Forgotten Ghosts
Page 23
I turned my attention back to the tanks. A quick sweep of my hand and a line of gravemakers exploded from the earth, sending one of the tanks into a cartwheel. A glimmer of satisfaction lit in my gut, at the same moment a stark sense of horror crawled through my brain. But they’d threatened me, injured me, and it was my place to strike them back. Of that, the voices could agree.
Another tank swiveled to take aim at the crowds, but one of the Demon Swords, the dragon rider, dove into it. The barrel collapsed under a fiery strike, and the Fae shouted something into the mass of steel and gears.
Whatever he’d said, one at a time the tanks ceased their attack. as the communication made its way through the ranks. They began to retreat.
I felt certain they would need to be punished, made to understand why no one could interfere with the Hunt. But for now, my prey waited in Falias.
* * *
The city had changed. I recognized many of the streets and towers, but their position no longer matched the ley lines in Faerie. For a moment, I wondered if they had been changed to match those in the world of the commoners, but it was easy to see that the line energy here was diluted, and only a few massive trunks of power flowed through the city. It would be enough to fuel Gwynn Ap Nudd, but I didn’t think it would be enough to restore Falias to the glory it once had in Faerie.
And maybe that’s because you let Nudd murder millions.
I frowned at the whisper in the back of my mind. That hadn’t been true. Ezekiel and the old necromancer, that had been their doing.
The fucking hell it had.
The voices in the shadows grew quieter as we stormed through the city, carving up dark-touched, obliterating whatever Fae decided to stand against us, but even though the voices grew quiet, I could not silence them entirely. Some insisted on speaking, apparently never having learned the appropriate time for quiet and concentration skills they would’ve learned in the army of Falias. I could scarcely imagine an Owl Knight prattling on in the midst of combat. They would confuse their birds, and likely leave nothing but their armor behind.
“Damian, turn back!”
The other dragon rider had returned, hovering precariously close to the edges of the shadows. What a prize she’d make, a warrior with control of the beasts, not so unlike the Demon Sword.
From one step to the next, I found my body hesitating. One of the voices sent up a scream of rage, and I had to focus to bring silence once more. A flick of my wrist sent another wave of the fairies crashing into the nearest tower, surging up the side and striking down every vampire they found. It would take time to clear the city, but time I had. I smiled beneath the dead flesh of the gravemakers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Darkness. Everything is darkness. I am aware, somewhat, of Vicky’s voice and others in the darkness. At times the shadows become light, and I can see the scarred streets of Falias before me, the billowing shadows and night. But I know something is wrong. I know I am not in control of myself. Something happened with Hern, and the gravemakers absorbed some piece of his personality. They’ve corrupted the Hunt, and I fear what is happening. I can only watch as the scene unfolds around me. Only listen as Vicky cries out to me in the shadows. I try to move, to stop the destruction before me. But I have no control. The light fades out once more, and only the echo of a terrified girl follows me down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Take us in!” Vicky shouted as she steered Jasper too close to the dark-touched. But whatever was happening to Damian, whatever the fear and power was she felt through her tie to him, the monster before her did not lash out.
Jasper unleashed a torrent of blue flame. It sent two of Hern’s Owl Knights to the ground as little more than ash. But one of their mounts evaded the fires and circled back, the massive bird of prey darting toward them, claws extended.
The dragon tried to veer to the side, even as Vicky drew a soulsword, but they were both too late. The claws were already in Jasper’s hide, the beak inside their defenses.
An ungodly screech sounded above them as Vicky drove her blade into the owl’s foot. A moment later a ball of black feathers hurtled into the owl, knocking it toward the ground. Jasper didn’t hesitate. Another burst of blue fire consumed the oversized bird.
“Child!” the crow shouted.
“Morrigan?” Vicky asked, frowning at the bird as it matched Jasper’s pace.
“Yes, you must retreat! Whatever that thing is, it’s not Damian.”
“Yes, it is! I can still feel him.” Vicky felt as though the bird was scowling at her, and perhaps Morrigan was, but the unblinking eyes of the crow didn’t leave her own. “He’s scared.”
Morrigan closed her eyes for a moment and then surveyed the battle around them. “You’ll only complicate matters. He must be subdued before all of Falias is lost. Hern’s drive has consumed him, child. Get away.”
“If he dies, I die,” Vicky said, her hands clenching the spiky scales of Jasper’s neck. “Sam dies.”
“Then it is true. The magic used to break your bond to the Destroyer bound you to a different master.”
Morrigan’s words infuriated Vicky, but the realization that the crow had succeeded in leading her away from the fight was far more irritating. “He’s my friend. So is Sam. I won’t let you kill him.”
“Find peace in your time, child, for we all must die.”
“I already did,” Vicky said. “I didn’t enjoy it very much, and I don’t plan to do it again for a long time.”
She pulled to the right on one of the spikes protruding from Jasper’s back. She’d come to think of it as a steering column, and the dragon had grown quick to respond. Jasper soared right, ducking beneath the Morrigan. But even as she closed once more on the massive jackal-shaped colossus that had once been Damian, the Morrigan’s words crept into the back of her mind.
She couldn’t stop them. Not like this. Not alone. But there might be one who could.
* * *
The soldier stared down at his hands, and the long rifle clutched between them. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the old field, or the city that had overtaken it, but he certainly didn’t remember the bizarre towers climbing into the heavens. Or the monster storming its gates. He remembered a battle, a gunshot as a Confederate cut him down.
He’d heard they were winning, but it didn’t stop his friends from dying. Didn’t stop brothers and fathers from being turned into lifeless chunks of meat, strewn across the ground. The sight had been madness, until there was only pain, and then nothing. Then he stood, stock still, staring as the carnage in the field slowly overtook everything. He remembered the shadows of the things that came for the men, and the shadows that the men became. But he hadn’t been able to speak in those silent days. Hadn’t been able to move. Only watch in horror at what men could do.
But now his feet moved freely. He could feel the air on his face, and smell the blood and the soil. The creatures around him might have been bizarre, but he’d seen worse. And he knew an aggressor when one made itself known. The beings that fled past him looked like fairies from children’s stories, but they were large, and armed, and many of them screamed the wail of a banshee as they died.
And that was what had happened to him so long ago. He had died, too. But it hadn’t been here. For a moment he thought he would report back to his sergeant. The man had a head for common sense, would have some idea of what to do. But he only saw a few other ghosts in the area. A few other soldiers. Most of them had an odd glow, much like the rifle in his hands. If the battle had been won, the war should have been over. So, what was happening now? He shook his head, trying to remember, instead giving in to his instincts to make for the tree line.
He’d be safer from the armies there, and whatever other monsters lurked on the battlefield. As he slid into a copse of trees, he saw the massive gray wings of what could only be a dragon from the storybooks. A shadow rose before him, and he knew the end had come. One of the corrupted men, creatures that seemed
to be made of bark and rot, reached a hand out and grabbed him by the arm. Cold bled into him, but a frisson of excitement ran down the soldier’s back. He could feel, he could touch, and without thinking of what he was doing, he planted the barrel of his rifle firmly into the neck of the creature and pulled the trigger.
The boom was thunderous, and the satisfaction was undeniable as chunks of the creature exploded out the back of its head. Milky white eyes widened before the thing collapsed and seeped into the earth.
Monsters they might be, but now he could hurt them. He moved through the chaos, searching out his brothers, and avoiding the dying fragments of those wounded so long ago. Memories surged into his mind with every step, as if telling him to follow the colossus into the city and strike down the creatures for the white hand.
The soldier fought the compulsion for a time, but in the end, the dead obeyed their lord.
To be continued in the Books of the Dead novellas.
Coming in 2019.
Note from Eric R. Asher
Thank you for spending time with the misfits! I’m blown away by the fantastic reader response to this series, and am so grateful to you all.
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Eric
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The Steamborn Trilogy:
Steamborn
Steamforged
Steamsworn
The Vesik Series:
(Recommended for Ages 17+)
Days Gone Bad
Wolves and the River of Stone
Winter’s Demon
This Broken World
Destroyer Rising
Rattle the Bones
Witch Queen’s War
Forgotten Ghosts
Book of the Ghost*
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Mason Dixon – Monster Hunter:
Episode One
Episode Two
Episode Three – coming soon*
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About the Author
Eric is a former bookseller, cellist, and comic seller currently living in Saint Louis, Missouri. A lifelong enthusiast of books, music, toys, and games, he discovered a love for the written word after being dragged to the library by his parents at a young age. When he is not writing, you can usually find him reading, gaming, or buried beneath a small avalanche of Transformers. For more about Eric, see: www.ericrasher.com
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