Blaze of Heroes

by C. J. Strange

  “No one else is here,” she assures me. “And I have some extra layers inside that Hope gave me. The ones from the spares drawer?”

  It might be due to the impending headache and my state of mind, still smarting from the shift, but I'm fairly sure we don't have a spares drawer.

  As she bundles me into the small, camouflaged shelter and hands me a pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, I recognize them as Penny's own.

  “Cheers,” I thank her, still shaking like a leaf. It's brisk out. We work wordlessly to dry ourselves off and I quickly redress, relieved she's turned away, giving me adequate privacy in my corner of the tent.

  “Um,” she starts, still facing the nylon wall, “so, you don't have to tell me if it's something personal or spiritually private, but why were you sleeping in the middle of the forest with no clothes on?”

  “I wasn't sleeping.” The serrated edge to my tone is not intentional. “I was sulking.”

  “Oh.” Juniper pauses for a moment before asking, “Why were you sulking?”

  I roll up the hoodie she gave me and hand it back to her, which she takes as her cue to spin back around. “I don't know. My brigade. My captain, she, she said some stuff, but…” I groan, rubbing the heel of my palm into one of my eye sockets, but it does nothing to relieve the pressure. My skull is filling with a dense fog, making it impossible to focus on or track down any one specific thought. Making it impossible to use logic or reason. To think clearly at all.

  “OP?”

  I hear her, but it takes a good few moments for it to register. “Mm?”

  “Are you okay?”

  My head feels like a wrecking ball, and the effort it takes to raise it is extreme. I just stare at her blankly, stare through the crushing confusion, and continue to grow increasingly discombobulated as I realize that I don't actually know the answer to that query. I have no idea at all.

  “Ssh, it's okay, come here.” Juniper scoots closer to me, stretching out both hands for my head. Her thumbs dig gently into my temples to find the pressure points. “You've been completely out of sorts all day—”

  With a sudden gasp, she jerks away from me. Her eyes are wide, full of a terror I've only ever seen in them once—on the night we all first met. When she was under attack from a vigilante militia.

  “OP,” she whispers timidly. I can barely hear her words for the thrumming of raindrops on the tent roof. “OP, I need you to do everything you can to relax for me. And not to fight me, even if you feel you want to for some reason.”

  “Why?” I ask. It leaves my body a lot more bland and disinterested than I expected it to.

  Juniper timidly reaches for me again. It might just be because I'm hypersensitive, but I can feel her fingertips trembling against my skin when she touches me, underscoring her fear.

  “This is probably going to sound preposterous at best,” she says cautiously, “so I need you to trust me, okay?” She doesn't wait for my confirmation, her fingers starting to spread out around my skull “Because it sounds crazy. And I know you don't like to have this religion stuff thrust upon you, especially when you're in a low place, and you hate being overwhelmed, but…”

  She deflates, closing her eyes. I feel the urge to do the same. I do as I'm told and submit.

  “I'm fairly convinced you have an Abyssal parasite. Attached to you. To your brain.”

  A what?

  “I believe I'll be able to sever its connection to you,” she continues, with noticeably more resolve, “and I'll be able to do it without harming you at all. But as I said, I'll need you to remain as calm and unwound as possible, especially if you start to feel trapped or afraid. That thought doesn't belong to you—it's the parasite's. And it's trying to control you.”

  She's for real, I think, although the acknowledgment doesn't panic me as much as it should. I have something dodgy stuck to my brain, like a big, sinister post-it.

  “Just breathe for me.”

  My hesitation should be fairly justifiable. The last time a follower of Nova laid hands upon me, the headache it resulted in lasted hours.

  But this is different.

  This, I could handle, even if it does technically count as being touched by a stranger. This, I could get behind. This, I could lean into, get lost in, drift away on…

  “Oh, my radiant sun—are you doing what I believe you to be doing!?”

  Juniper's hands, still aglow with their warm energy, jerk away from my head as if hit with a sudden electric shock. Our heads whip around, mouths open, and I strain through the now more prevalent storm clouding my mind to focus on the figure poking his head into the tent flap.

  Elder Beaumont's small, squinty eyes are zeroed in on Juniper, like a sniper surveying a target. The pair of us may be surprised, but he looks positively astounded.

  “M-my child,” he utters in a delicate whisper, “you were just performing a Solar Cleanse, were you not?”

  The pulsing, radiant glow fades, plunging us into darkness. From somewhere within, Juniper mumbles a tiny, guilty, sheepish, “... maybe.”

  “Bless this day,” gasps Beaumont. From the way he says it, I'm presuming it's more an expression of eureka than an actual act of sanctifying something about it. “Sister, that gift. It is a gift not frequently given by our Mother to a mortal child. It appears there is so much more to you than one might first presume…”

  “It wouldn't be the first time I've had somebody make that assumption,” is the tepid response. It may be the pounding headache, which has only gotten worse in Beaumont's presence, but I'm not sure I've ever heard her sound that irritable before. Or at all.

  “Brother OP?”

  My head yanks itself up. Was I trying to sleep? The inky blackness in the tent is suffocating, the rhythm of the rain hypnotic. It's difficult to tell.

  “I asked if you would perhaps join me in my own tent?” Beaumont's hand crawls its way up my shoulder, inch by inch. It should made me shudder, but instead, the thick fog in my head softens in a way that's almost calming.

  “Sister Juniper should probably accompany us, given that her Magickal talents are clearly far superior to anything I had previously imagined,” he's saying in that hoarse, nasal tone of his. “Whatever this higher calling is, whatever plans our Sun Mother has for you, my boy, we must ensure you are ready to receive them.”

  15 Duncan's Discovery

  It were a rough night for too many of us, and that's a fact.

  I swear to Betsy, I am never sharing such cramped accommodations with the eejit again. Aye, it were nice to continuously come back to a toasty warm tent, especially 'cause it were raining buckets all throughout. But the snoring, the wriggling, the getting up four, five, six times to go outside for a jimmy? Part of me is convinced it's all part of some overarching scheme to get under my damn skin.

  He's been a brat to me since Arundel. It's bad even for him. And I'm getting a wee bit sick of the attitude.

  He's akip when I go out. I leave him be. Let sleeping numpties lie, as sane folk say. It's just after dawn, and the sun's rays are sparkling through dew-dappled leaves and branches as I make the half-mile trek out to Shields' position. The lad likes to brag endlessly about his good fortune, which is why Cap decided to pair him up with wee Juniper, but I'm nae entirely convinced. Nae yet, anyway.

  “Felix, lad?”

  It's a tidy morning, and the regular-paced walk has done wonders to stretch out the muscles that ache after cramming my six-two frame into such a wee space. I'll no doubt be using my Magickal abilities a lot in the very near future, and I want to save what little energy I have left for that. I trudge up to the tent, pushing aside some of the natural camouflage, and shake it roughly by one of the poles.

  “Shake a leg, wee'yins! Big day ahead, time to man up and face it.”

  Nae response, which is extremely unusual for Shields. Worryingly so. That lad would rip a wired jaw open to give me lip. It's nae impossible to ignore that nagging sense that something is heinously wrong, and so I yank the
tent flap open, busting the zipper, without waiting for permission from within.

  Nothing.

  My blood runs a couple degrees cooler. Juniper's an early riser, I remember, thinking back to yesterday morning. Perhaps they already left camp?

  I dart over to the captain's van. To my horror, it's empty. No sign of Starling or Porter anywhere, or even a sign that they slept at their camp at all.

  That cold blood in my veins thickens as I boly through the trees toward the main central camp site, where the convoy set up at dusk. The theory that even the newbie Shields, who maybe acts as if he dunnae take our cause as serious as the rest of us but damn well does, would abandon his post like this? It makes very little logical sense, but what else do I have to go on?

  I reach the perimeter of base camp, but pause before breaching. It's nae right, that nagging voice in the back of my skull hammers on, like a dog with a bone. None of this. It's nae right, Doherty…

  I have my own training. Beyond what I've learned during my time with B.L.A.Z.E. Training that enables me to assess a situation and act at my own discretion, with or without team mates. In fact, I often perform better without a partner in the field. My independence has kept me alive as much as good teamwork.

  Drawing a breath (because aye, try doing that at two hundred miles an hour), I focus the warm buzz in my chest into the taut muscles of my arms and legs, and do a rapid examination of the entire camp site. But I may as well have not bothered. I could've walked in there and made the same assessment in under three seconds without wasting as much energy.

  There's nae a soul here.

  Every tent and sleeping bag is empty. Both rusted old pickup trucks sit abandoned in deep tire tracks in the grass. The most damning and troubling piece of evidence is a single shoe, a muddy Nike trainer, laying abandoned on its side next to a trio of bulging rucksacks.

  Shoes are necessary. Nae migrant is gonnae leave behind a single shoe.

  None of this is right, Doherty…

  A set of tire grooves nae related to either of Arundel's trucks has kicked up a good deal of sod and earth toward the north side of the clearing. Dormant training kicks back in. I'm already tracing them, ensuring I'm tracking the vehicle forward and not in reverse.

  How in the name of all that is fair and just in this ridiculous fecking country could someone have driven something this big in and out without anyone hearing it!?

  The sloppy mud in the grooves of the tracks has already begun to dry. They must be several hours old, at least. I follow them in short bursts of speed, heading northeast, until I reach the small clearing where Elder Beaumont has his own private tent set up, much larger than it needs to be for one to sleep and take shelter in. Roaster.

  I've nae been an avid fan of organized religion, regardless of whether it be progressive or conservative. In my personal opinion, the exact moment some other wank tells you he knows more about your relationship with your god than you do, it's nae spirituality, it's a cult. And everything about this Elder Beaumont roaster reminds me why I have that exact opinion.

  Aye, well that's just pure barry, I gripe to myself sarcastically. I'm gonnae have to rescue the religious nutter, too.

  My inhuman hearing picks up on something, though—chatter. It's hushed, but it's coming from inside the preacher's tent. The blood that's been chilling my veins finally freezes them solid.

  Could I really have been jammy enough to catch our assailants in the act? Aye, right. That almost never happens. It'd definitely save me some time here…

  I approach with extreme caution, muscles tense and ready to react at a fraction of a second's notice. I have no idea what's on the other side of that canvas, how much of a threat it might present to me. For all I know, it could be survivors, or local vultures raiding an abandoned camp site they happened to stumble across. It could also be whatever forces were powerful enough to successfully extract our entire convoy—and who knows how many of its security personnel—out from underneath us.

  Deep breaths, laddie. Keep it in focus.

  The voice are imperceptible regardless of how close I draw. But I recognize one of them as somebody just I met, somebody who's done nae more than irritate me all weekend.

  I rip the tent flap open and nigh off, ducking to enter without shrinking my demeanour at all.

  “Where's the convoy, Beaumont?" is my threatening snarl, directed at the priest himself and neither of the lackeys flanking him. "Where's the rest of my brigade? Ye've got ten seconds to produce them, or we're going to see how this tent looks set up inside of you.”

  The Elder is standing on a circular hemp rug, dark purple with gold trim, a candle in each of his fat little hands. All six of the warriors of Nova are sat around him on the rug. All six turn their heads to glare at me as I burst in, every wee bit the proverbial bull in this china shop.

  “Brother Dee,” barks Beaumont, though he's more pug than pitbull. “You have interrupted a sacred ritual to bless these fine specimens of our goddess' creation. I can only pray you have valid reason.”

  “The convoy,” I repeat, breathless. “It's missing.”

  Beaumont stares at me with those wee, sunken eyes. “No, it isn't.”

  To say I'm gobsmacked would be a massive underestimation. My jaw hits the tops of my trainers as I gawp back at him.

  “I happen to know exactly where it is,” the priest continues, cocking his head to peer around me. “The same goes for your brigade mates. Brother Vulpes?”

  He's addressing someone at my back. Suddenly alert, I whirl around at lightning speed, and what I see drops my mouth open wide for a second time in just a few seconds. Wee'yin!?

  I dunnae get a chance to ask Porter if he's okay, if he's seen Cap or any of the others. The instant I get ahold of my tongue, I'm biting down on it, a flash of white-hot pain setting every nerve in my skull on fire as I pitch forward, and everything that was once that blinding white goes very, very black.

  16 Penny's Far Worse Morning

  Ah, bollocks. I'm pretty sure I fell asleep outside.

  I was waiting up for Oliver. That's my only memory, the last thing I remember. It was cold and rainy (fooking dreich, as Duncan would so eloquently put it) and, in the absence of a fire, I was bundled in a quilt and curled in the doorway of the camper, watching for his return.

  I hope he got back all right, I think blearily, groaning into what tastes like earth. Did I fall out of the van or something equally as embarrassing...?

  I claw a single hand across the dirt, reaching out for nothing in particular. The grass is dewy, damp and cold between my fingers, and it helps to rouse me from the weight of slumber.

  The sun is up. I should probably check the time. We have a meeting with the Novanites at nine to discuss the day's operation. While the prospect of spending time around Oliver without being able to apologize to him first isn't a thrilling one, it's likely not going to be the most horrific thing I'll face today. I may as well rise and do my best to shine.

  I grunt with the effort of rolling fully onto my stomach and getting my elbows underneath me. There's mud in my hair. There's mud on my face. I'm actually pretty certain there's mud stuck in the gaps between my teeth.

  How hard did I fall, seriously?

  “Ah, Captain!” is the sudden buoyant cry, and I freeze. My spine stiffens, muscles congealing against my bones. “Thank the dawn you are with us, what a glorious joy. At last, the Primal Hunt of Vetrnaetr can finally begin!”

  The—the who can finally what now?

  My eyes protest vehemently when I force them open. I don't care. The time for rest is over, and clearly those more horrific things I'm likely to face are already here.

  “Beaumont.” My voice is hoarse, reedy, and my eyes are having trouble locating anything but thick trees on one side and rolling fields on the other. the note of relief in it is non-consensual, but I'm so grateful the cry of greeting didn't come from Illiam. “It's far too fucking early for all that overzealous religion malarkey.”

 
A broken moan causes me to whip around and find the puddle of pale skin and ginger hair at my rear. “Diesel?” Forgetting the preacher, I part-crawl part-roll toward him and shake him by the shoulder. He's dirty and wearing nothing but his jeans, but other than that seems completely unharmed. “Diesel! Get up!”

  “Lassie—”

  The large hands that seize my shoulders from behind startle me, cause me to lash out and struggle, but the voice that follows immediately soothes me still. “Captain! You all right!? They do anything to you? I swear, if they touched a fooking hair on your head—!”

  They? Who's 'they'!?

  “Dee,” I gasp, breathless, reaching back for him with one hand. The other remains wrapped around the bulge of Alfie's upper arm. “Dee, what the fuck is going on?”

  My eyes dart up and around, desperate to locate the man who previously addressed me. Everything from his voice to his words, and the tone of it all. It triggers every instinctual alarm I have. I whip my gaze left and right, north and south, combing every inch of our surroundings as Duncan tries to help Alfie get his limbs underneath him, and Alfie responds by shoving him away.

  “Where the bloody hell are you, Beaumont!?” I demand, barking loud enough to send my voice echoing from treeline to shoreline. “I swear to that Sunny Mummy of yours, if you don't answer me—!”

  “Now, now, my dear, there is absolutely no need for such tasteless blasphemy.”

  All three of us react physically, trying to locate him as he speaks. “Oh, I should probably have explained,” he continues, his amusement as we struggle evident in his tone. “I'm actually several miles northwest of your location. It wouldn't be very fair to you kids now if we were within shouting distance.”

  “Where's the wee'yins?” Duncan snarls, his voice deeper than I've ever heard it before. He sounds perfectly animalistic. “Where's Felix?”