Drogir smashed a hard fist on the conference table, cracking the glass.
An unsettled silence fell upon the room.
“Where is the Iliad?” asked Henry. “They didn’t come back the entire way with the Odyssey nor off to the shipyard with the Homer.”
“Diverted to Bermuda,” Allete replied hesitantly. “They are restocking at the Forge before the next mission Tyrol has planned.”
“Do we have conventional weapons there?” Drogir asked deviously. “Bombs, missiles, other things that explode in big ways?”
Allete felt uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking.
“Perhaps we should wait for Jane to…”
“Yes,” Timothy answered Drogir. “They have enough of an incendiary and plasma arsenal to destroy an entire city.”
“Or a powered-up demon?” Drogir replied, his question more a statement of action.
Timothy breathed deeply and nodded.
“Yes, it could work.”
“Very well,” Drogir said. “I will update the rest of the Council later, but in the interest of time and on my authority, I motion that the Iliad stock up with as many conventional weapons as she can carry, setting course for Villach. There she will strike and take out that demon. Do I have a second for majority?”
“No! I do not agree! What are you doing, Drogir?” Allete said bitterly, quickly standing tall. “We have no idea if this will work, and you are sending one of our few airships right into the enemy’s clutches! This is madness!”
“Oh please!” Drogir boomed. “We have sent the Odyssey on just as many dangerous sorties when it was our only option. Now that it belongs privately to Mr. Mosely, we must use what assets are fully ours. Beyond that, we now have a chance to stop this before it goes any further! Can we really look at ourselves knowing that we had this chance and didn’t take it? They are about to march across your home, Allete. If you have this chance to stop them before that happens, why would you not take it?”
Allete wavered, but only just, quickly recovering her convictions.
“Of course I do not like the fact they will be cutting a path of death across Bulgaria, nor the one they have already started in Austria. If this plan of yours was guaranteed to work, then I would be fully supportive,” she answered, voice soft and nervous, “but as of right now, it would just be shooting in the dark.”
“We never have any guarantees of success, Allete. Not even in winning the final battle that we are pouring so much effort into. Here, in this case, if we can incinerate Dajjal’s vessel and enough of his foot soldiers,” Drogir continued, now focused on convincing Timothy, “there will be enough time to exorcise the demon back to Hell, or kill the menace with magic. That could save millions of lives! Otherwise, we would just be letting the Noctis up the body count.”
“This is a long shot, Drogir,” Timothy retorted, nervously rubbing his hands. “What if it should fail? We lose major assets with the Iliad and her crew.”
“Not if they escape in time should things go ill. If they don’t, then it failed with us trying. On the flip side, if it succeeds, this entire crisis will be over.”
“How can you be so cold?” Allete asked, disheartened as she glared at Drogir.
“Am I any colder than you in waiting for millions to die? This is war, my dear and you know that it is never pretty.”
Timothy’s hands now covered the side of his face, casting a shadow on it that made him look at least a decade older. His gray hair was white in the bright sun now beaming in through the windows. On any other morning, even yesterday, that view would have been more hospitable than it was now. Time was ticking and he had to make a decision on which side of the fence to stand on.
“Drogir,” Tim answered, the shadow remaining over his eyes, “very well. The motion carries.”
THE ILIAD SOARED over the icy peaks of the High Tauern, skimming along the sides of the mountain range as she raced toward Villach out of the west, a swift sunset behind her.
“Distance to the target?” Gabriel asked on the deck.
Nathaniel was with him, off to the left in full combat gear, staring at the oncoming scenery. Sean paced behind the two of them and the rest of their four-man squads were down below, final preparations for the assault underway.
“Hundred and thirteen klicks to the stadium,” Nathaniel replied in a tone that was suspiciously calm, “and coming up fast.”
“SITREP?” Gabriel continued, picking up that Nathaniel was distracted. It was his eyes that gave it away, unable stay put for very long. He was normally one with razor sharp focus.
“What’s bugging ya, man?” Gabriel asked casually. “I can see it in your face and it ain't pretty.”
“If I’m frank, it's this mission. I can't shake the feeling that something about it all is... off.”
“What you're feeling is probably the same thing that's been eatin’ my dick since we received orders.”
“That's one way of putting it,” Nathaniel answered with a quick chuckle.
“Yeah,” Gabriel continued, “well I think that our chances of successfully killin’ Dajjal are slim to fuckin’ none. But as always, we’re gonna follow orders and ensure we've given it everything we've got. If we don't kill him, we can sure do our best to delay him.”
“Roger that,” Nathaniel agreed, fiddling with his memorial bracelet, though none of it did a damn thing to sway his feelings positively. “We better put a massive dent in him at the very least.”
Sean was listening as he continued to pace, joining the conversation without stopping.
“I plan to personally deliver a grenade to his guts,” he said with loathing. “That’s what I want to happen to all these fuckers. The Noctis need take a massive hit because this has gone on for long enough.”
They had all been so wrapped up in rescue missions, assault missions, and reconnaissance missions that neither Gabriel or Nathaniel had really asked Sean some of the most basic introductory questions.
“So I gather that you had direct trouble with the red eyes?” Nathaniel asked over his shoulder. “That's a rare thing, considering how spread out their forces were. Most of us just have typical monster encounters littering our past. Ghosts and me are really good pals.”
“Aye. Gosh that was back in, um, late 2009 I think,” Sean replied, whistling at the realization that it was six-ish years ago. “Shit, time’s not only blurring together, it's flying by.”
“Ain't that the fucking truth,” Nathaniel responded. “I had a mess of things happen around that time, leading right up to the Incursion. Remind me to tell you about it one day once all this is over, but shadow men are some of the goddamn worst.”
“Will do for sure,” Sean promised. “For me, I was at Bagram when a local gang of smokies decided to start an assault on the base. It was brutal, dust kicked up everywhere masking the murders but we could still hear it going down. Overall we managed to hold our own, even though we just had bullets and knives; why I trust them implicitly now even against Paranormal. A team arrived sometime later, decked out to the nines. The brass was obviously unaware of who they were, the lead operative saying they were from something called the Order of Journeymen. I had no fucking idea what that even was, but they gave us the option of joining the fight against the night – terrors like the ones we had seen – or having our memories wiped to lives reassigned.
“Most took the easy way out and had their slates cleaned, but I knew what I had seen. That kind of shit going on around me without knowing sent a shiver up my ass. I couldn’t live with that. So, I joined the ranks in March 2009.”
“Wow,” Nathaniel replied, “I bet the demons attacked because of the Vault…”
“Gents,” Gabriel cut in, “sorry to interrupt, but it's time. I’m going to need ya, Nathaniel – get your mages up here, the river’s coming up.”
The Iliad swept down low, approaching the tree lined waters of the narrow river Drava.
“Invisibility and muting wards still ch
arged,” Nathaniel confirmed after sprinting around, joined by three other mages from below deck. They took their positions; two port and two starboard, hands out and glowing. “Alright, let’s do this! Three… two… one!”
The ship swooped low, skimming the calm river, waves churning beneath the hull. However, Nathaniel and his team deftly wove spells to keep the turbulence in check; anyone observing from outside would see nothing more than calm breeze tickling the otherwise glassy water.
“We should be good, Gabriel,” Nathaniel said. “You can tell the pilot to punch it.”
The ship blasted forward, following the river. The orange glow of the sun disappeared behind the far mountains, replaced by an ominous one from fires up ahead. The team stared, horrorstruck, at the devastation on both sides of the waterway.
Nathaniel had seen a lot in his time as a Journeyman but was having an exceptionally hard time, the sight of that much death taking a swipe at his concentration. His sigils flickered, allowing a large splash to form that was thankfully silenced by the wards.
“Nate!” Gabriel barked. “Come on man, be careful!”
The banks were soaked with blood, curls of crimson mixing in the dark water. Bodies of hundreds were piled along the water’s edge like boulders; an untidy mound of flesh with vacant expressions staring out, yet never seeing.
Beyond, the city was in ruins, aflame with tongues of fire and the blackest smoke. The Iliad continued, gliding beneath a crumbling overpass that spanned the river. Broken in the center, body parts hung from dark chains that clattered in the wind. The smell of burning flesh stabbed the crew’s nostrils, its sharp and pungent stench reminiscent of some grotesque cookout. Sean wiped at his nose, the smell lingering, and he could taste it as distant screaming rose over the howls of beasts.
“How much further do we have?” asked Sean.
“Not far now,” Gabriel answered. “I can see the stadium up ahead about…”
There was a threatening roar. It sounded close and terrifying.
“Nathaniel, ya see anything? Sean?” asked Gabriel as the sound grew louder. He then realized it was coming from beneath them. “Oh God. Brace for impact! Everyone brace –”
With a booming surge, a long and dark shape emerged from the frothing river. It pierced the shields as if they weren’t even there, striking the keel. The wood buckled and the ship snapped along its length. The Iliad listed, careening toward the buildings to starboard.
“Leviathan!” Nathaniel shouted, the creature’s monstrous jaws devouring two of his squad right in front of him. “NOOO!”
The ship crashed into structures, stone meeting the wood, metal, and magic of the fast traveling vessel. It was a disaster. Explosions burst out of the hull, crew and supplies scattering across the countryside.
The arsenal they were carrying for Dajjal instead became their own undoing, the hurtling ship taking out even more of the city with great balls of fire. A large factory sped toward them, toppling as they smashed through, then receded as nothing more than a pile of wreckage. Rail lines buckled from the heat and pressure as the vessel flew overhead and finally, the last vestige of the Iliad stopped right in the middle of a suburban neighborhood, houses dark and empty around it as the debris burned.
Nathaniel awoke a short time later. His hands stung with pain while his head pounded. Coughing, he looked down and saw that his palms had been badly burned. When he tried to close his fingers, the leathery char prevented them from moving much at all.
“Heal, dammit,” he pleaded, closing his eyes in an attempt to use a healing spell. The most he could muster was a sputtering sigil that quickly vanished in a flurry of blue sparks. Nathaniel felt like crying.
Then he heard a groan. It was Sean, barely conscious atop a nearby pile of wood.
Shuffling across the splintered deck, Nathaniel pulled himself along with his arms. He reached Sean a few minutes later and looked him over; there was a sharp piece of timber jutting out from one of his shoulders.
“How're you holding up over here, Mr. Dean?” Nathaniel asked, trying to keep the mood light.
“Well, seems the ship’s the one holding me up right now, buddy,” Sean replied, stifling a painful laugh. He winced after a small cough escaped.
“Yeah,” Nathaniel continued, “probably not my best idea trying to tell a joke to a guy that's been impaled.”
“Nah, not too bright at all,” Sean agreed, breaking a half-smile.
Gabriel was woozy but conscious. Looking out, he could see trouble was on its way. It didn't require crystal clear vision to make out the packs of werewolves and hellhounds inbound.
“Nathaniel… Sean… either of ya awake?”
Sean grunted from afar while Nathaniel, still over him, answered with a ‘yes.’
“That's all I needed to hear,” Gabriel said, slowly rising. He grimaced at the last, but made it up on his feet. “Get your asses out of here.”
Nathaniel looked up, shaking his head.
“I would if I could, boss, but seems I’m too zapped for magic. Besides, I’m not going to just abandon you, especially here of all forsaken places.”
“Now ain't the time to be stubborn,” Gabriel snapped. “Ya need to go! I'll distract them; keep ‘em busy. Relay what you’ve seen to the others and urge them, as best ya can, to fight. No matter what!”
“My place is on the front lines,” Nathaniel retorted sharply. “Not cowering in fear and certainly not running away!”
“This ain't the front lines!” Gabriel shouted, stumbling closer to both of them. “That's what's coming down the short road. Don't make me pull rank on your ass.”
“Pull that shit all you want, I'm still staying here with you,” Nathaniel insisted, tears streaming down his grime coated cheeks.
Sean coughed and Nathaniel quickly tended to him.
Gabriel took the opportunity while Nathaniel was distracted, thrusting his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a rune stone, the hordes of monsters crashing against the ship like a wave, spilling into the broken hull. Looking at his two comrades, he breathed across the stone, its power sparking to life.
Forgive me gents… he thought.
“Hey, Nate,” Gabriel hollered, tossing the activated stone his way.
“How many times have I told you, Gabe, don’t call me…”
There was a blinding flash and a boom, both Nathaniel and Sean instantly transported to safety, away from the immediate threat.
“Hope you guys are okay,” Gabriel whispered, looking up at the smoke filled sky before taking in the slaughter across the deck.
Everyone else he could see was dead, the sounds of scraping claws fast approaching from the lower decks. He closed his eyes, breathing deep as he reached for the Glock 19 holstered at his side. Opening them, he lifted the pistol and waited for the enemy.
A sudden boom right next to Gabriel sent his ears to ringing as a shockwave pushed him to the shattered deck. Then came the unmistakable smell of sulfur and Gabriel knew that something more terrible than werewolves had shown up.
“Only one of you?” Dajjal asked with the deepest disgust. “A shame…”
He sent his fist crashing into Gabriel’s jaw and the light that had kindled in the dark faded to black.
THE DARKNESS THAT had overtaken him slowly retreated, Gabriel taking in the foggy surroundings as he came to. He was strapped to a cross in the middle of an unassuming room, lit by candles or possibly a lantern positioned behind him. The walls were made of plain concrete, heavily stained with body fluids. A large door was ahead and closed, with huge rivets along its outer edge and a large metal handle stretching from one side to the center. The light behind him cast a shadow against it, flickering monstrously and there were screams coming from somewhere on the other side of it.
Another sound came from behind and Gabriel realized he was not alone.
“That you, Dajjal?” he called. “I can smell that unmistakable cologne of yours.”
There was no reply other than the subtle
clink of metal against metal.
“I know that you’re back there, hopefully makin’ me a pecan pie. I’ve been hungry since we made way for Austria.”
The soft tapping of leather soled footsteps rose out of the silence, Dajjal walking in front of Gabriel’s secured body. His eyes dropped from the demon’s red stare to a small object in his hand. There was a black handle fixed to a white plastic body and a serrated stainless steel blade jutting out from the front of it. It looked like a cordless carving knife, and Dajjal wielded it with glee.
“N-no thanks,” Gabriel said. It grew incredibly hot, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “Not hungry after all.”
“I know,” Dajjal replied, “but the hellhounds guarding this compound are.”
Dajjal reached out, grabbing hold of Gabriel’s right arm. He started rolling down the sleeve and the Journeyman struggled against him, but the demon prevailed.
“You see,” said Dajjal coldly, “I find they enjoy it more when given smaller pieces.”
He flicked a button on the utensil and the blade began to whirr. Back and forth it went, back and forth with hypnotic dread. He lifted it up just above the elbow at the base of the forearm and sunk the serrated teeth into Gabriel’s inked skin.
Gabriel’s head rushed with heat, his vision fading in and out, tunneling on the edges. He didn’t scream. Not because he was brave, but because he couldn’t, flashes of bright lights and intense buzzing rushing over him. He dared not look at what was happening, panting as a fetid warmth ran down his arm, pooling at the elbow and in the rolled up cloth. Then the heated metal began to move up his arm toward his wrist, all the way up in excruciating agony.
The whine of the motor died, Dajjal having switched the unit off.
Gabriel drooled, barely conscious though hanging on. There was a slippery feeling over to his right, a squishy noise that would have made him sick to his stomach if he wasn’t on the verge already.
“Ah, there we are,” Dajjal said, walking back in front of Gabriel while waving a long, narrow flap of skin. “I managed to preserve most of the ink work; I think I might keep this as a memento. Would be a shame to waste it… what do you think, chatty human?”
Running on Empty (Journeyman Book 6) Page 10