Hammer of the Witches (The Covenant Chronicles Book 2)

by Kai Wai Cheah

  The projector displayed a screen grab. The photograph splashed across the center showed a monster. Two horns sprouted from its heavy skull, curling toward it feet. A strip of faux hair ran down its bare back. It was so huge and muscular it took up the entire train aisle. It was glancing to its right. Everybody in front and around it was wreathed in flames. The daimon cocked a massive clawed paw, about to swat aside a hero trying to charge it.

  “The daimon is an ifrit. The remains found aboard the train were consistent with an ifrit’s pyrokinetic abilities. Shortly after this was posted, there were a deluge of posts on Memet reporting attacks elsewhere on the trains bound for Alexanderplatz, Leopoldplatz and Bismarckstraße. These stations are major U-Bahn interchanges in downtown Berlin.

  “Passengers aboard the trains hit the emergency stops at exactly oh-eight-three-two hours. The afarit slaughtered everyone inside the trapped trains. Then, they burst out, breached the interchanges and massacred everyone in sight. We know what happened next.

  “The following, however, has not yet been reported to the international media.”

  The next slide showed footage from a CCTV camera. The camera covered a train platform. Heaps of blackened ash covered the floor. Public phones and displays and benches melted to slag. Vending machines smoked. Holographic signs flickered or displayed error messages.

  The timestamp said it was 0842. Five seconds later, a man dashed down the empty track. He pulled himself up on the platform and raced up the stairs.

  “This was taken from Leopoldplatz Station. At that time, an SEK team had just destroyed the attacking ifrit and was evacuating the station. We believe this man is a covenanter—the majus controlling the ifrit. He escaped in the chaos.

  “The Germans reported similar events at the other stations. CCTV footage showed sole male individuals climbing up from the track and escaping to the streets. They believe the four majusi acted in concert by loosing the afarit and stopping the trains to prevent their victims from escaping. It explains why the emergency stop buttons aboard the three trains were activated simultaneously.

  “These people are now designated as persons of interest. The Germans are conducting a manhunt for them. We will, of course, keep an eye out for these suspects at our borders and points of entry.

  “More importantly, if these men are the terrorists, this marks a shift in DW tactics.

  “Previously, they used multiple coordinated attacks by large teams combining firearms, daimons and possibly explosives. While the element of synchronized attacks remains, now they are using a small cell, only four people, and only daimons. These small teams are more agile and lower profile than larger death squads, and since they rely on daimons, they don’t give up much killing power. We believe this is an adaptation to international counterterrorism strategy, especially after the Gallians arrested that terrorist cell last year. Instead of raw firepower, they are now emphasizing stealth.

  “Finally, this attack was not a suicide operation. In previous DW strikes, the attackers kept fighting until they were killed or captured. Here, the attackers escaped. Which leaves them free to covenant with more daimons and to try again.”

  Klauseman continued talking, discussing the implications for national security and how they will collaborate with the Germans to apprehend the terrorists. The handler tuned him out.

  The handler wasn’t a monster. Even he had standards. Violence had to serve a purpose. Killing people for the sake of killing was gratuitous and worse, counterproductive. Even the massacre of the refugees served an end.

  Dawla Wahiyye, on the other hand, worshiped at the altar of violence. They may say they did it in the name of their so-called archangel, but he knew the truth: they inflicted death and destruction simply for its own sake. They wanted nothing more to see the world burn.

  But it didn’t mean he couldn’t make use of what they had done.

  When it finally came time for the gathered people to speak, the handler was the first to go.

  “It’s obviously backlash against Western ultranationalism. DW even said so in their last communique. They’re taking revenge against Hexenhammer’s attack on the migrants in Hellas. And in doing so, they are reinforcing their message that they are the principal protectors of the Wahi faith.”

  “Sir, if they are taking revenge, then why Germania? Why not Hellas?” Klauseman asked.

  “Germania is also a more accessible target. They could have planned the operation a long time ago, and they tacked on this message of vengeance at the last minute.”

  Next to the handler, Alex Rauss nodded. “Ever since the two Hexenhammer terrorists escaped from Amarantopolis, the Hellenes have been on high alert. The borders are locked down, and soldiers and counterterrorist police are patrolling the streets. Berlin is a relatively softer target than anywhere in Hellas right now.”

  Klauseman frowned, tapping his fingers. “A strike as complex as this would require planning, reconnaissance and rehearsals. It’s not something that can be done spontaneously—not if they wanted it to go smoothly.”

  “Exactly,” the handler said. “While the DW attack is a major tragedy, the focus of our agency should still be on Hexenhammer. DW is not our national priority.”

  “Sir, I think it’s a bit premature to say that,” Klauseman ventured.

  “Is that so? Have there ever been any DW attacks in our country? For that matter, have there ever been any solid threat indications of DW activity in our nation?”

  “Äh… No, sir.”

  “Very good. Now, I was going to bring this up later, but since we’re on the subject, our colleagues in Interpol have informed me just this morning that the Gallian national police have intercepted communications between known Hexenhammer operatives. They are planning an attack on the Musafireen minority of our country. And it is likely they are receiving support from far-right political parties.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Hexenhammer and their far-right allies are a clear and present threat to our nation. We must reorient our activities accordingly.”

  He had sold them. The entire discussion now revolved around the far right and how their activities could provoke terrorist backlash in the region.

  The day was starting swimmingly.

  ***

  This wasn’t war. This was naked evil.

  But the Stormbringer still could not break the compulsion that had brought him to this point. Every time he tried to overpower the magic, it felt like he was smashing his head against pure adamantine. When this was over, there would be a special place in Tartaros for the ones who had dreamed of this mission.

  But until then, he had a mission to complete.

  The woman cowered before the Stormbringer, shielding her children with her body. With a trembling hand, she pointed her revolver at him.

  “Stay back! I’ve got a gun!” she yelled.

  The giant sighed. His three comrades simply looked bored.

  “What’s the matter”

  “We squashed your protectors like insects,” the Stormbringer said. “What makes you think–”

  She fired six shots in rapid succession. She had too much finger on the trigger; the muzzle veered to her right. Even so, his body registered mild thumps into unliving flesh. There was no pain; the bullets were not made of the divine substance that could harm his vessel.

  “—you have any chance of stopping me?” he finished.

  “I… how?”

  Alpha reached into his left eye socket and pulled out the bullet. Having physical eyes was convenient but not necessary for him to perceive the world around him. He was a being of pure will; this body was nothing more than a vessel and an instrument.

  The children screamed. The giant nonchalantly tossed the flattened round over his shoulder.

  “Set down your weapon and come with us,” the Stormbringer said.

  “No! I–”

  “Go!” he ordered.

  The giants rushed in. The Stormbringer plucked the revolver from her hand. As she shrieked in
pain, one of his brothers grabbed her arms from behind, separating her from her children. The other two secured the children, lifting them kicking and screaming into the air.

  The Stormbringer drew a jet injector from a pouch. The woman took sharp, shallow breaths, managing the pain. The children squirmed. The giants locked them down in secure full nelson holds.

  “What are you doing? We’re not coming with you! You can’t–”

  “Silence.”

  The Stormbringer pressed the muzzle against her femoral artery and pressed the plunger.

  She winced. “What did you do! Who are you! What do you want?”

  The one holding her forced her down, zip-tying her hands together. Reloading the injector with a fresh cylinder, the Stormbringer shot up one child and then the other. The boy grunted in pain; the girl yelped.

  A small part of him howled in outrage. The rest of him shushed it out, lest the control chip kick in. As much as he hated doing this, if he did not act, the chip would torture him, and resistance would serve no purpose.

  Better to play along with the monsters for now and wait for a better opportunity to strike.

  “Let’s go,” the Stormbringer said.

  Shouldering his machine pistol, he led the way downstairs. A body lay at the landing, shot so many times in the head he no longer had a face. The woman gasped, and the children screamed. Alpha ignored them, carefully treading around the gore.

  A lake of blood covered the living room. Two more bodies lay on the floor in red-soaked blue uniforms, torn apart by gunfire.

  The women and children went limp and silent. The sedatives were finally kicking in.

  Just past the front door, a black van awaited. The Stormbringer threw the rear doors open. His team climbed in, dumping the prisoners on the floor. The Stormbringer was the last aboard.

  “All in,” he said. “Targets secured.”

  “Finally,” the controller groused. “Let’s go.”

  The van sped off into the night. The giants reloaded and inspected their gear.

  “That was sloppy,” the controller complained. “Why bother talking to the targets?”

  “We specialize in killing, not kidnapping.”

  “So what? It doesn’t mean you should stand around and let them shoot you. Just go in hard and overwhelm them.”

  “The mission objectives required the targets to be alive and intact. Our expertise does not extend to non-lethal combat. If we had gone in hard, as you say, we might have broken them. That would be unacceptable. Better to give them a chance to surrender peacefully.”

  The controller sighed. “Whatever. Anybody hurt?”

  “This unit requires a fresh left eye.”

  “What the… Did you just… Never mind.” Another sigh. “You guys can’t take risks like that.”

  “We are not mortal like you.”

  “Hey, if any of you get damaged, it’s my ass. You understand?”

  The Stormbringer briefly wondered what the man’s posterior had to do with the mission before deciding it was probably human slang.

  “None of us has experienced any degradation in combat capability.”

  “Even you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, whatever. I’m gonna call it in.”

  The interior of the van lit up as the controller booted his holophone.

  “This is Alpha Team. Mission complete. We need cleanup. No. Yes. Alpha says he needs a new eye, but he also says has no ‘degradation in combat capability.’ Uh-huh. Hold on. Hey, Alpha!”

  “Yes,” the giant replied.

  “Boss has a question for you. He wants to know if you’re ready for a new mission. Top priority, no time to replace your eye.”

  “What is the mission?”

  “To kill the covenanters who beat your team the last time.”

  There was only one possible response.

  “We’re ready.”

  5. The Ghosts of Conjurer

  By the time we returned to the airship, we had learned everything the press was willing to disclose about the attack in Berlin. Eve had regressed into sullenness, talking only when she had to.

  Captain Harding and a few crew members met us at the airport, where we transferred the aetherium into purpose-designed bladders. They didn’t know where the aetherium came from, how pure it was, or that it was completely rad-free, and enlightening them wouldn’t serve a purpose.

  Harding magicked up a stack of paperwork declaring that the aetherium was destined for Calypso’s reactor, so Customs let us pass with only a cursory inspection. The tax stamp was hefty, until I remembered I was playing the role of an eccentric billionaire who could earn triple the amount the government demanded merely by existing for a minute.

  Having an airship and a legitimate-looking company had its benefits.

  “By the way, your friends from the Program arrived last night,” Harding said.

  “About time,” Pete said.

  “Who’s here?” I asked.

  “They didn’t say. There are four of them. I asked them to wait for you in the drawing room.”

  I saw them the moment we boarded the airship. A grizzled veteran, older than Pete and younger than Harding, spread himself over a sofa, watching the news on the holotable. Across from him, a Hispanic operator played a game of holographic checkers with a younger man, occupying the remaining real estate on the table. The fourth man paced the room, wandering from artwork to artwork. The engineers had taken the time to return the portraits to their original places. The fine art must have been mission critical—more critical than my own bathroom.

  “Hey, guys,” I said. “It’s been a while.”

  The oldest operator nodded. Keith Anders had been in the Program longer than anyone else in the room. I’d heard he was a plankowner, one of the first generation of shooters. He was a good guy—as good a man as anybody in this line of work could be—but he was also a die-hard Phosterian and therefore the last person I could discuss gods and angels with.

  Alex Ramirez raised his hand in a casual salute. I’d worked with him a few times, most notably on the Persian op where Hakem had revealed himself to me. While a solid operator in his own right, he steadfastly disbelieved in gods and angels—but not daimons—and Hakem mentioned it wasn’t worth trying to convince him otherwise.

  I didn’t know the other two. In the presence of Program outsiders they only gave out their first names. The one playing checkers called himself Bob while the other examining the paintings was Ricky. Bob had hit the equivalent of the genetic lottery in the business: short and wiry, with light olive skin and dark curly hair, he could blend in almost anywhere the Program went. Ricky looked like he was a descendant of the Varangian Guard. He smiled with his mouth, but his blue eyes remained cold and flat.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said. “Keith, how’s your leg?”

  During the op to take the airship, an armed crewman had shot him in the left thigh, breaking the femur.

  “A hundred percent,” he replied. “I’m good for anything.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “Gents, this is Eve. Our local asset.”

  “You mean senior Hexenhammer operative,” Keith said.

  Bob straightened. Ricky’s hands drifted to his beltline.

  “Yes,” Eve said. “And as a member of Hexenhammer, I can tell you that we were not responsible for Chios Island. Or anything else the media said we did for that matter.”

  “Well, I guess that settles that, then,” Ricky said sarcastically.

  “I’ve been conducting an internal investigation. Someone out there is openly slandering us while hunting us down in the dark.”

  “Any idea who?” Ramirez asked.

  “We don’t know,” I said. “We do know that they may have some connection with Project Conjurer. That’s why I brought you down here.”

  “To pick our brains?” Keith asked.

  “Yes.”

  “No offense, but Eve here is on an Interpol watch list. She shouldn’t be here.”<
br />
  “Excuse me?” Eve planted her hands on her hips. “What do you mean?”

  Keith laced his fingers together. “Look. You are the target of an international investigation. I understand the President is looking to have HH declared as a terrorist organization. The Program isn’t after you today, but it doesn’t mean that won’t change tomorrow. You should not be here.”

  “I have every right to be here. For the past week I’ve been running around the entire continent, dodging the police and trying to find out what on earth is going on. We are not terrorists, damn it! You know better than that.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “What do you mean, ‘and’?”

  “What we’re about to discuss is top secret. You’re a civilian. Worse, you’ve been branded a terrorist. We can’t possibly share information with you.”

  “What the hell? We fought together, damn you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “That was then. This is now. This isn’t your fight. Leave it to–”

  She stomped up to the table.

  “A few days ago I fought a team of immortal supersoldiers who just wouldn’t die! Don’t you dare tell me this isn’t my fight. Besides, Conjurer is a Hesperian program, isn’t it? That means I’m cleaning up your mess.”

  Keith shot to his feet. “Wait just a second–”

  I planted myself between them.

  “Eve. Keith. Stand down now.”

  Eve tensed. “I–”

  “Stand. Down.”

  She clenched her fists and backed off.

  “Listen,” I said. “There is a concerted campaign to discredit and destroy Hexenhammer. I don’t know who’s behind it or what they want, but they have serious juice. I’ve been monitoring Eve, and she’s on the level. I fought those supersoldiers, too. And they have more than a passing resemblance to what I know of Conjurer. Someone is hunting us. And we need to know why.”

  “Wait a second,” Alex said. “Aren’t you and Eve…?”

  “No.”

  “What about you and Eve?” Bob said.

  “I brought her on as an asset. For the past week I’ve been making sure she’s playing things straight. That’s all.”