by Sean Allen
Dezmara had been grazed by two bullets. Lacerations started at each side of the quadriceps muscles at mid-thigh and ran for several inches toward the hamstring. The wounds were moderately deep and they burned like someone was holding red-hot irons to her skin. But she didn’t have time to fashion a tourniquet. Her helmet, once again, announced the approach of the machine gun-wielding preacher-bot. Dezmara turned and sprang to her feet and immediately felt the room begin to sway. The wound to the inside of her thigh was flowing freely, and if she didn’t stop the hemorrhaging soon, she could bleed to death.
She looked to the hole in Gamuun’s ribs and then over her shoulder toward the market. She was less than a quarter of the way down. She’d never make it off the stairs, and if she jumped over the side, she would break her legs. “Godammit, he’ll hit the market!”
The animal energy was coursing through her again, and her body was bounding up the stairs faster than she believed possible with the wicked scythes gripped firmly in her hands. The tails of her coat fluttered behind her, and the deadly silver edges of her blades gleamed in the light. Her left leg was almost completely covered in blood that spilled from her wound and slowly spattered her life on the stone with each great leap. An electronic howl wailed from the battered kranos, and had the preacher been a living thing, it might have turned in terror and run at the very sight of her. But the machine wasn’t alive and it had no fear of Dezmara.
The bot rolled to the lip of the top stair and clamped down on the triggers of the two machine guns before aiming down the incline. Bullets whirred over Dezmara’s head and pelted the face of a Triniton statue across the plaza. She charged on as the preacher’s torso tilted down the stairs. Sometimes Dezmara wished she had turned the damn display in the kranos off before getting into trouble—it was flashing distances of passing bullets that were a little too close for comfort, and although she was happy to be alive, she felt sick knowing that each near miss screamed down the stairs and slammed into the crowd below her.
The powerful blasts from the preacher’s guns ripped through the line of people nearest the stairs, and their bodies dropped to the floor with heavy, wet thuds, like butchered meat torn from its hooks. Screams and curses rang the air in a thousand different tongues as every pilot, sailor, trader, thief, cook, child, and even hikeon, it seemed, scampered for the nearest exit in absolute horror. The wave of market goers lucky enough to arrive at one of the many exits encircling the plaza were nearly crushed as the heavy inner doors slammed shut in front of them with a hollow boom. The crowd continued to surge and push away from the back of the market, trampling each other to death as the sound of gunfire fueled their frenzy to escape.
The rear oculo showed the pandemonium in the market, and the death of innocents fueled Dezmara’s rage—as did the portmaster’s use of them, intended or not, to keep her from gaining the dockyard. The display, still streaming data, now showed several projectiles passing within microns of her head. Dezmara could hear the hum of each bullet, and rushes of air moved the kranos slightly from side to side as the slugs passed by. Swish—ten microns. Whoosh—six. Zzzzzzip—three. She pushed harder on each step, racing faster upward and the display continued to document her kamikaze attack. Zzzzing—two microns. Flit—one micron. CLACK-CLACK! Zero. Her head whipped back twice as glancing blows landed on the left, then the right. The preacher-bot had found its mark.
Chapter 27: Coup
Abalias was spent. His leg buzzed with a dull ache and his chest, bruised and tender, sent sharp spikes of pain up to his shoulders and down into his stomach with each breath. But all his current suffering, not to mention all that was to come, couldn’t compare to the fire in his mind. The Dissension was coming apart at the seams, and if the Serum failed, nothing could stop the plague of evil that would spread through every world until the end of time. Nothing could be worse. Or so he thought.
The atmosphere in the cell changed and the gray columns of light stretching through the panels of the door slowly grew brighter until they glowed with an eerie blue-white luminescence. Abalias and Graale both got to their feet—the sergeant scrambling up quickly while the colonel doggedly hoisted his sore body from the ground—and stood shoulder to shoulder against the back wall with clenched fists and wide eyes. Graale looked briefly at Abalias and saw a sinister-looking ice-blade forming in the colonel’s hand as the rest of his body disappeared under his icy armor. The light passing through the door intensified until something breached the backside of one of the panels. It didn’t seep through the cut-out like a mist or vapor; instead it squeezed through, clinging to the sides of the rectangular window like a haunted death bubble. It wasn’t clear at first, but then they could make out the twisted, contorted features of the phantom that had killed Graale’s would-be Berzerker murderer and ordered their capture. As the portal let loose its grip, the wraith jerked through the hole, then floated toward them with sword drawn and no fear of the living. Four dead, white eyes stared lifelessly from beneath two long vertical slits in its glowing battle helmet, and a frowning mouth—barely visible under the two flowing locks of hair that parted its upper lip and hung down to its armored chest—opened to speak.
“Resistance will bring your death all the sooner,” the phantom hissed. “But you will not die yet. My Lord Killikbar will command you first!”
Abalias had hoped he would have a chance to speak to the general of the Berzerkers, but his survival instinct wanted desperately to test the immortality of the phantom bobbing dementedly in front of him and get the hell out, and his limbs buzzed with anticipation. Graale could feel the colonel’s tension like a loaded trap ready to spring, and he fixed himself to go all out at Abalias’ charge, but then the light in the room changed again and both of them eased back. This time, instead of oozing through one cut-out in the cell door, the wraith-light leached through in distinct bubbles from each of the nine holes. Once inside, they melded together to form a giant ghost monster. The thing had no shoulders or neck to speak of and its muscular torso rounded up to its broad head. It had arms the size of tree trunks and it carried a whip in each of its taloned hands. Huge, white spherical eyes—bigger than Abalias’ head—lurched back and forth on thick antennae. Graale counted ten before the waving tangle of appendages made him lose his tally. It cracked its horrid mouth—impossibly big and filled with row after row of enormous, dagger-like teeth—and let out a banshee wail.
“Well, I guess we know which one’s the muscle,” Abalias said out of the side of his mouth. The big phantom screamed again and unfurled its glowing whips so they licked the cell floor beneath him.
“Noruuka thinks you should be silent, if you know what is best for you,” the helmed phantom said as he drifted forward and hovered his sword above Abalias’ shoulder with the blade facing the colonel’s neck. “Your weapons and defenses are useless—we are not of this world but of the ether—disarm yourself or die now!”
Abalias paused for a moment and then slowly reached his free hand up and batted at the weapon like a curious child. The mirky vapor of the phantom’s blade parted around Abalias’ fingers as his hand passed completely through it, and an evil laugh rumbled from the wraith’s lips, shaking his ghostly body. The colonel’s sword and armor disappeared into his skin and as soon as his head was clear, he turned slightly toward Graale.
“I think we’re in deep shit.” Abalias knew they were in mortal danger, but that was the life of a Dissension soldier; he knew it and he was pretty sure Graale knew it too. His half-serious, half-mocking tone was meant to lighten the mood, but Graale’s face had turned grave.
“I think you’re right,” Graale said and Abalias could hear the smallest hint of fear in his voice.
The macabre meeting was interrupted by the heavy sound of stone sliding across stone. The big rock bolt on the other side of the cell entrance boomed to a stop and the portal ground slowly open. The phantom with the whips floated over next to Graale so that the prisoners were flanked on both sides and had a clear line of sight
to the very real monster that filled the opening. Killikbar stooped through the doorway but kept his sinister, black eyes fixed on Graale and Abalias. Once inside, the general of the Berzerkers rose to his full height and flexed his paws as a growl curled across his lip. He wasn’t carrying a weapon in either hand, as his phantoms were all the protection he would need, but his gigantic sword and knotted mace were both fixed to his belt in plain sight and within easy reach.
It only took him two strides to cover the distance from the door to where Graale and Abalias stood against the back wall of the cell. He dropped his shoulders down and snarled just inches away from Abalias’ face. The colonel cocked his head to the side and spit at Killikbar’s feet. The dark general and his legions of vile, soulless murderers disgusted the colonel, who had actually planned to spit directly into his face, but Abalias’ hawk to the side got the point across and gave him a chance to check out the other two phantoms hovering outside the door. No way to run for it.
“Tsk, tsk, Colonel,” Killikbar sucked at the back of his enormous fanged teeth between reeking breaths, “now is the time when you and I and the stone one talk.” He leered at Graale and gave a devilish grin.
“I wasn’t aware you could speak without permission from your master,” Abalias replied. “Or am I talking to Helekoth himself through his sickest puppet of all?”
Killikbar sniggered and the smell of his breath was enough to make Abalias want to gag. He choked down the urge with icy resolve and glared back through cold eyes.
“You assume too much,” Killikbar said, “but you’ll soon understand my will after you bend to it. The power of my magic requires I tell you what I’m going to do to your soul—well, not your soul, Colonel—but his.” Killikbar was grinning again and looked at Graale like a ravenous beast ready to dine on the most tender of prey before turning back to face Abalias. “I don’t have to tell you anything—your powers offer no advantage I don’t already have. My phantoms cannot be struck by blade or bullet, so your ice armor would be useless. Nor can their instruments be affected by anything but magic; thus your ability to make weapons from nothing would be no more than an interesting trick. I don’t have to tell you anything. But I’ll enjoy the look of pain on your pathetic face when I describe the gruesome deaths that await you both—HAHAHAHA!” Killikbar’s laugh rumbled through the cell as his phantoms leered and swayed on the sickening current of death that flowed from the very breath of their demonic master.
“The stone one,” he said as he fixed his sights on Graale, “will face me in battle in the black arena. No weapons, only the powers that have been given to us. And once you’ve fallen, I’ll recite the words to release the weakest of my phantoms and enslave your soul in his stead, and your spirit, your abilities will be mine!”
“You foul sonofabitch,” roared Abalias. “Your goddam ghosts have weapons and his powers don’t work in this place!” He looked over at Graale and expected an all-out attack in light of the conversation they just had before Killikbar and his ghouls walked in, or at the very least a harsh word, but he just stood there frozen and silent.
“HAHAHAHA!” Killikbar laughed again. “So you noticed? Yes, this place is cursed by the same dark magic that’ll trap his soul: my dark magic. Once I have his power, I’ll crumble entire battlefields and watch the armies of my enemies swallowed alive in the burning chasms I will leave in my wake. I will be a god of war—an unstoppable force in the universe forever!”
Abalias looked over at Graale, and he recognized the sergeant’s expression. He had the same tortured face of guilt and regret he had worn when he was defending the actions of the Guardians just a few short moments ago. The colonel thought if he knocked Killikbar off his high, dark tower, it might kindle a small spark of hope between them.
“Ha!” Abalias spat. “Aren’t you forgetting something? You’ll still be under the yoke of your puke master, Helekoth!”
Killikbar stood fully upright and peered at Abalias with a raised brow and his evil, slick grin. “Helekoth has his own plans—my service to him is ready to expire.” Graale and Abalias cast obvious and confused glances at each other. “Helekoth has a weapon—a creature. And even though it doesn’t know it, it’s the most dangerous being in all worlds combined. Plans are underway to capture it and unleash its dormant power on the universe, and once it is done, nothing will turn Helekoth’s black tide of death... Except, of course, a warrior even more deadly than his precious weapon; one with the power to control rock and stone on-world and in the heavens!” Killikbar raised his head, spread his huge arms outward and let out a deafening roar of murderous delight.
“Helekoth’s in your head, he made you a sick murdering asshole—you can’t hide this from him!” Abalias shouted.
With a roar, Killikbar snatched Abalias by the neck and slammed him against the wall. Abalias’ feet dangled above the floor as the dark general put his teeth so close to the side of his head, Abalias thought his eardrum would explode from the volume and force of Killikbar’s hateful blasts of breath. Abalias wasn’t helpless, of course. The dungeon was cold enough to support all manner of slashing and stabbing instruments formed by the colonel’s powers, but because he needed answers, he stayed the overwhelming urge to impale the Berzerker general with an icy eruption from his body—barely. “I should kill you for your insolence, but you’ll meet your death very soon, Colonel. And before you do, you will know this: I will be the ruler of every universe that can be conquered by slaughter—not him! Once I have the stone one’s powers, I’ll hunt down Blangaris and destroy him, and with him gone, I’ll have the Serum…and then Helekoth will fall at the implements of my phantoms!”
Abalias groped hopelessly at Killikbar’s claws and made several crackling noises from his throat and mouth before he was let go. He dropped to the ground, holding his neck and trying desperately to speak through coughs and sputters.
“You, Colonel, will be the opening entertainment for my army. You killed so many of their brothers in the mine with your heroics and your amazing abilities that they would very much like to see the ice king die. And since Gyumak must pay for allowing the other Dissenters to escape, you will fight him to the death. The rules of the black arena apply to your match as well: no weapons, just the powers the gods have given us.” Killikbar’s villainous smile was on his mouth again, and Abalias knew he wasn’t going to get a fair shot in his match-up against the giant either. “And, Colonel, a small warning. The arena is vast, but put all thoughts of running and hiding from your mind. Some of my soldiers will be keeping watch on the field, and you won’t like it if they have to persuade you to return to the battle. You will stand and fight my giant.” He turned to leave and his ghosts followed, drifting backwards and staring at the Dissenters with multitudes of dead, white eyes and ready instruments of destruction.
Abalias wasn’t very happy about having to face the Berzerker monster in hand-to-hand—or hand-to-tentacle—combat, but he was more concerned about the dark general’s plan to conquer the universe. His mind was overwhelmed with the thought of Killikbar possessing the powers of Graale and Helekoth. Then, suddenly, he realized the dark general had said something familiar, and he struggled to find his voice before Killikbar was gone. Finally, it came.
“Blangaris?”
Killikbar stopped in his tracks. “You’re familiar with Helekoth’s Mewlatai dog?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Abalias thought to himself. “He attacked two of my men,” he said between coughing fits as Graale pulled him to his feet again, “killed one of ‘em on Sitiri 9 just before you graced us with your presence.”
Killikbar turned to face them once more.
“I knew he was going to be there, but I didn’t know he was so foolish and reckless as to give his name to the enemy before his mission is done.”
“His mission?” Abalias rasped.
“To destroy the one who makes the Serum—Tyrobus Daelekon—his own brother.”
“His brother?” Graale said.
&
nbsp; “It’s a blood feud fueled by betrayal. The Mewlatai servant of Helekoth is drunk with bloodlust and rage. A powerful adversary, too powerful. That is why I must have your soul!” Killikbar howled and pointed a huge, black clawed finger at Graale.
“So you can be strong enough to stop him from destroying the Serum,” said Abalias knowingly. “So you can defeat Helekoth.” It all made sense to him now. “You know, General nutsac, I was wrong. Helekoth didn’t turn you into a murdering, twisted evil shit-ass, you came that way all by yourself, didn’t you?”
“I will enjoy watching Gyumak tear you apart, Colonel,” Killikbar said with genuine satisfaction as he turned around and made for the door.
“You of all people should know that the Serum is failing. The Durax have progressed beyond its potency and it won’t fend off their powers much longer.” Abalias said this in his best ‘everyone knows this, why don’t you’ tone and waited to see if he could surmise any truth out of Killikbar’s reaction. He got more than he bargained for.
“All the more reason to put my plan into action as soon as possible,” Killikbar growled. The two phantoms covering their master’s exit swarmed back onto Abalias and forced him after the dark general by phantasmic, glowing sword point and ethereal whip cracks. Graale watched on in terror, not only for his friend and commander, but for himself, his people, and every world in the endless universe. Death was coming for all and it was coming on ghostly wings.
Chapter 28: Seeing and Believing
It was very difficult to sight a moving target using just the two cameras mounted over the entrance to The Boneyard, but the portmaster finally found the right height, and flames spewed from the perforated barrels of both the preacher-bot’s guns as he swept them from right to left in line with Dezmara’s shoulders. She slunk low, knuckling the stairs in front of her while holding tight to the blades curving along her forearms. She felt the air shimmer above her back as the preacher’s bullets sped by and the kranos registered another close encounter. The preacher was just four steps above her now, and she was close enough to hear the portmaster roar with frustration through the speech unit on the bot and the whirr of cogs as he repositioned the guns to cut Dezmara in half at the waist. She knew that she had been lucky to escape The Boneyard, and she wondered how much longer her luck would hold out as the guns, now just a few feet away and locked on her midsection, roared to life one more time.