Spellbound: Book II of the Grimnoir Chronicles

by Larry Correia

The road straightened back out. The Imperium would be able to see them again. The Japanese machine gun opened up with a ponderous rate of fire. Red tracers flew past, and then another round hit. Stuffing flew from the passenger seat. Then the glass in front cracked. Jane answered and let the Thompson rip. The headlights behind them swerved side to side, but the flashes from that machine gun kept up. Then the side mirror exploded and Dan couldn’t watch anymore.

  “There’s a fork ahead,” Lance shouted through the magical link. “Bear left.”

  “That’s the wrong way,” Dan said.

  “Do it!”

  The road split into a Y. Dan swore and went left, which was taking them further out into the country, and even worse, into open farmland where they wouldn’t be able to shake their pursuers. “You better know what you’re doing, Lance!”

  Iron Guard Toru pulled the spent magazine from the top of the Type-70 light machine gun and let it clatter down the road behind them. The marine in the passenger seat handed him another magazine of 8mm ammunition through the window. Toru rocked it into place and yanked back the bolt.

  The car swerved as the Grimnoir returned fire. A normal man probably would have been thrown from the side, but all it did to Toru was upset his aim. That, the bumpy road, and the insects hitting him in the face were making this a challenge. “Hold steady!” Toru ordered.

  The lights of the Grimnoir auto veered to the left, so he rested the Type-70 across the edge of the roof and squeezed the trigger, trying to walk the tracers into the moving target. One of the red taillights went out and his magically augmented hearing recorded the metallic clangs of puncturing metal.

  The Grimnoir were fools. He had scouted the surrounding countryside during the construction of the ambassador’s home. There was nowhere for them to hide in this direction. He would cut them to ribbons.

  The Type-70 only had a 30-round magazine, and he burned through it in seconds. He tossed that mag and stuck his hand in the window for another. He’d barely finished reloading when he looked up to see a large black cow running into the road. It stopped, silhouetted in their headlights. He could have sworn that the cow looked right at them and winked.

  The driver hit the brakes and tried to turn, but he was too late. They hit the cow at nearly sixty miles an hour. The front of their car crashed into the solid animal. Toru flared his Power to hold on, but the aluminum handrail he’d latched onto tore through the sheet metal like paper.

  He hit the road nearly eighty feet away, traveling fast, and smashed against the asphalt, bounced a few times, then rolled. The Power draw was intense, and he did his best to keep it up, but there were limits to even Brute toughness and he felt bones break and muscles tear as he gradually flopped to a stop.

  It took Toru nearly ten seconds to collect himself. His four Healing kanji were all burning Power, desperately trying to fix his ruined body. He groaned and got to his feet. The machine gun was gone. The Grimnoir’s remaining taillight disappeared in the distance.

  Toru muttered an oath that was far beneath the station of an Iron Guard.

  Leaving a trail of blood from several deep lacerations, Toru weaved back to the wreck. One marine had been thrown through the window and into a field, and the driver had broken his skull against the steering wheel. Fluids were pouring from the engine. Their car was not going anywhere.

  Somehow the accursed black cow was still alive, though not for long. All her legs were obviously broken, but she still managed to lift her bloody head to look at him with surprising intelligence. The farm animal then spoke to him with a voice like that of an American movie cowboy. “Didn’t see that coming, did ya, asshole?”

  They had a Beastie. “Damn your foul animal magic, Grimnoir.”

  “This link really hurts to keep up, but I just love to see the smug get wiped right off an Iron Guard’s face.” The cow laughed at him.

  Iron Guard Toru limped over and punched the cow to death.

  The fire had been put out by the time Toru walked back to the compound. Someone must have reported the commotion because a fire truck and a police car were stopped at the main gate. He was glad that the guards had followed protocol and not let any of the local authorities through. The identity of their guests had to be protected at all costs. Having such American business luminaries show up in the newspapers as consorting with the Imperium would be an embarrassment to them and a blow to the Chairman’s mission of infiltration and conquest.

  Toru’s clothing was mostly destroyed, and though his wounds had sealed on their own, he was covered in drying blood. To avoid any entanglements with the American authorities, Toru had simply leapt over the back wall. The men could handle the police. His mind was preoccupied, dwelling on the horrible duty that he had to confront.

  The captain of the guard gave him a brief report. The man was still flustered from having actually been addressed by the Chairman. Now that the Mouth’s Influence had finally worn off, the guests were regaining their composure. The American police had been told that the fire was an accident, everything was under control, and that attempting to investigate the ambassador’s residence would cause an embarrassing diplomatic incident. Of course, they already had an agreement with the locals, so the predetermined amount of gold had exchanged hands. Ambassador Hatori had been secured as ordered. Toru inquired if anyone had spoken with the ambassador, and was told that the ambassador had not said a single word as they had led him away. Toru was glad to hear that, because he had not been looking forward to having to kill any other acquaintances tonight.

  After dispatching the captain to gather the bodies from the scene of the accident, the Iron Guard went inside. The beautiful atrium was totally destroyed. Hatori’s meticulously tended garden had been torn to pieces and spread across the entire building. It filled Toru’s heart with sadness. Master Hatori had been very fond of this space. It had been his connection to their beloved homeland and favorite meditation area. The Heavy would die painfully for the slight.

  Hatori had been secured in one of the unadorned rooms. Guards had been posted to keep watch, and they bowed as he approached. Toru paused at the door to steel his resolve and found himself staring at the tetsubo in his hand. He could not comprehend the reasoning behind the Chairman’s command, but it was not the place for an Iron Guard to question his betters. The Chairman’s word was absolute law. Whether his transgressions were real or imaginary, Hatori still had to die for them.

  However, Hatori had been a good teacher, a fierce warrior, and in his old age a cunning diplomat, always representing the Imperium with honor. He deserved better than to be clubbed down like some nuisance peasant. Surely the Chairman would understand, since his teachings centered on the importance of honoring the strong. Decision made, Toru returned to his quarters to retrieve a few items. When he returned, he was able to enter Hatori’s prison with head held high. This felt more like the correct path.

  His teacher was kneeling on a mat, waiting patiently. Toru did not address him. Hatori looked Toru over, saw the sword he was carrying and understood. “So this is how it ends, then?”

  “As the Chairman commands.”

  “The thing you spoke to is not the Chairman. Okubo, my old friend, is dead.”

  Toru did not believe him. The Chairman was immortal. Perhaps Hatori had gone mad.

  Hatori let out a long breath. “Am I allowed an explanation for my actions?”

  “I am not allowed to hear.”

  “In the beginning, we fought the true Enemy. Then things changed . . . We changed. I fear that a false leader has taken control of the Imperium. I am afraid it is someone who does not understand what is truly at stake.”

  “Please stop.”

  “Very well. You always were a good student, Toru. I never had sons of my own. If I had, I’d have very much liked them to turn out like you.”

  Toru gently placed the silk package on the floor in front of Hatori’s knees. “Know that I bear you no ill will. This way is better.”

  Hatori opened t
he silk to reveal the tanto knife. “Thank you.” He seemed genuinely moved as he took up the blade and ran his thumb down the razor edge. “Would you be my second?”

  Toru placed one hand on the wrapped hilt of the katana that had been presented to him upon achieving the rank of Iron Guard. “I would be honored.”

  The ambassador removed his shirt and set it aside. His chest was covered in layers of markings. The oldest layer was the faded tattoos of his criminal upbringing, next were his Iron Guard kanji, bestowed by the Chairman’s Cogs, and the final layer was made of scars earned in countless battles on behalf of the Imperium. Hatori took the knife and placed the tip against this abdomen. “Please understand that I would never betray Okubo Tokugawa. I do not wish to be remembered as a traitor.”

  Toru drew his sword and took it in both hands. “Of course.”

  “I’m afraid you will understand what I speak of soon enough.”

  Hatori shoved the knife deep into his guts. The muscles of his face did not so much as twitch as he dragged it through his flesh. Blood poured from the wound. When the blade had cut all the way across, Hatori shuddered, his shoulders slumped, and his hand dropped the tanto into the spreading pool of red. Toru raised his katana overhead.

  “No . . . I think you should understand now.”

  A spike of terrible agony ripped through Toru’s head. Hatori used up all of his considerable Power in one mighty burst. Toru stumbled back, holding his head in his hands. It felt as if his brains were about to boil out his ears. Streams of information, strange memories, new images . . . They were crashing about, trying to make a new home in Iron Guard Toru’s mind. “What have you done to me?”

  “What . . . I had . . . to.” Hatori bowed his head. “Forgive me. I am finished.”

  Already, his head had cleared. Toru moved in one fluid strike. It was considered shameful to remove the head completely from the body when serving as second, so he was careful to pull the stroke at the last instant, leaving just enough skin at the throat so that Hatori’s head did not fly off. Instead, it rolled neatly into the ambassador’s lap. The body remained kneeling as if in mediation.

  It was a respectful end for a respected man.

  Toru

  Chapter 8

  When Jack Johnson manhandled Tommy Burns and took the world heavyweight boxing championship back in ’08, a cry went up across the land, for it was inconceivable that a Negro could hold such a prestigious title. Jack London made a desperate plea for a Great White Hope and for the next few years, every strapping, well-muscled white lad in the country was in danger of being shanghaied by desperate promoters to be thrown into the ring against the Galveston Giant. Johnson whipped them all. After he defeated former champ James Jeffries in the Fight of the Century two years later, we got real desperate. Brutes had been banned from boxing for twenty years, and for good reason since no mortal man could survive a punch from one of those Active savages. But for Johnson, out there lording it over us with his white women, we made an exception. Strings got pulled, money changed hands, officials looked the other way, and we snuck in our Brute assassin. The poor dumb Brute thought we were actually giving him a shot at the title. Hell, when he was sober, Bill Jones could lift a horse over his head. He crippled the champ for life thirty seconds into the first round. The referee stopped it when he saw our boy was magic, but Jack Johnson’s career was done for. We disqualified our stooge for using magic and kicked that freak of nature to the curb. We did what we had to do. Got to keep the sport pure, you know.

  —Al Fitzsimmons,

  New York State Commissioner of Boxing,

  death bed confession, 1914

  Dallas, Texas

  THE WEATHER had not been in their favor and the UBF passenger dirigible had made lousy time. An hour before sunrise, they had finally landed at the biggest dirigible station in Texas, just in time to catch the local newspaper hot off the presses. The subject of the front page hadn’t been surprising, but the other names mentioned in the article sure were. Faye had always thought it would be kind of fun to see her name in print in an actual big city newspaper. It turned out that it wasn’t fun at all. Especially when your name was just there to say that the police were looking for you.

  Faye could read and write pretty well now, she’d taken to it quick, but Mr. Browning read the interesting bits out loud for all of them while they waited for their breakfast. Mr. Sullivan was wanted for having shot down a bunch of policemen in New Jersey after they tried to question him about the plot to kill the president. What a bunch of bunk. Faye’s name was on the list of people who might know something and were wanted for questioning, as was Mr. Garrett. She didn’t recognize any of the other names, but could only assume that they were other knights she hadn’t met yet. Next to each of the names was a brief description that was quick to mention what their Power was. The reporter didn’t come out and say that a bunch of Actives were trying to take over the government, but he sure did manage to insinuate it.

  Four of the knights were sitting around a table in the big diner inside the air station. The other two were sitting at opposite ends of the counter, with Mr. Bolander having to sit way over in the Coloreds section. That really bothered Faye, since Mr. Bolander was smart as anybody else and perfectly nice, but he seemed resigned to it.

  Mr. Bryce sat by the door to keep an eye on who came and went, watching people over the top of his newspaper. That seemed smart. Faye decided that she’d better learn to start thinking like a fugitive. Those two men had come from the same group of East Coast Grimnoir, just as Whisper and Ian had come from the same group that worked somewhere in Europe.

  “Anything else?” Ian asked.

  “Only if you read between the lines,” Mr. Browning answered patiently. “We know they’re aware of Francis, but they fail to mention him here. They know more than they are releasing to the press. How much more is the question.”

  “Is this an attempt to rattle us?” Whisper asked. Faye loved how Whisper spoke English. It was like you took all the S sounds and held onto them just a little too long. It seemed rather mysterious. When she wasn’t so busy trying to save the world, Faye decided she would have to go and visit Paris sometime.

  “I believe so,” Browning replied. “I recognize a few of these other names. All knights, and all with some measure of public success. Dan Garrett, for example, is remembered by many from his radio days. Dr. Rosenstein is a prestigious surgeon in Chicago. Or they have a distinguishing physical feature, such as young Faye. In short, these are knights that will be recognized by the public.”

  The waitress brought their food. Faye immediately dug into her plate of hash browns and eggs. She was starving. Mr. Browning reached under the table and touched her knee gently. At first she’d thought that she’d had yet another breech of polite-folk manners—of which she was still trying to figure out all the many little details—but when she glanced up, Mr. Browning just looked her in the eye and tilted his head down slightly. Huh? Mr. Browning closed his eyes for just a moment too long, then nodded toward the door. A policeman had come into the cafe.

  Her grey eyes . . . Of course. The newspaper had said she was a Traveler. Everybody knew Travelers had grey eyes, and since Travelers were so very rare anyways, a young female Traveler would stand out especially bad. Faye kept her head down, and went on eating in the most nonsuspicious way possible, which was more difficult than it sounded.

  The policeman sat on a stool two seats over from Mr. Bryce and loudly ordered a coffee. Mr. Bryce, who struck Faye as a particularly dangerous man, subtly kept one eye on the policeman even while he appeared to be focused on eating his pancakes. The cafe was crowded enough that their table of four did not stand out, but Mr. Browning lowered his voice anyway. “Things are more complicated than we suspected.”

  “Somebody from the Minotaur is bound to remember her as soon as they read this,” Ian suggested. “They’ll be watching the air stations now. We need to get out of here.”

  Mr. Browning nodded. “You
are correct, sir . . . Faye, there is really no need to inhale your food. Finish as you normally would.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled with a very full mouth.

  “We will procure automobiles and split up. I shall continue on to Florida to research the identity of the assassin. Mr. Bryce will accompany me because he is a trained criminal investigator. The rest of you will rendezvous with Mr. Talon in Virginia.”

  That made Faye uncomfortable. She didn’t know these new knights very well, and in particular really didn’t like Ian much at all. That was an awful long time to be stuck in a car with somebody that thought Harkeness and Rawls were heroes . . . Not murdering Ian for that long might be really hard. “Me too?”

  “Yes, my dear. I would love the pleasure of your company, but I believe that taking one of the individuals on the persons of interest list to the scene of the crime would be unwise. Besides, with all of these dealings with Iron Guards, your rather direct abilities will certainly be of much greater value to Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Talon.”

  That made her proud. Nobody was better at killing Imperium than Sally Faye Vierra.

  “This should be pleasant.” Whisper rummaged through her enormous purse for a moment until she found a pair of sunglasses. She passed the cheaters to Faye under the table. “I for one enjoy a good road trip.”

  Unknown Location

  AS ALWAYS, his nightmares were of zombies.

  The memories would haunt him forever. The death madness consumed even the best of men eventually, until they were nothing more than ravenous maniacs, driven only by pain that could not end and a hunger that could never be sated. His bad dreams were always of the chase, running through the crumbling alleys and broken buildings, hiding in sewers and crawl spaces, sleeping precariously on ledges where the undead could not cross without waking him, for if he was not careful in picking where to lay his head, then he would surely be awoken by teeth.