by E. M. Hardy
Isiah couldn’t help chuckling at that, even as he rubbed the parts of his wrists that were locked in by the restraints. “Yep. Half-orc is about right. A real orc would be far larger, stronger, nastier, and end up being a huge douchebag all-around. It’s a culture thing, I guess.”
Bradley joined in, chuckling as well. “Yes. I got that vibe from Kurdan, and I think that was him trying to be polite.”
Despite the lighter turn to the discussion, Isiah couldn’t help but draw his gaze upon the imposing two-way plastered across one of the walls. That thing, and the two security cameras trained on him, meant that other people were no doubt watching him. They weren’t his friends, who could keep a secret, nor were they his father, who would do anything he could to protect his son.
This is why Isiah found himself turning back to his father, his lips pursed and his brows knitted together in worry. “So… um… what happens next?”
Epilogue
And that was that.
Saamir sighed in satisfaction as he crossed out the final city, marking the last successful attack of his mujahideen. Yes, they had lost many in this operation. One-hundred, twenty-eight attack squads had attempted to cross into the country. Thirty attack squads had made it in. Only three had managed to carry out their attacks on their intended targets. And even this attack had been marred by failure, considering the snatch squad was unable to kidnap the senator’s daughter and the traitor’s son. Their beheadings would have bolstered their ability to project fear, but these strikes in the heartland of North America would be enough. He no longer had the men to carry out further attacks, and he knew that he would be meeting his fellow martyrs soon enough. It was only a matter of time.
He had achieved his objectives, though. He didn’t know the full details, but his contacts were sending glowing reports. First was the skyrocketing number of pledges from would-be warriors inspired by their actions. These came from the lands they had already conquered, the ones where they had reduced national governments to shadows of their former selves. Hunger, violence, chaos—the only way the impoverished people of those lands would survive was to join the Golden Sword.
Second and more important was the growing outrage in America. That annoying senator, Winters, was losing support. More and more of their politicians were turning away from America’s much-vaunted openness and acceptance. That was good. Let the world know that there were no more false heroes, no more beacons of false hope willing to protect them, and they would more easily turn to the nearest source of safety—the Golden Sword. They would gain many more martyrs after this was all said and done, especially when America turned its hate upon itself. Give it a few years, and the next generation of martyrs would rise from the ashes of the poor, the oppressed, the outcast.
Then there would be the ambitious parasites—those that would benefit from having the Golden Sword frighten the people. These ranged from ambitious populists that needed scared, desperate voters to craven criminals that needed someone to draw the attention of the government away from them. They were the ones that had made this attack possible, after all, especially that one congressman who had fed Saamir all the information he needed. Blevins, if he remembered correctly. He thought Saamir would only send a single squad, that he could contain the Golden Sword. He had planned to betray Saamir’s mujahideen by intercepting them at an airport then hold them up to the public as the reason why his laws were needed.
The fool only succeeded in opening the doors for Saamir and his martyrs to come swarming in.
Lives were given, blood was spilled, and the seeds of revolution were planted. Saamir was content to rest, wait for the inevitable missile to strike his home, and meet his maker with fire in his hands and a prayer on his lips.
A heavy hand landed on Saamir’s shoulder, firm and unyielding. He spun away, reaching for the pistol in its holster while knocking the hand away. He yelped as the hand not only stayed clamped on his shoulder but pulled him down to the ground.
“Peace. I come in peace.”
Saamir was surprised at how calm and soothing the feminine tone was, though he didn’t let go of his pistol just yet. He slowly peered up, wondering how this woman had managed to enter the fortified basement of this building without tripping off the alarms or blasting down the door.
Angel. That was the only thought that ran through Saamir’s mind as he took in everything about the beautiful woman. She stood tall as she floated slightly off the ground, her pale skin glowing an otherworldly light. Her loose clothing floated all around her, her eyes crinkled in a gentle smile while her pointed ears peeked graciously through her long, silky hair.
“Saamir el-Raadi. Your bravery, your willingness to fight evil, has been noted. This is why I come to you with a mission that I believe only you can accomplish.
“A great evil, born of blood and bone, has come to this world. Your brave warriors almost ended this monster’s life, cut short his evil, but the demon controlling him refused to let go. In his spite and malice, the demon cursed the monster with unholy power. He split the monster’s heart into two, turned his skin into grey ash, and filled his body with profane vitality. You and your holy warriors must find this monster and destroy it before it corrupts this world further. Please… I beg of you.”
Saamir, mesmerized by the angel before him, could only fall to his knees and bow down in supplication. “Say no more, Angel of the Lord. I have dedicated my life to God, given everything to glory His Name, and I will give even more to serve Him as best I can. I will find this monster, and I will slay it.”
The woman smiled beatifically, laying her hands gently on Saamir’s head. Her power flowed through him, into him, as she formed a bond with him—passing a fragment of her power into him. She would not be so stupid as to reveal her world to this human, of course, but she could at least gift him with the powers he would require to go after Cagros’ abomination. At least she needed not fear such an abomination rising from the pure people she called her own. None of her beloved elves would ever willingly bond with a lowly, dirty human such as this one.
“My heart swells with joy at your eagerness, your fearlessness, and your faithfulness, Saamir el-Raadi. Take these gifts, go faithful one. Hunt down the monster called Isiah Hunter… for the glory of God.”
“Wait!” cried out Saamir as he clutched the hem of the beautiful angel’s glowing, fluttering, robe. “What is your name, o merciful angel? What name do I call out when I smite the enemy of God, the spawn of Satan?”
The goddess bit back a sneer, wanting nothing more than to burn away the offending limb. Instead, she plastered on the loveliest smile she could as she turned around. “Ikaria,” she whispered daintily, inclining her head in acknowledgment. “I am Ikaria the Aetherial.”