Refuge: The Arrival: Book 2

by Doug Dandridge

  “Talk to me Sergeant,” said the Major, crowding close over the NCO’s shoulder.

  “The transmitter is working, sir,” said Rivera, looking at the wiring and seeing no breaks to the antenna lead. “The antenna appears to be connected, which means the problem is with the bomb.”

  “You mean the bomb that’s buried underground and surrounded by thousands of aboriginals?” said the Green Beret Sergeant.

  “That would be the one,” agreed the Major, looking toward the entrance to the bunker as if those aborigines would come bursting in any second.

  Which might not be too far off the mark, thought Rivera as he pushed the button again, watching the oscilloscope show a perfect sine wave of the outgoing signal. The Elves and their minions were only minutes away, and the Cav couldn’t hold them too much longer, could they?

  * * *

  Arrows were beginning to strike the armor of the turret, several of them glowing as they cut into the ultra-hard metal. Sergeant Morgan had drawn his pistol and was aiming in on the nearest of the Elf horsemen. The tank itself was out of ammo, from the 7.62 mm up to the 120mm main armament rounds, and all he had was the pistol, plus the carbines some of the other crew carried, that were down in the vehicle doing him no good at all. Morgan leveled the pistol and fired, sending 9mm rounds out that had a lot less accuracy than the arrows that were being sent his way.

  As if to validate that point an arrow came ripping in on a narrow arc from a nearby horse archer, plunging into the meat of Morgan’s right bicep. The Sergeant cried out in pain, losing feeling in his hand and watching the pistol drop out of his grip despite his mind ordering the hand to keep closed on it. The metal of the pistol rattled on the top of the turret, and Morgan forced himself to ignore the pain and reach for the weapon with his left hand. That brought his head down, just as an arrow sliced through the space that had just been occupied by his face.

  “Get us out of here,” he yelled in his mic, just as some feeling came over him to get down into the tank. NOW, came the feeling, and the Sergeant turned around in the hatch, his left hand grasping the lid handle as his back crawled with the thought of an arrow through it. He slid downwards, pulling the hatch lid behind him, as a pair of arrows rattled off of the metal and fell into the tank.

  * * *

  Underneath the side of the hill the physical laws were changing back and forth around the human device from Earth. Most of the time the laws of Refuge were in force, strengthened by the mass of beings above the weapon who believed in those laws. For fractions of seconds the laws of Earth, the planet from which the device came, would reassert themselves within the body of the bomb. But only for those fleeting moments. And one of those fleeting moments came with the reception of the signal that had been sent to spark the massive explosive power of that bomb.

  Within the case the circuits closed, and electrical bursts were sent to the dozens of detonation points in the explosive sphere formed around the radioactive core. The sphere imploded, generating an inward force around the radioactives, causing them to compress to the point where fission occurred, atoms splitting, sending off neutrons that hit other atoms, splitting them in a chain reaction that would build force up to the forty kiloton range. But the natural laws changed back before that could happen, and under the new laws of atomic force and attraction, the power of the bomb was halved.

  In the valley the Ellala mages felt that something was happening, something wrong, unnatural. The giant birds in the air felt it too. Screeching their fear, they tried to flap away. It was too late. The knowledge of their doom came within milliseconds of the feeling of that doom.

  The ground quaked for a moment, and then megatons of rock lifted from the side of the valley and flew outward. Some of the rock flew for kilometers, over the ridgeline and into valleys beyond. More of the rock slammed into the other wall, while great heaps of stone lifted up, over and down, burying everything in the valley under a killing mass. Flames shot through the rock, and the air was superheated by the atomic blast. Those beings not instantly buried were first ashed, then buried. The giant hawks in the air were fried in mid-flight by heat and radiation, then plunged in fiery bundles to the ground.

  There were some survivors, those on the periphery of the blast who were knocked to the ground or for some reason jumped to cover. Some were blinded by the flash that followed the rock and preceded the fire. Others were burned by radiation, while the lucky few were able to dust themselves off and run away.

  Morgan could feel the rumble as the tank swayed with the moving ground, and boulders bounced off the turret and hull of the heavy vehicle. He waited a moment, left hand clenched over the wound in his right arm. He then looked through the periscope viewers of the commander’s hatch. The mushroom cloud was rising into the air. And though he knew better, the thought that radiation might at that moment be sleeting through the armor made his scrotum tighten.

  “Move us back out of here,” he said into his throat mic. The engines whispered to a higher level as the turbines powered the tracks, and the tank reversed back to the smoldering tree line just outside the valley.

  Behind them a fifty thousand man army of the Empire of Ellala’lysana had ceased to exist. Thousands of horsemen, tens of thousands of infantry, and hundreds of battlemages were wiped from the board as if from the hand of an angry God.

  * * *

  “The invaders have used another of their super weapons,” said the cringing messenger while the Half Lich Emperor Ellandra Mashara glowered down at his kneeling form.

  “What did they destroy?” asked the Emperor, his brow furrowing.

  “A field army of fifty thousand,” hissed the messenger, waiting for the blow to fall.

  The Emperor’s eyes burned red for a moment, and the messenger was sure he would burst into flame, to be swept up as ashes from the carpeted room. Then the Liege Lord calmed himself, his eyes narrowing.

  “Do you know any more?” he asked the messenger.

  “Only that flyers to the north saw the large cloud of flame and dust rising over the valley,” said the man, his voice quaking. “When they over flew the area the valley was filled with broken rock, and there were the scorched bodies of horses and Ellala just outside the valley.”

  “Over a quarter of our attack force,” growled the Emperor, slamming a fist into an open palm and turning away. He quickly turned back to the messenger, causing that man to almost fall over in his fright.

  “You are hereby promoted to Sub-Commander and placed in the Imperial Guard,” said the Emperor, smiling down at the man. “I am sure that you have the courage to face any opponent, since you had the courage to face me. Unlike whoever gave you this task.”

  “My Lord,” said the Ellala, standing and snapping his fist to breast in a salute. “I thank you.”

  “Continue to serve me well,” said the Emperor, walking away. “You were not the source of my displeasure. But the invaders will pay for killing half a hundred thousand of my soldiers.”

  The Emperor looked up at the high ceiling and let out a roar that terrified all of his servants in that wing of the palace.

  “On my soul they will pay. With their souls will they pay the price of thwarting me.”

  The Emperor stormed from the common area and into his private chambers, leaving surprised and frightened courtiers behind.

  * * *

  “You are very lucky, young man,” said a functionary in ornate robes to the messenger, who was coming to his feet with a dazed expression on his face. “The Priest this morning was not so lucky.”

  “What happened to him?” asked the messenger, now officer, looking wide eyed at the door to the Emperor’s chambers. “Which priest?”

  “A Priest of Phelianus, Goddess of pestilence and disease,” answered the courtier. “The Emperor pulled the life force from the man, and left his bones and rotting flesh in the temple of the Goddess.”

  “Why was he so angry at the Priest,” said the messenger, shuddering at the thought that he might
have also met such a fate this day.

  “Because the disease cast at the newcomers has not, so far, had the desired effect,” said the courtier in a whisper. “Only a few of the strangers have succumbed to its ravages. The rest go about their business, fighting the forces of the Empire. And winning, if the news of the super weapon they used is to be believed. So the Emperor is as angry as a spurned God.”

  The courtier put a hand on the shoulder of the soldier and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I would go along to your new assignment, young man. Get out of the Emperor’s sight before he thinks of a reason to strike at you as well.”

  The messenger nodded his head as he hurried down the corridor, away from the seat of power and the dangers that it entailed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What do we have here?” said a man in lightly accented English. The big Brit was sitting in a camp chair, his wrists and ankles in cuffs, with two armed soldiers standing over him.

  Paul could not quite make out the accent, though it had something of the German to it. And something of the United States. But there were also undertones of something else that he couldn’t put a finger on. He looked up into the blue eyes of a tall, slightly slender man. The man seemed to radiate an energy, an aura of great age and power. An even larger man, with eyes the color of steel, stood next to the speaker. This man also radiated power, though the feeling of great age did not cling to him like an old cloak. Next to him stood a tall, mahogany skinned woman with blue eyes who also emanated some vital energy, though she was obviously still young. All of the figures wore shining armor, covered with sir coats, weapons strapped over backs or to sides.

  “I’m not really sure,” rumbled Mason-Smythe in his basso voice. “But I hope you can help me out with an explanation.”

  “You, there,” said another Brit, this one with the insignia of a captain, walking up with two armed soldiers trailing behind. “What are you about?”

  “I think we can explain, Captain?” said the largest of the strangers in more heavily accented English, giving a low bow.

  “Peters, you bloody Kraut,” exclaimed the man with a scowl.

  “That is Brigadier Kraut to you, Captain,” said the large man with a laugh. “And this is Brigadier Jew. And soon to be Colonel Black American.”

  “And what do you want with my prisoner?” asked the Captain, glaring angrily at the trio.

  “We wish to speak to him,” said the man that the large German had identified as a Jew, though Mason-Smythe thought he looked like he could have walked off an SS recruiting poster back in 1943. “We would like for you to take the chains off of him first so we can conduct him to a more comfortable place for our conversation.”

  “You want me to take the chains off this monster?” asked the Captain, his eyes narrowing.

  “He doesn’t look so monstrous to me,” said the black woman, a smile on her face. “Big enough. But monstrous?”

  “He’s a bloody shape shifter,” said the Captain in a rising voice.

  “Have you seen him shape shift, Mein Herr?” said the big German with a smile.

  “Well, no.” said the British officer, looking from face to face. “But his throat was torn out. And he healed, and got back on his feet, after one of the bloody monsters killed him deader than dirt.”

  “See,” said the Jewish man, looking at the big German, then back at the huge Brit. “I told you he was one of us.”

  “One of you?” cried the Captain, his hand going to his holstered pistol. “You’re like him?”

  The black woman moved with incredible speed, thought Paul, as he watched her hand come down on the Captain’s paw as it grasped the butt of his pistol. Peters attempted to pull the gun up from the holster, but she held it down without effort. The other armed soldiers moved in alarm, one bringing down his rifle before the big German grabbed the barrel and pushed it into the air.

  “What’s going on here,” called out another voice. All of the Brits jumped to attention as a medium sized man with the insignia of a lt. colonel walked up to the group.

  “These, people,” said Peters, stretching the second word out in distaste, “want to free our prisoner. They say they are just like him. I think we need to clap them into irons as well, sir.”

  “I do not think, Johnny,” said the Lt. Colonel in a crisp, upper class accent, “that it will do either of our careers any good, such as they are, to clap two Brigadiers and a full Colonel into irons.”

  “You mean they are what they say they are?” said Peters in a rising voice. “How can that be?”

  “And they are also the chosen of these other people that were already here,” continued Colonel Hardessy, gesturing for the guards to unlock Mason-Smythe from his bonds. “As well as being immortal for all intents and purposes. So you had better watch your manners, Captain, since our own Major is sure to outrank us both civilly and militarily before the day is out.”

  Paul smiled when the irons were released from his wrists, rubbing the skin while the man with the keys bent to undo his feet. Peters continued to glare at him, though he had enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Paul gave him a wink that caused the man’s face to turn red. He’s an enemy for life, thought the big Brit, shaking his head. Once Peters got an idea in his head it would take an atomic bomb to knock it out. And as far as Paul knew there was only one such remaining weapon on this world, unless someone else brought some over.

  “We have much to talk about, my friend,” said Kurt in his rumbling voice, putting his arm around the Brit Major.. “Come with us and we’ll get started.”

  “What about my unit?” asked Paul, nodding toward Hardessy.

  “You are part of a bigger unit now, my friend,” said Kurt, smiling and patting the man on the back. “Though we may not look it at this moment.”

  “We need to get you outfitted,” said the Jew, looking Paul’s mammoth physique up and down. “Armor and a weapon.”

  “I actually brought those with me,” said Paul, looking over at one of the guards and gesturing for him to come forward. “For some reason it seemed like a good idea.”

  “And what told you to bring armor and weapons with you?” asked the Jewish Immortal, while Paul led them to a truck that had a trunk on the back.

  “A dream,” said Paul, thinking back to the visions he had about this world, before he knew this world. “A freaking dream that I decided was too disturbing to be ignored.”

  Paul opened the trunk and started to lift pieces of plate and chain from it, setting it on the ground piece by piece. Then he lifted the large ax and a sword from the container, holding each up in a hand. “As I said, I brought my own equipment. And it’s of the best quality.”

  “Perhaps,” said Levine, squatting and running his hands over the armor. “And perhaps we could augment it with something even better.”

  “Better how?” asked Paul, wondering what they were talking about. How could anything be better that Tungsten Carbide?

  The big German nodded to the pretty black woman, Amazon was what Paul was thinking, and she reached up to her shoulders and grabbed the matching sheaths of two swords. She pulled the blades over and free from the sheaths, and Paul was dazzled by the beauty of the twin swords. One glittered with a reddish light on its flawless surface, the other with a blue glow. He reached a hand forward to touch one of the beautiful blades and felt a raw heat radiating from one sword, and an interstellar cold from the other.

  “Watch it,” said Kurt, reaching out and pulling the Brit Major back. Jackie pulled the swords away as she took a step backwards. “The flame blade will torch your hand, and the cold will turn the member into an icicle that will break off. You will regrow the hand, but it still is a painful process that will take time.”

  “I’ll what,” said Paul Mason-Smythe, his voice rising.

  “We have a lot to discuss, as I said,” said the Jewish man. “But wouldn’t you like something like the young lady is carrying.”

  “Hell yes,” said Paul, nodding his head with
a smile as he looked at the beautiful magical swords. “But I’d prefer an ax or something in the two handed variety if it’s a sword.”

  “I think we can come up with something,” said the big German.

  Hell yes, thought Paul, looking at his new friends in their martial splendor. I think I’m going to love this place. He looked at the Elvish cavalry riding by on the nearby road, and several Dwarfs in armor that seemed to be waiting for his party. I really do. This could be my kind of place.

  * * *

  General Jossianli Melisardra looked down on the valley floor at the beasts of his command where they relaxed after their long flight. The wagons of provender, along with herds of nervous cattle, waited below. With a thought he sent Death Bringer toward the open area on the fringes of the grouping, near where some pavilion’s had been erected, one with his flag and the other an archducal standard of some local lord.

  The smell of the dragons in the valley was almost overpowering, with hundreds of the huge monsters crammed between the rolling hills. The creatures were also still very feisty, snapping at each other and making the ground crews wary of their jaws. The beasts had only flown a short distance today, to the staging area of the assault, and were an hour’s flight from the valley that the invaders had claimed for their own.

  Death Bringer landed softly on the earth, his paw pads taking up what little force had not been absorbed by his flapping wings. The dragon’s ground chief ran out and attached one of the large ropes to the leg iron of the creature, securing the beast to the ground. The monster’s enormous head lunged and snapped at another of the ground crew, making the Ellala dive to the ground. Working around the ill-tempered creatures was not the safest of occupations, and many a ground crewman had become, wholly or partially, a snack for the giant reptiles.