Shadowstrike

by T W Iain

  How long had she been walking? And where was she?

  Deva tried to recall the route she’d taken, but it slipped from her recollection. She hadn’t been paying any attention, clearly. That damn woman had distracted her!

  But Deva knew the forest. It took her a moment, but she got her bearings.

  The closest part of the fence was back the way she’d come, but that meant walking past the Warren. Deva didn’t think much of that idea. Besides, it didn’t matter where she crossed the fence.

  After a moment, she decided. She’d head north. That would take her past the drop zone, which might be a risk if those grey ghouls were about, but it would also take her to the cliff.

  She’d found that spot a few days after joining the Warren. Deva had been exploring, and the terrain started to rise. She’d been out of breath after a few minutes, but had carried on, eventually arriving at a plateau, trees on three sides. The other side was the top of a cliff, higher than the trees below, and from the edge Deva had looked out over the forest. She’d seen the drop zone‌—‌although she didn’t know what that area was at the time‌—‌and she’d even seen the fence in the distance.

  And it had been so peaceful. The canopy of branches swayed, like a vast green ocean, and Deva felt like she could dive in, could let the trees take her away.

  Later, when things got rough‌—‌when she’d been in her first drop, seen tribe-members killing one another, endured Siren’s viciousness‌—‌Deva would escape to the cliff. She’d sit, sometimes for hours, and let the wind and the sea of trees take her troubles away.

  Yes‌—‌she’d go to the cliff one last time. And then she’d head to the northern fence.

  She walked on. The path widened, the branches no longer grabbing for her. She breathed in deep, taking in the peaty scent of the forest.

  This was what she craved‌—‌peace. No pathetic arguing, no fighting. No banging doors, or cracks of weapons firing. No clanging of metalwork. None of the heat of the Warren, or the constant activity of the workshops and refit bays on Metis. Just the forest, quiet except for the wind up above.

  Too quiet.

  Maybe she’d been too self-absorbed to hear anyone around earlier, but now that it was firmly night, the demons should be out. But there was nothing.

  Deva hurried along the path now. It grew wider, more moonlight filtering down. The soil underfoot grew harder, less muddy.

  She could see open space beyond the trees, and she slowed, coming to a stop just before the trunks stopped and the drop zone began. She crouched behind a tree and peered out.

  Nothing moved.

  The crate sat where it had been dropped, a cold, hard block, black against the surrounding grey. This brought a frown to Deva’s face. Normally, a Hermes flew in to retrieve the crate at first light on the day following a drop. But maybe the routine had been altered by the arrival of the Proteus.

  That craft sat where it had landed, another alien blot on the stillness.

  But there was something else, a short distance from this Proteus.

  A second craft. Another Proteus.

  As she watched, the arcs over the hatch illuminated, the light seeping round the edges of the craft. The thin line of light underneath the craft, cut only by the landing legs, grew dark as the ramp descended.

  A figure appeared round the side of the Proteus. It was tall, its grey bald head almost level with the base of the craft’s tail-fin. It approached the first Proteus, and was followed by another figure. Then two more appeared.

  Ghouls. Reinforcements.

  Deva shivered, the sweat cooling on her arms.

  The four monsters formed a group, and if they talked none of their voices reached Deva. But they appeared to reach a decision, because three of them strode off, heading to the far side of the drop zone.

  The other turned, like it was surveying the area.

  Deva froze.

  She was deep in shadow. She had to trust that she was hidden.

  The beast faced Deva. Its eyes were small, almost invisible from this distance, but they bored into Deva. Then, beneath its snout, the corners of its mouth turned up. It was only a slight movement, but Deva caught it.

  Surely it would hear her heart hammering. Or it would smell her. Then it would charge. And even if Deva ran faster than she had ever run before, it would catch her.

  But it didn’t. It turned, and disappeared behind the Proteus.

  Deva watched the line of light appear underneath as the ramp raised, and then the arcs extinguished.

  Only then did she let out the stale air in her lungs, as she clung to the tree to stop herself falling.

  Blood. Wonderful, intoxicating blood.

  The coppery aroma struck Cathal hard, driving out the smell of leaves and mud. It left his mouth dry, even as a globule of drool ran over his tongue.

  <‍We have to help.‍>

  That was Car, but he was behind Cathal now. Cathal ran, focused on Nyle’s fading trace, and the energy that was flowing from the wound in the back of his neck.

  There were other traces, too. They swarmed in from the trees, converging on Nyle. And‌…‌and on someone else. Someone injured. More blood.

  Cathal didn’t know that trace, but he knew the third. And even as the hunger turned his stomach, he knew he must protect Brice.

  The first of the kin never stood a chance. Cathal swiped as he reached it, slicing its throat open and sending it spinning away.

  Cathal drove his claws deep into the belly of the next one. Not a fatal wound, but Cathal’s fangs closed around its neck, piercing deep and sucking, that wonderful nectar hitting the back of his throat, that warmth sinking down into his stomach. He sucked harder, then pulled his head back, the kin’s flesh ripping apart as its body dropped to the ground.

  Cathal spat the sticky chunk of meat from his mouth and spun, bringing down another of the kin. A fourth dived to the ground, shoving its face into the wound Cathal had just inflicted.

  Everything became bathed in boiling crimson. It raced through Cathal’s body, and he growled in joy, his muscles burning with excitement. They contracted with perfect control, and Cathal spun like a dervish. His claws raked through flesh, cutting to the bone. His fangs ripped at necks, and warm nectar hit the back of his throat.

  He’d never felt so alive.

  Bone cracked and muscle tore. Ligaments snapped. He ended life after life, and each death made him stronger. Of course it did‌—‌he absorbed their energy, their life. The kin became a part of Cathal, a sacrifice. They lived on through him.

  He roared, and he killed.

  <‍Cathal!‍>

  Yes. That was his name. That was who was master of these pathetic creatures. They should remember. If they had speech, they should be singing that name as a hallelujah.

  <‍Cathal!‍>

  Pressure on his shoulder. Cathal spun, slashing down, eager for another taste, to assimilate another life. Eager for another kin to become one with him.

  His claws passed through air. A shape in front of him blurred, and a weight pounded on both shoulders, shoving him back half a step.

  <‍Cathal! Stop!‍>

  Cathal crouched, and he smiled. If this kin wanted to play, let it have some fun before Cathal drained it!

  But it didn’t attack.

  <‍It’s over. They’re all dead, Cathal. We did it.‍>

  All dead. Yes. He found their traces, already turning cold. He pushed out, found no more kin.

  But there were other traces. Like the one directly in front of him.

  <‍Car?‍> But the name sounded as a grunt. Cathal took a breath, tried again.

  <‍Take your time, Cathal. Calm yourself.‍>

  His brother was splattered with blood, but Cathal was drenched in the stuff. He felt it running down his chin.

  He didn’t know how many kin he’d killed.

  <‍Car?‍> This time the name came out clearly.

  <‍You did it. You protected Brice.‍>

 
<‍Brice?‍>

  Cathal turned, focusing on the two other live traces. He was still for a moment, taking everything in.

  One sat on the ground, holding an arm close to his body. The trace‌—‌so different to both the kin and Cathal’s brother‌—‌vibrated with fear and confusion, tinged red with anger and aggression. The other person stood with a bloody knife in his hand. Cathal breathed in that intoxication, savouring the remnant of Nyle’s essence that dripped from it.

  So Brice had defeated Nyle. And Cathal and Car had kept the kin at bay.

  “Don’t think I’ve seen you fight like that, Cathal,” Brice said. “Scary, but thank you.”

  “You talking to another one of them?” This came from the man on the ground, and his words were sharp, even through the pain. “You going to kill it?”

  “This is a friend.”

  The man on the ground laughed. “She was right about you‌—‌bloody traitor. You’re with the company, aren’t you? Should’ve fried you when I first saw you.”

  Brice shook his head. “No. I’m nothing to do with the company. But he’s a friend.” Brice pointed to Cathal. “He helped me. He helped us. Look around you, Axe. You think he would have killed all these demons if he wanted to hurt us?”

  Demons? Axe? It sounded like Brice was talking a different language.

  “Maybe it wanted us for itself. Along with its buddy.” The man on the floor‌—‌was he Axe? And what kind of name was that anyway?‌—‌spat out his words again.

  “No. This one maybe.” Brice kicked the still-bleeding corpse of Nyle. “This one has been after me for months. But Cathal, and Car‌…‌they’re friends.”

  “They have names?”

  “Of course. They used to be people. They still are.”

  Cathal thought Axe was choking, but it was another laugh. “Right! They’re bloody monsters! That one there‌—‌Cathal? Car? Doesn’t matter‌—‌has so much blood on his face its like he’s been‌…‌troughing. He’s a bloody animal. Can’t even dress himself. Looks like a bloody mess.”

  <‍Cathal, stay calm.‍> Car’s hand rested on Cathal’s arm, and he realised the blood was flowing faster through his body again. He took a breath.

  Then Car’s head twitched. <‍Brice, we need to get going. Company’s coming.‍>

  “That’s not more shades, is it?” Brice asked, but it wasn’t a question. “That’s one of the ghouls.”

  <‍Ghouls? That what you call the grey things? Yes‌—‌but more than one. They’ve been staying back, but they’re moving in now.‍>

  Brice nodded, then turned to the fallen man. “Axe, we’ve got to get out of here. You okay on your feet?”

  But Axe didn’t respond. He shuffled, like he was trying to move away‌—‌from Cathal and Car, but also from Brice. His attention shifted between all three of them.

  “They talking to you? They are, aren’t they. You’re in league with the demons. Hells, you’re probably some kind of‌…‌mutant half-demon yourself. Freak doesn’t even come close.”

  “Axe, listen to me! Ghouls are coming.”

  “And that’s just what you want, isn’t it? You called them here, didn’t you?”

  <‍We could leave him,‍> Car suggested. <‍He dangerous?‍>

  Cathal focused. There was a weapon to one side, a Charon. The stink of burnt fuel clung to it. But Axe was injured, his shoulders bleeding. And there was a bulge at one ankle. Maybe he’d damaged it when he fell.

  “I should’ve killed you sooner. I should’ve put a pellet in the back of your head. I should’ve stuck a knife into your heart.” Axe shuffled, closer to the discarded weapon.

  Car must have noticed it too, because he jumped forward, kicking the Charon as far as he could. There was a clunk as it struck a trunk, then a soft rustle as it disappeared into the undergrowth.

  Axe laughed again. “Bloody protecting you!” His injured arm remained across his chest, but he moved his other one, stretching down his leg.

  “No!” Brice called.

  And Cathal knew the bulge at the man’s ankle wasn’t an injury. He knew what was about to happen.

  With the blood in his body racing, Cathal still moved sluggishly, and both Car and Brice reacted faster. As Axe ripped the Preben from his ankle-holster and raised it, Car blurred in from the left. Axe swung the weapon, aiming for Brice, even as the lad dived‌—‌not to one side, but at Axe himself. Words came from his mouth, their meaning lost in a yell.

  The weapon cracked, bucking in Axe’s hand.

  Cathal grabbed Axe’s arm, knowing he was too late.

  There was a soft thump, and Car’s trace screamed red and black as it tore apart.

  Warm flesh splattered Cathal, the aroma of fresh blood washing over him. Car’s body flew to one side, half his head missing. He crashed against the base of a tree, and didn’t move.

  But his blood ran down Cathal’s face. He licked it from his lips.

  Tasting that life. Absorbing it.

  Brice fell too, but to one side, and he rolled to his feet. He still had a knife in his hand, gripping it tight. He breathed rapidly, and his whole body was tense. Cathal felt his trace, rich and strong.

  And Axe, bleeding and screaming, brought the Preben round again.

  Cathal lunged.

  Axe never had time to fire the weapon a second time. One of Cathal’s hands closed around the man’s wrist, pulling sharply until he heard the snap and the scream. And he drove his other hand forward, claws extended. There was a moment of tension as they sliced into the man’s chest.

  He brought his fangs down on the man’s neck. The flesh popped as they broke through, and then that wonderful elixir hit the back of Cathal’s throat. He gulped it down, a fine wine after the bitterness of the kin’s lives.

  “Cathal?”

  Brice.

  Nyle had been after Brice’s blood for so long, and Cathal knew it would be nectar, exquisite beyond belief.

  His arms shook as he held on to Axe. He forced himself to keep his fangs in place.

  <‍Run.‍>

  “Cathal, we have to get out of here. The ghouls are coming.”

  Cathal could sense them, through the red mist. But he didn’t care. The mist was a blanket, was all he ever wanted.

  Almost all.

  He lifted his head, blood only dribbling from Axe’s neck now. Brice’s trace was vibrant. The lad stood close, so close that it would take barely a second. Cathal’s head swayed at the thought. His whole body tingled.

  He turned. The lad hadn’t moved. Brice, the last of his crew. The one he’d sworn to protect.

  His stomach churned. Bile rose. Cathal opened his mouth, his fangs reaching forward. He felt his arms tense, ready for action.

  <‍Run!‍> he yelled.

  And Brice ran.

  Cathal fed, draining Axe dry. Then he moved on to Car. Yes, Car had fought alongside him, but there was no reason his blood should go to waste. In a way, it was fitting‌—‌the last of his life would live on in Cathal.

  There was something behind him, but he didn’t react. The grey being, the thing Brice had called a ghoul, drew closer. But it couldn’t have any of this blood. It was Cathal’s now.

  <‍Cathal?‍>

  The voice was female. It was empty of emotion, though. It didn’t care what he did.

  He carried on slurping, taking in Car’s energy. His brother had fed from their kin, during the fight, but he’d drunk from blood-packs before, too‌—‌Cathal caught the stale taste as it lingered at the top of his mouth.

  <‍You need to come with me.‍>

  <‍I’m busy.‍>

  Cathal felt a rush of air, then something slammed into his shoulder, sending him spinning into a tree.

  <‍Not any more.‍>

  The grey ghoul stood by Car’s body. Cathal focused, and he knew this beast was strong. But it didn’t come for him. It waited. And blood still oozed from Car’s wound.

  Cathal stood, surprised that he wavered for a mome
nt, then threw himself back onto his brother’s body.

  Dull pain erupted in his side, and Cathal flew through the air again. A branch broke as he hit it, and he slumped against a trunk.

  <‍I said come with me. It was not a request.‍>

  Cathal rose to his feet again. The creature stood in front of Car now. His brother’s blood soaked into the ground, lost.

  With a growl, Cathal charged. He brought his head down and his arms up, claws extended. He focused on the beast, and brought one arm back, ready to swipe.

  A lightning-bolt of pain shot through his head, and his neck jerked back. Cathal crashed to the ground once more.

  Pressure slammed into his chest, and he breathed in the scent of this new beast. He reached forward with his jaw, biting down.

  His teeth ground together, nothing between them.

  He kicked and punched, but the ghoul threw him onto his front, pushing down hard. Pain at the base of his spine, then his arms pulled back. Tightness around his wrists.

  <‍Get up.‍>

  The weight lifted. Cathal stayed where he was, breathing heavily. The scent of blood still hung in the air, but now it was overshadowed by the aroma of mud.

  Pain hammered into his side, and Cathal rolled over with a groan. The ghoul looked down at him.

  <‍Get up,‍> it repeated.

  Cathal did, but it was hard. His wrists were bound, and when he moved his head swam with nausea. He swallowed down bile.

  But he made it. And the ghoul stepped forward, its breath washing over Cathal’s face. Strong hands clamped down on his shoulders, spinning him round.

  <‍Now walk.‍>

  Cathal did, because there was nothing else he could do.

  Brice ran. He didn’t want to abandon his friend, but the way Cathal sunk his fangs into Axe’s throat, and the animal growl in his voice, drove Brice on.

  He should’ve read the signs‌—‌Cathal’s moodiness, and his reluctance to drink. He’d been fighting what he was becoming, maybe for months. But it was a fight he could never win.

  Cathal was gone. Brice had to accept that. Brice was on his own once more.

  He ran. Branches whipped against his arms and body, and thorns tore at his face. The ground rose, and Brice’s legs burned as he powered along paths. Heading up, always up. He’d risen out of the basin, but that hadn’t been far enough. He needed to go higher.