immortals could simply communicate telepathically with each other.
“If you would, Sergeant, alert the others that I’ve been found and am going to oversee the search.”
“Of course, my lord. What about the Red Light Outpost?”
“I’ve got that situation under control. Let’s just worry about collecting the survivors for the moment. Once we’ve done that, we’ll have to see about setting up some sort of trap for the Libertarians. I doubt Col. Hernandez will hold them for long. Though I certainly hope I’m wrong.”
“Of course, Lord Mauchlery. I’m glad you’re still with us. I … was of the thirty-nine.”
Francois smiled. “Well done, Sergeant. I’m proud of you. Now let’s go see about those others.”
He ascertained that five units of soldiers had been left in the northern battlements (those least affected by the blast) to guard against any sort of invasion from the top of the mountain. Three units (two besides the one he had commandeered) had been sent to search and revive survivors of the blast. Through the human, Francois organized the other two units. One would take the east side, one the west, while the Ambassador’s people would sweep through the middle and meet the others at the southern wall, where the big oak doors had been vaporized and the windows to either side imploded.
Methodically, Francois and the others picked through the wasteland, but there proved to be precious few survivors. The other two rescue parties, searching mainly along the wall, found the greater number of still-moving shades, as they’d been furthest from the blast. Even so, they required much blood to revive.
Mauchlery split his team in two when they approached the great crater the nuke had blown in the middle of the southern Courtyard, but of course this close to the blast there were no survivors. There were not even bodies. Ash was all that was left, and even that was being quickly covered by the ever-thickening snow. It was a sad, slow business, but eventually Mauchlery and the others wound up at the southern wall and found the last survivors.
Maximillian, the leader of the Funhouse of the Forsaken, had actually been embedded in the wall itself and it took some effort to get him out. He was as burned as Mauchlery had been, but his concern was not for himself but for the other members of the troupe. As it turned out, only three of the half dozen cast members that had bothered to witness the speech had survived, and the snake-oil salesman’s tears were loud and long when he discovered that Claude was not among them. The four-armed dwarf had been killed instantly.
“The show will go on,” Maximillian said, holding Claude in his arms. Tears stood out in the ringleader’s eyes, which he turned with passion on the other survivors of the troupe. “It will, I swear it.”
“Go back to your rooms,” Francois said. “Battle will erupt at any time.”
“Blood!” Maximillian said, with sudden anger. “I was promised blood.”
Francois indicated the bod
y of Claude. “I think there’s been enough blood for you.”
Nodding, Max led his diminished troupe indoors, carrying Claude with him.
In the end, a score of survivors had been located, and Francois opened an on-the-spot emergency clinic. He leaned the blackened husks up and ordered all the soldiers that had yet to give blood to do so, and now. As the soldiers tended to the wounded, the ten men and women that had been dispatched to help the search and rescue units emerged from the cavernous portal where the oak doors had once stood. Francois instantly ordered them to assist the others, which they were all too happy to do. So, after bumming a cigarette from one of them, the Ambassador settled back and was just beginning to think about what to do next when he was interrupted by the arrival of Cloire and Harry Lavaca.
The strange couple, laden with weapons and warm attire, appraised the wreckage of the Courtyards grimly, then approached the Ambassador.
“Good to see you,” said Francois.
Cloire seemed irritated by his civility, but under the gravity of the situation she refrained from making any disparaging remarks. Instead, she propped her hand (the only one she had left, he noted) on her hip and said, “How can we help?”
“If you’re ready to fight, we certainly will need fighters shortly. Are you willing to give your lives?”
“Uh-uh,” said Cloire. “That ain’t part of the bargain. If we’re gonna beat these assholes, it means we need to be the last ones standing.”
He turned to the soldiers, who were just finishing up with the survivors, and ordered five of them to his side. He barked out orders almost unconsciously, instructing the soldiers to retrieve the five battle units left in the battlements to protect the northern flank.
Even though they gave him puzzled glances, they obeyed, and soon the five soldiers returned, the five battle units with them. He gathered all the assembled shades, recently revived survivors of the nuclear blast included, into a rough assemblage. Before addressing them, he did a head-count and came away discouraged: including himself, only eighty-four shades were left to combat the Libertarians.