by M. T. Miller
“Right there, sir.” Leon pointed to the distance while handing his set of binoculars to the Nameless, who didn’t waste any time in looking through them.
Thousands, he concluded as he scanned the distance. Row upon row of people, this time backed by both war machines and engineering teams. They’d learned from their previous retreat. Speed was less of a factor than thoroughness. If I fail, this will be the end of everything.
“Is that it?” Basil crawled out of their shelter slowly, the way he always did. The driver remained inside. Given how long he’d driven, he deserved a rest.
“Take a look.” The Nameless handed him the binoculars. Again, he had to adjust to a sudden lack of lips. This time he had even less leeway.
Upon seeing the enemy’s might, Basil’s expression changed. Normally calm, the priest now showed signs of worry. “We don’t have a chance,” he said as he took the lenses off his eyes.
“In direct combat, we don’t,” said the Nameless. “But we are not going for that, are we now?”
“We are, in a sense,” Basil said. “The corpse-wagons and the ritual… even if it works, we will still need to overcome this… this horde. I must say I’m not too pleased about our chances.”
Neither am I, the Nameless thought. For the first time in a while, he considered Tarantula’s words and recognized their wisdom. If the Holy Army was this huge now, there was no imagining how mighty it would’ve been by the end of the year.
“Good or not, this is the one shot we have,” he said without a hint of hesitation.
“I know,” Basil said.
Leon merely nodded.
The Nameless gestured for the binoculars and used them to observe the army again. Their pace was neither too quick, nor too sturdy. At least a day would pass before he could move. Just to be certain, he would wait another twelve hours after that. The time of the sacrifice did not matter as long as it was done before the fight itself.
Basil interrupted his train of thought. “So what now? We wait?”
“Of course we do,” said the Nameless as he handed the binoculars back to Leon. “We have been here for days. One more is nothing.”
Basil nodded. “True.”
It was past midnight on the following day by the time the Nameless was ready to move. He took the bag containing Hillaire’s now slowly decomposing head, said goodbye to the pair of priests, and set course to the Underbelly.
“Good luck!” Basil shouted.
“Same with the ritual!” the Nameless shouted back. The priests were supposedly meant to detect the humongous release of power that the Nameless’ upcoming sacrifice would unleash. From that point on, everything would be in their hands.
But before that, it is in mine, he thought as he kept pressing on. In sharp contrast to what he was used to, the desert was cold. He didn’t have a Knight’s uniform, but instead opted for warmer civilian wear.
Over the course of hours the Underbelly and its surroundings became visible. Without the tents that surrounded it the last time, the city didn’t look much different than the first time he’d seen it more than eight months ago. It was even night back then.
His memories drifted to those much simpler, yet equally dangerous times. He remembered everyone he’d lost, and mused about what could have been if they’d lived. On the other hand, he considered the reverse: what would’ve happened if some of those who had survived, hadn’t. At first, such thoughts served as adequate entertainment. Before long they started eating away at his resolve, so he waved them away and kept pushing on.
Instead of hundreds, the Underbelly’s gates now had only dozens of visible guards. The Nameless had no doubt that there were more within waiting for an alert to sound. The One True Church of America might have gone all in with this, but they most certainly weren’t stupid enough to leave their leader undefended. Even if that leader is as powerful as it seems.
“Who goes there?” a Knight shouted. Within seconds, six of them flocked toward the Nameless, surrounding him.
“My name is Stanley Lem,” he said, extending the bag-holding arm. “I have returned from a secret mission, bestowed upon me by the First Skull.”
One Knight took the bag and began to open it, while another said, “What mission is that?”
“We were to assassinate Jules Hillaire,” the Nameless said flatly, right at the moment the bag was opened.
The smell of rot was pungent. Not even the man’s hood was enough to spare him the disgust.
“Are you telling us this is his head?” another Knight asked.
“I guarantee it,” said the Nameless.
“Where’s the rest of your unit?”
“All dead,” the Nameless said. “All except me, of course.”
The guards exchanged glances.
You have no proof that what I am saying is true, the Nameless thought, but neither can you tell that I am lying. Malachi was nothing if not impulsive. Ordering something like that without precedent was perfectly within the bounds of his behavior.
“How’d you miss the bulk of our army?” the Knight asked.
“I snuck around it,” the Nameless said. “I was told to bring the head to the city, and that I am doing.”
The Knight considered his words before issuing commands. “Search this man, then take him to prison.”
“I was hoping for a warm bed and perhaps some food,” the Nameless said. “I have been riding, then hiking, for a long time.”
“You’ll be fed and given water,” the Knight said, “and after the Holy One takes a look at this and tells us what to do with you, you might even get your wish.”
He—or she—is here. “I understand.”
Holding the head, the Knight set course into the city, and the Nameless was led not far behind. Once inside, though, their paths diverged. While the Nameless was taken to a less wholesome-looking quarter, he noticed that the head-bearing Knight was well on his way toward the Cathedral. Of course. Where else would the Holy One be?
The prison was an inconspicuous structure not too far from the city wall. The only feature that made it distinct was the pair of guards by the entrance. Once the Nameless passed the front door he was led a single floor down, then through a reinforced door. The inside had no security, only dim torchlight and the skittering sound of the occasional rodent.
As he passed the numerous cells, the Nameless noticed that all but one were empty. He strained his eyes but couldn’t make out more than a huddled, blanket-covered figure in its center. Aside from ragged dark hair and a sheen of razor-sharp intelligence that emanated from the man’s pitch-black eyes, the torchlight did not reveal anything.
The Nameless stepped into his cell without putting up any resistance. As far as he knew, everything was proceeding according to plan.
“Someone’ll bring you food shortly,” a Knight said, and locked the door.
The Nameless nodded as the man went away. He tested the stability of a nearby bench, then sat on it and ignored the discomfort in his stomach as he directed his attention to the blanket-covered man. The only other prisoner in this place, he reminded himself. If he asked him questions, he might learn something.
On the other hand, it would risk compromise. No, the Nameless would remain silent. He would ignore the man, and maintain composure for however long he needed to. Barring other factors, he would end up face-to-face with this Holy One soon enough.
I wonder how the rest are doing? he asked himself, thinking of one person in particular.
***
The sun was high up, scorching Rush’s pallid shoulders without a shred of mercy. She had almost forgotten what it felt like, not having left the city in almost a full decade. Glass windows were one thing, but the unfiltered touch of desert noon on her sensitive skin—that shit stung.
The men around her came better prepared. Having covered themselves with ripped fabric from head to toe, Babylon’s volunteer force mixed freely with soldiers from New Orleans. Over the course of the last couple of days, they’d exc
hanged firearms, taught the clueless how to operate them, and spread around their last reserves of ammunition.
Somewhere among New Orleans’ elites was their leader, one Emile Mounier. He would have to be protected throughout the battle. Were he to die, the whole plan would go up in smoke.
Rush turned to the shrouded wheeled platform to her left, then to the innumerable others that sprouted wherever she looked. The black priests had done a good job with the stench, treating those bones so that they somehow didn’t smell as bad. However, the scent of the grave could never be fully hidden from one with her nose. She tried her best not to think of it. The dead were, after all, her best shot at coming out of this mess alive.
Babylon’s dead smelled as well, and their stench wasn’t hidden at all. One of the first things the Movement’s representatives asked for was collection of innumerable bones that littered the slums of Babylon. These bones, they said, would only add to the defense’s might. Once the ritual was completed, they would rise and join the battle. The job was not pleasant, but it made sure that everyone could contribute.
Eventually, more or less the entire visible desert was littered with bones and half-decomposed bodies. The menacing mass of white on the western horizon didn’t seem to care about them. If anything, the sight only emboldened it to march onward.
No one tried to discourage the enemy. No offer of retreat was given, and no negotiations were attempted. Even Torres remained silent, up above in his window. He wanted to fight, this Rush knew. But with his shattered leg, all he’d do was get in the way.
Little by little, the Holy Army was approaching. Rush didn’t fear the initial volley of arrows. Besides being confident in her ability to evade them, the enemy would certainly try to close in as soon as possible.
“Is it ready?” she asked a black priest to her right. His face was covered by a torn up shirt, but the way he looked at her didn’t invite confidence.
“So… we just charge like morons and hope for the best? Even I see how dumb that is.” She flicked a thumb toward the city. “Why not stick in there ‘til we know it’ll work?”
“They might destroy the bodies,” the priest said. “Or somehow realize our trap. If they surround the city and wait us out, we’ll wish we’d died on the battlefield. This either ends here, or we lose. It’s as simple as that.”
Smart guy, Rush thought as she turned back to the nearby platform. She approached it, stuck her hands underneath the shroud, and started to feel around.
“Come on, what are you doing?” someone asked from the third row. He didn’t seem too eager to be seen. Rush chuckled.
Boy, is he in for a surprise.
Something moved, or rather tried to move, underneath her fingers. The skin was warm but as hard as diamonds. Without any regard for any discomfort he might be feeling, Rush pulled hard, dragging the steel-clad (and completely immobilized) Malachi from the platform. Not a second passed after his face hit the dirt, and already she started dragging him around like a club. A ten-foot long chain dangled from his foot-shackles. She wrapped it around her forearm, then over her shoulders. Rush trusted her grip, but one could never be too certain with things like this.
“Come on!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Whaddaya want, a speech? Cheesecake, maybe? Fuck that! I’m off to get me some blood, and you’re all invited!”
With the zest of a complete psychotic, Rush darted forward. The rest of the men were not far behind.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It had been days.
Initially, the Nameless remained patient. After that, he placated his growing disquiet by pacing around in circles. The man in the opposite cell didn’t speak, but rarely stopped staring.
“Who are you?” the Nameless asked on the second day.
The man remained silent, though his gaze seemed to indicate amusement.
Gone mad, most likely, the Nameless concluded as he resumed his pacing. He wanted to do a round of exercise, but the cold item in his gut discouraged that.
It was on the fifth day that he concluded that there was no more time to waste. In all likelihood, the Holy One would never see him. Best case scenario, the Holy One was preoccupied and would delay their reception until the battle was over. As far as the Nameless knew, the plan was about to fail.
On that morning, he removed his shirt, sat in the center of his cell, and waited patiently for his meal. What came was neither pretty nor pleasant.
It didn’t take long for the prison door to open and for the usual pair of men to proceed down the hallway to his cell. They always carried a pair of bowls, one for each prisoner, each with a single wooden spoon. Of course, it all had to be returned after the meal.
The Nameless accepted his bowl as usual, but let it drop to the floor and spill. He approached the roughest part of the wall to his left, pressed the spoon against it, and started dragging it down.
“What are you doing?” one of the men asked.
The other prisoner ate his food, but his eyes remained trained on the Nameless.
The Nameless ignored the guards and kept repeating the motion.
“Did you hear me?” the guard asked.
The Nameless felt the point of the spoon with his hand and made certain that it was as close to sharp as it was going to get. Then he raised it up toward the ceiling before driving it into his stomach.
“Hey! Madman! What are you doing?” the other guard shouted.
Doing his best to ignore the pain, the Nameless tightened his skin with one hand while he kept tearing through it with the other. Seconds. I have to endure a few seconds, no longer!
A guard fumbled around the lock. As expected, both he and the other one were preparing to subdue the Nameless. This was good; it told him that they didn’t know who he was.
Now for the worst part. He held the gaping wound in his stomach open, letting intestines spill out. He drove his free hand in, digging around his innards and sending shockwaves of agony throughout his body. He didn’t need to search for long.
The Nameless grabbed the bag that contained the revolver and wedged it out of his stomach at full force. He stopped keeping the wound open and immediately opened the package. His hands wanted to shake, but he forbade them from doing so. Now more than ever, he needed his usual speed and precision.
The door swung open and the first guard ran in. He would have pounced on the Nameless at that very moment, were it not for the green glow that emanated from the revolver that was now pointed at his forehead.
The Nameless pulled the trigger, splattering the cell with the man’s brains. He shot the other one in the chest before the body even hit the ground. Fighting for breath, the remaining guard fell down, turned on his stomach, and frantically started crawling toward the exit.
He might survive, the Nameless thought. He looked at his gun, then at his spilling guts. Then again, he probably won’t. He lowered the revolver to the floor and slid it toward the wall opposite the cell door.
Breathe. He closed his eyes and forced his body to relax. The prize was in the air. All he needed to do was inhale and let it do its work. He stopped paying attention to the sounds made by the crawling guard. There was no need for that. The life that escaped from him and flowed into the Nameless was proof enough of his demise.
Energized, the Nameless opened his eyes. His body was whole, his limbs eager to be put to use. He rose, took up the gun and observed the two missing rounds. There were four shots left. More than enough, if I play my cards right.
He put his shirt back on. The closer he got to the cathedral before anyone noticed something was wrong, the better his chances would be. He approached the closer of the two bodies and armed himself with the dead man’s saber. He was halfway down the corridor when the other prisoner spoke.
“You’ll need me to stop it,” he said.
The Nameless turned toward him, then looked at the bodies. The key to this man’s cell should be here. It shouldn’t cost me too much to set him free.
“Don�
��t,” the prisoner said just as the Nameless was about to start searching. “If you release me now, I’m likely to get killed. Just remember what I said.”
I was right. The Nameless turned back toward the exit and pressed on. The man has gone completely mad.
***
No alert was raised, and the Nameless was not intercepted en route to the cathedral. After all that had happened to it, the city was now so scarcely populated that he barely saw anyone along the way.
That changed once he began to ascend the stairs to the church. There was a man to the left and a man to the right, both clad in the Knights’ traditional white. I must not waste anymore bullets. He approached them as casually as possible, subduing his readiness to attack until the very last moment.
The Knight to the left was the first to try to speak. He was also the first to die. The Nameless swung his saber with the speed of descending lightning, separating the man’s head from his shoulders in a single motion. The one to the right barely had the chance to draw his own weapon before suffering the same fate.
As their bodies hit the floor, the Nameless sheathed his blade and proceeded into the cathedral. There used to be a mechanism, he remembered as he looked for a switch. It wasn’t far; it stuck out a wall to his right, signaling its relation to the doors by the reinforced cable that ran toward them.
He approached the switch and pressed it, causing an electric buzzing to accompany the entrance closing. Now you cannot escape.
He reached for the back of his belt, grabbing the gun and adding a subtle, green sheen to his surroundings as he proceeded down the red-paved corridor.
The door to the inner chamber was open, and the Nameless learned to his surprise that someone had been watching him approach. As he got nearer, details about this individual started to become more easily discernible. A lithe frame. Silvery, shoulder-length hair. Delicate features on an equally delicate frame, shrouded by a robe of purest white. What is this, a head priestess? Or the Holy One?