Strife

by M. T. Miller

  “Corrupt scum!” she bellowed, her voice becoming clearer as the Nameless got closer. “You will burn, the whole stinking lot of you! Who are you even fighting for? Don’t you have any shame?” She kept on going even as the Nameless entered the tent.

  He recognized who it was immediately: beautiful yet fuming, Chastity kept going in circles around the largest table, her eyes flashing at everyone who sat there.

  The Nameless’ leg cramped, but he kept dragging it regardless. He had to remain composed. Did Annabelle do something?

  “You’re overreacting,” said Father Light.

  “Overreacting?” She stopped, slammed both palms against the table, and got up in his face. “You call one of my silent sisters out without my consent, no doubt to be ravaged by one of his beasts,” she pointed at Malachi, who sat a few feet away, “and you tell me I’m overreacting? What are we becoming? What’s next? Rape camps? When are we opening those?”

  “Are you done?” Father Light asked.

  “No, but you will be,” she said furiously. “I have written to the Holy One, telling them of the filth you people are doing here. When they finally arrive, they will know. Enough is enough.”

  Father Light sighed. “Chastity, everyone in this room, as well as myself, has always appreciated who you are and what you represent.” He pointed to Malachi, then to himself. “Chosen though the First Skull and I may be, you are still the Holy One’s first choice, and thus hold a special position here. Still, we are out to win a war, and I can’t have you damaging the men’s morale.”

  If the Nameless could see Chastity’s eyes, they would most likely be crimson.

  “If you have written to the Holy One, fine,” Father Light said before she could answer. “Or if you have any complaints about the way things are done, that is fine as well. But please, and I ask this as not just a member of the One True Church of America, but as a fellow Chosen: stop making a scene.”

  “Or?” She leaned in closer.

  “Or I will have you removed from here and detained,” Father Light said.

  “So that’s how it is.” She bared her teeth in disgust as she withdrew from the priest, then the table. “You will not have to worry about me anymore, Father. While you are here, I won’t leave the cathedral.” She stepped away, extending her arms to everyone present. “But next time one of these wolves in sheep’s clothing gets their neck broken, you will have to fix it with a stapler.”

  Father Light raised both eyebrows. “You are denying us the use of your gift?”

  “Completely,” she said.

  “That is treason.”

  “What will you do about it, then?” Chastity asked.

  Father Light placed his palm against his forehead. “Do as you please.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she projectile vomited the word out as she stormed out of the tent, not noticing the Nameless among the dozen other Knights.

  “We could have used her in the field,” the general said.

  “Too late for that now. I know her better than anyone. She is out of this war, now and forever,” said Father Light, his eyes turning toward the approaching nun.

  “Did I cause this?” the Nameless asked as soon as their eyes met.

  “You didn’t,” the general spoke before Father Light could. “He did.”

  “This could have happened at any time,” Father Light said. “She could have gone berserk over… other things.”

  “Things that also shouldn’t have been done,” the general said.

  “I find that debatable,” said Father Light, pointing for the Nameless to stand anywhere among the other Knights. “But now is not the time for that. Lem, my son, pick any position. Orders are in from the White City, and we are about to relay them to all of you.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Nameless said as he obliged, relieved that he was not being called out for punishment.

  Even though Malachi remained silent throughout the exchange, the resentment he had for the whole situation was palpable. However, this foul mood seemed to lighten with every word that was then pronounced.

  “The day is nigh,” the general said, not reading from any paper, but in his own words. “We march on Babylon within the week. Whatever out-of-order drill you’ve got going, end it right now and finalize the men’s training. Basic CQC, melee, archery, and response to their superiors; this is what we need.”

  The men nodded, and so did the Nameless. One seemed to disagree, however; a man of medium height but extraordinary width. He sounded young for his build and position.

  “But sir, we’ve only processed half of the total volunteers,” he said. “Even if we finalize the training quickly, we will still not make up for the losses we suffered at the Sierra Nevada.”

  “I am well aware of that, Captain,” the general said, “but orders are orders, especially when they come from the top. Besides, Babylon has never been weaker. Reports say the sheriff is dead, and the city is falling apart from infighting. If we act quickly enough, we will in all likelihood be seen the way we intended: as saviors.

  “This attack will be led by none other than the First Skull,” he continued, to the men’s elation. “Most likely, there will be no major battle. If they don’t roll out the red carpet, you are to pressure the city with regular siege tactics. Siege engines are approved, and are to be used if they become necessary. There aren’t enough engineering units for each command, so you will have to share.

  “Now the bad news,” the general said. “The Holy One wants me to stay here and oversee the training of remaining new recruits. With all of you out in the field, I will be the only officer with combat training, and it will be up to me to show the next batch of Knights the ropes.”

  The men’s disappointment was apparent despite the hoods obscuring their faces. These men have genuine respect for the general, the Nameless realized. Even with the supposed First Skull at the front of their forces, they still regretted the old man’s absence.

  “Dismissed,” he ended his exposition. Slowly the officers started leaving the tent, with the Nameless tagging along.

  “Lem!” The general stopped him.

  “Yes, sir?” the Nameless said as he turned around. The way the old men gestured told him they wanted him to approach again, so he did just that.

  “Malachi.” The general turned to the First Skull, who stood up on command, even though his expression was in no way forthcoming.

  “You fight well,” Malachi ground through his teeth, no doubt due to being commanded beforehand. He extended a hand, the right one, and waited for the Nameless to return the gesture.

  “So do you,” the Nameless said as he accepted. Even though you cheat even more blatantly than I do.

  For almost a full minute the two men competed in who would squeeze harder. The Nameless was losing, but refused to back down.

  “Now that that is well and done” —Father Light stood up, separating the handshake— “we can go into detail about why we have called you here, Sergeant Lem.”

  “Of course,” the Nameless said as he discreetly stretched his fingers.

  “Your unit has outperformed all others in terms of melee and unarmed combat,” said the general. “It is small, but in this case, small is good. We want you to act as elite guard for the First Skull. How does that sound?”

  I suppose some enthusiasm is in order. “I… I do not know what to say.”

  “Accept,” Father Light said.

  “Very well,” said the Nameless. “I accept, though I don’t know what that will demand of me.”

  “Simple,” Malachi said. “You stay around me at all times. If it ever gets to actual fighting, you follow me and slaughter everything that gets close. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Without any doubt,” the Nameless nodded. Of course. A monstrosity like this needs no guarding.

  “Then that is that,” the general said. “Once again you are dismissed, Sergeant. You may return to your duties, and start prepping your squad for the march.”

>   “Thank you, sir,” the Nameless said as he left the tent.

  There is no way in which this is good, he thought on his way back to the training yard. The deal he struck with Hillaire bound him for three months; that didn’t change. But… Should Babylon fall, he might as well quit fighting. Without its people, without those close to him alive and well, the Nameless was nothing but a parasite. Their lives gave meaning to his; made him more than a monster like Malachi. Should Torres, Rush (presuming she even lived) and the rest fall, the Nameless would be right back where he started.

  I will not allow that to happen! He closed both fists.

  Something would have to be done, yes. What that would be, he would have to think up on the spot.

  ***

  It didn’t take a lot for the Nameless’ men to finalize their training. He had prepared them well. In three days’ time, they passed every test before them and were given leave until it was time for departure.

  They will be a vicious fighting unit, the Nameless mused as he rested his back against a tree overlooking the training yard. One of the few pieces of surviving growth within the camp, it was nevertheless starting to show signs of death. Not a single leaf graced its branches anymore, but they were still thick enough to give some degree of cover from the sun.

  Unimportant. Babylon’s strength lay in its surplus of firearms. Should the Holy Army somehow manage to close in, the battle would be decided regardless of the effectiveness of one group. Of this, the Nameless was certain. He had helped his enemy, but not in any way that mattered.

  “Figured I’d find you out here,” Greg said, creeping in from the Nameless’ left. The sound of his footsteps gave him away as usual, but there was no point in denoting the fact. “So it’s about time, yeah?”

  “Indeed,” the Nameless said coldly, not giving the man a single glance.

  “You’re a damn fine instructor,” Greg said, sitting a foot away from the Nameless without asking for permission. “Best I’ve ever had, and I’ve had many.”

  “But?” the Nameless asked.

  “But there’s something off about you, and I can’t tell what,” Greg said. “Most guys your type, squad leaders and the like, tend to either hang out with the higher-ups, or the rabble like us. You, you just do your job and go to bed.”

  The Nameless did not argue the man’s point. Aside from what was necessary, he completely ignored everyone.

  “There’s some within the squad who outright worship you,” Greg said. “Look at you as if you’re the Second Skull, for whatever that’s worth. You could be far, far more than our instructor or assigned leader, and I’m sure you know that yourself.”

  Once again, the Nameless didn’t reply.

  “So why not let it happen?” Greg asked. “Not like you need to do any work. Just spend some time with us. Keep your mouth shut most of the time if you want, but let the men know you aren’t doing this just because someone ordered it.”

  But someone did order it. Several individuals, in fact, the Nameless thought. “Do you have anything to add, soldier, or is that it?” he asked in a flat baritone.

  Greg’s expression darkened. “No, sir. I’m done.” He rose, setting course to the yard without turning back once.

  As far as I know, I will have to kill these men soon. The Nameless stopped looking at Greg’s back, and instead focused on his own clenched fist. Knowing the enemy and learning how they operated was one thing, but befriending their rank-and-file troops was a whole other beast. He had buried enough friends. Adding to that list was not necessary.

  He spent the following days in thought, and mostly alone. Like a rat in a maze, he searched for a way to wiggle out of his predicament, and found nothing but the beaten path. There was no other option than to wait and hope. Or was there?

  The Nameless would keep his disguise and travel east with the Holy Army. He would assess the situation and their capabilities, and only then would he determine his next action.

  The deal, he remembered. The three months he needed to spend as part of this insanity were nowhere near over. Would Hillaire keep his share of the bargain if the Nameless didn’t uphold his? Without the cursed bullets, Malachi was invincible.

  I will have to cross that bridge when I get to it, the Nameless concluded.

  The day arrived, and dozens of horns woke the camp at dawn. The Nameless did his morning routine hurriedly and marched up to the meeting point alongside his bunkmates. Along the way the whole squad met, their battle gear rattling with each step. A sword on one hip, a dagger on the other, with a bow hung over a white tabard; besides the golden lining that marked officers, each member of the Holy Army looked exactly the same.

  A humongous formation of men stood still, the Nameless but one insignificant speck in it. Pointed eastward, all they needed was a command to march. Although it was difficult to tell, the Nameless noticed that his own camp had merged with that of the women. Everything the Holy Army could spare was there.

  “Finally,” Kenneth muttered some ten feet to the Nameless’ left. “We’re heading out to make a difference!”

  I should have put you in the back row, the Nameless thought as movement from up forward grabbed his attention. Some fifty rows ahead, the general stood between Father Light and Malachi, holding a speaking horn in one hand. He was about to address the army, and the chatter went silent.

  “Men of the Holy Army!” he bellowed. “Former civilians, army men, and Skulls alike! I stand before you today not as your general, but as a fellow human being!”

  Thousands roared in glee, several of them from the Nameless’ unit.

  “And what is common to all human beings, I ask you? Many answers are valid, but to me, the most important one is a sense of duty. Duty for the strong to help the weak. For the knowledgeable to educate the ignorant. For the just to enlighten the mistaken.” He pointed his arm eastward. “The city of Babylon is not the biblical Babylon! Its people are not aware of the error of their ways, and the few who are, are incapable of making a difference. They need us, and we respond!”

  If the crowd was ecstatic before, it was turning manic now.

  The general stepped forward, breathing deeply. “Even though we bear arms, we are on a mission of peace! Never forget that! Babylon must be taken, but spare everyone you can! The cult of the demon Nameless must be crushed into rubble, but leave its deluded members alive, for each civilian who witnesses our righteousness is a potential convert! And with each new convert the One True Church of America only grows stronger!”

  The collective fervor that followed in the general’s speech was nothing short of spectacular. Even the Nameless was tempted to join. Something in the back of his mind, no doubt the result of whatever Father Light had done to it, screamed, demanding to be let out. He kept it under wraps, despite the headache it caused. He didn’t care if his squad noticed; the chance of them seeing anything but the general was miniscule at the moment.

  “So, march!” The general stepped aside, letting Malachi take the first step eastward. “To Babylon! To victory! And to a new, greater States!”

  The ground trembled as nearly five thousand men took to the field. At their helm, the First Skull reborn paced without fear or worry. After all, whatever happened, he would survive.

  Holding his position, the priest gave blessings to each Knight who passed by, almost causing whole formations to break.

  To the disappointment of the Nameless, they didn’t, and the Holy Army kept marching on. It would keep doing so until it reached his city, facing no issue at all.

  Part Four:

  The Siege of Babylon

  Chapter Twenty

  Taking up her usual position (with both legs resting on the table, of course), Rush impatiently tapped one boot against the other. She was in the reception room, the one they used for negotiating with Azarian’s representative. This was the first call for dialogue they’d had since the fighting sounds died, and consisted of a single message: ‘meeting room, tomorrow at noon,’ repeatedly s
houted up an elevator shaft.

  Rush was the first to step into the room, and had been there almost an hour. She listened, felt, and watched for anything resembling an ambush or attack, and found nothing at all. Torres came in then, accompanied by five more guards, but she tried her best to ignore them as much as possible. Until, of course, she had something to say.

  “Someone’s coming. Just one. A man, by the sound of footsteps.”

  Despite no longer being bright green, Torres still had trouble moving. He rested a hand against his crutch as if to prepare for another assassination attempt.

  “He’s walking normally,” Rush said.

  “Who knows, maybe he’ll speak normally as well,” Torres said. “Either way, I’ll hold on to this.”

  Rush nodded. “Course you will.”

  The envoy didn’t waste any time. He came up quickly, and submitted himself for a frisk before being asked. Rush snuck a peek before he was let through the door. Unusually tall, buff, with skin the color of chocolate, the man was a weapon of intimidation in and of himself. He wasn’t in uniform, but instead wore a plain blue shirt and pants. No matter he’s not packing. This one doesn’t need a gun to kill someone like Torres.

  “Erm, hi,” the man said, in stark contrast to everyone’s expectations. “I’m Richard, but everyone calls me Dick.” He looked at Torres, then at Rush. “You must be the governor and the Champion. Pleased to meet you.”

  Rush listened in to the man’s heart rate. He was only slightly nervous. No threat would come from him, unless he was some sort of madman.

  “Have a seat,” Torres said, still not letting go of his crutch.

  “Yeah, of course,” Dick said as he obliged. He tried to sit straight, but with his size it seemed comical.

  “What’s going on there?” Torres finally asked.

  “We’ve killed the bastards,” Dick said proudly. “No more guards left down there. Nadda. Zilch. The second floor, as well as the first, are clean as a pair of whistles.”