Moonshine Wizard

by Phillip Drayer Duncan

  He swung the chain in circles above his head like a helicopter blade, then flicked the sickle at Bert with uncanny speed. Fortunately, his defenses were up and repelled the blade before he even realized it was coming. He fired a bolt of power back in return. The clown waved his attack away with the flick of the wrist, then swung his sickle. It bounced off Bert’s shield again, but this time, it pressed his defenses a little harder. The clown grinned.

  Bert had a sick feeling that the clown could rip right through his defenses, but instead, wanted to toy with him a bit longer.

  Using magic, Bert hurled the clown’s tricycle at him. The clown swatted it away, but paused to give him a hurt look. Bert was already running, sprinting with everything he had to get to safety beneath Ozark. He dove beneath the troll and rolled back up to his feet.

  The clown applauded him and offered an approving nod. He was safe for the moment.

  The moment didn’t last long, though, as Sharp screamed, “Drop!”

  Bert fell to the ground as a sword flashed overhead, sweeping the spot where his head had just been.

  He rolled to the side and came up to his feet, facing the vampire who’d gotten the jump on him at Fangs. His opponent held his katana at the ready, his face emotionless and his intentions clear.

  “Let me handle this prick,” Sharp said.

  Bert didn’t argue and allowed Sharp free reign of his arm. It was another practice the Hand would likely frown on, but from time to time, it couldn’t be helped. And it’s not like anyone knew. Alone, he was an exceptional swordsman, but with Sharp at the wheel, he was a God.

  Bert focused on footwork while Sharp did the manual labor. The vampire was fast. Incredibly fast. So fast the whole scene was little more than a blur in Bert’s vision. Yet, Sharp matched him strike for strike, and even attacked back, forcing his foe on the defense.

  The vampire took a step back to reassess, surprise etched across his face. Bert hurled a lightning bolt at him which he swatted away with his sword, spun, and returned fire with a bolt of green energy. Bert’s shield protected him, but as soon as he casted, the vampire charged him. On his own, he’d have been too slow. Sharp wasn’t, though.

  Ozark moved around them, still smashing anyone who happened to be in reach. His legs were like giant pistons, slamming into the ground all around the swordsmen and forcing them into a deadly dance.

  Once the troll’s foot nearly came down on top of the vampire, but he rolled clear at the last possible moment. He popped up beside the clown, who smiled at him, and began swinging his sickle.

  Forgotten, Bert took a moment to catch his breath. It was a short break. Sharp gave warning and he spun to swing his blade through the neck of a lunging were-dog, then blocked an attack from a young female wizard, and struck back with a lightning bolt.

  All across the meadow, the battle raged on and the body count grew. In some part of his mind, he hated all of it. He hated the violence. He hated the killings. But he’d not chosen their paths for them. He’d not forced their hands. They’d forced his. He felt no pity. He was only glad he’d survived this long to see it all.

  Then the unthinkable occurred. Dasfarus reappeared atop Ozark’s head and his voice thundered across the crowd. “Waylon Drake still has the key!”

  He disappeared again as Ozark made a swipe at him, but the damage had been done. The fighting ceased and all eyes turned on Bert.

  “That’s not good,” Sharp said.

  “Well, shit,” Bert said, sighing. “And it was going so well.”

  As though Dasfarus was a voice of reason, all of Bert’s enemies seemed to remember their purpose. They were there to retrieve the key. Shouts tore the crowd and the mass surged toward him. Goddamn Dasfarus, Bert thought. Instead of risking a close encounter with Ozark, he’d let the others do it for him, and then swoop in to recover the key from whichever moron pulled it off Bert’s corpse.

  The shouts grew and instead of an all-out war between his foes, a mob formed with one target in mind. Him. He moved in close to Ozark’s legs, knowing it was the safest place to defend himself, but then Dasfarus reappeared a short distance away and banshee screamed at the troll. Ozark surged toward him.

  Bert tried to follow, but he couldn’t keep up. He tried to scream for the troll to wait, but his voice was drowned out by the angry throng. With Ozark out of the way, Dasfarus knew Bert couldn’t hold back the masses. Even with the thorns, he’d be dead in seconds.

  A small pack of were-dogs cut him off from Ozark’s path. He fired a lightning bolt into their midst, but only hit two. The rest spread into a circle around him, looking for an opportunity to strike from behind.

  A group of Brotherhood goons charged toward him as well, firing their weapons as they ran. One of the Executioners followed, dragging his giant bloody sword on the ground behind him.

  Nero’s wizards came next. Then thug life vampires. And clowns.

  Bert versus everyone. This was happening.

  “So, I guess this is it, Sharp,” Bert said, drawing in energy and preparing for his final stand.

  “Looks that way,” the sword replied. “It’s been fun.”

  “I bet your next owner won’t go out in such an epic fashion.”

  “Probably not,” Sharp replied. “Hate to be mushy, but… I’ll miss you, Bert.”

  “You too, buddy. And you’re right, it has been fun.”

  Bert shut out the chaos and focused. Just as he’d been trained. Life and death didn’t matter. None of it mattered. It was time to let his mind do as it was trained to do. To let his hands do as they were trained to do. It was time to fight. If there was one thing Uncle Tony had taught him, it was how to survive. How to disregard the odds and push his ego aside. To push back his emotions. No hatred. No love. Just a grim focus on what he’d been trained to do, and he was trained by the best.

  As the circle of enemies closed around him, a were-dog lunged from behind. At Sharp’s warning he spun, hammering it with a bolt of lightning. He turned back and sliced Sharp through the neck of another. Then he let go of the sword and let it float beside while he went for his gun. In one smooth motion, he drew, cocked, aimed, and fired a round into the head of the nearest Brotherhood member.

  A vampire charged in wielding a bat. He holstered the gun, blocked a strike with his staff, called Sharp to his hand, and relieved the vampire of his head, while also firing a lightning bolt at one of Nero’s wizards.

  The circle closed in tighter, and Bert jumped straight up, pulling in power and amplifying it with the thorns, and slammed his staff into the ground. A shockwave of raw energy rippled from his staff, knocking his enemies over like dominoes.

  An unaffected Brotherhood ninja saw this as an opportunity to strike, but Bert dropped and whirled around, slicing Sharp through his midsection.

  Seamlessly, he transitioned between casting spells, swinging his sword, and firing his gun. It all became a blur as enemies fell around him. He didn’t know how many he’d killed, nor how many he’d injured, nor which factions they served. They just kept coming.

  And still, he held. But the thorn gauntlet was wearing down. Lilith had drained most of its power in her protection spell. It wouldn’t bolster his abilities much longer. It was almost as if his enemies sensed it, or, perhaps they were just desperate to be the ones who claimed it.

  His gun empty, he holstered it, losing his only offense against the Brotherhood. If any of them got close, his shield would falter and they’d shred him. He pushed the thought from his mind and forced himself to stay in the zone. It didn’t matter. He just had to keep moving.

  A were-dog charged from the left. He was still blocking a magical attack from the right, so he swung back at it with Sharp, lacerating its shoulder, but failing to make a lethal connection. A Brotherhood crony charged in right behind it, and Bert swung his staff, cracking it against the man’s head. Another tried to tackle him around the waist, but somehow he managed to keep his feet, and struck the man, over and over, with the pommel of Sha
rp’s sword. He broke free and slashed the man across the back of the neck. He glanced up just in time to lash out with his staff, catching a were-dog in the nose before it collided into him. The weight of the dog knocked him to the ground, but Bert rolled clear and bounced back to his feet.

  The Brotherhood, were-creatures, vampires, and hipsters. United as one. Putting their differences aside and coming together like one big happy supernatural community with one single-minded goal. Kill the wizard who dared defy us. At least the clowns hadn’t joined the fray yet. No doubt they were sitting back and enjoying the show.

  He couldn’t hold them any longer. The next push would be the last. And they knew it. Like wolves hunting a wounded prey, they closed the circle tighter.

  Bert spat and glared at them, daring them to come closer. So, this is how it ends, he thought. It was okay. He wasn’t going alone. By all rights, he’d taken more of them than he’d ever thought possible. Yes, let them come. Let’s be done with this dance. He waited for the inevitable.

  Chapter 46

  From his peripherals, Bert saw a black-clad figure fall from the sky and land just beside him. He was halfway through swinging his sword when Sharp warned him off. He pulled back at the last moment, stopping before he sliced the newcomer in half. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder as the dark figure’s back pressed against his own.

  A hooded face turned toward him, revealing a grin fit for the devil, and the black tribal tattoos flared to life as Neil summoned energy. Bert’s heart nearly popped out of his chest.

  “Am I late?” Neil asked as he fired a blast of wind at the nearest of their foes, hurling them end over end.

  “Aren’t you always?” Bert replied, firing a bolt of lightning into the crowd. “I thought you didn’t want to be involved.”

  “I don’t,” Neil replied, laughing. “But I can’t let you go on a suicide mission without me.”

  “Ego couldn’t handle it?”

  “Of course not. You don’t get to be a martyr for my benefit, asshole.”

  Jim dropped down beside them next, immediately encircling them in his shield. In one hand he held his staff, while in the other he held a pistol-gripped shotgun. He pointed it in the face of the nearest Brotherhood goon and squeezed the trigger, disintegrating the prick’s head like a watermelon. Then he tossed the gun up in the air, caught by the pump, and chambered another round.

  Kevin appeared next with his bow drawn back and ready to fire. He loosed the arrow into the forehead of a nearby vampire and drew another. Like Bert’s bullets, Kevin maintained a healthy supply of garlic-laced arrows. As he notched the next arrow, he said, “Holy shit, Bert. It’s like Assholepalooza out here. Did my invitation get lost in the mail or something?”

  “What the hell?” Bert said, glancing upward. “Is it raining friends?”

  As if by answer, Hunter dropped down beside him as well, decked out in his SWAT gear and holding an M4. “It’s partly cloudy with a chance of badass.”

  “Just a chance?” Bert asked.

  Hunter fired a few rounds into the crowd, and yelled over his shoulder, “A one hundred percent chance.”

  Simon appeared beside him next, and seeing Bert’s questioning look, said, “You were right. I do have a choice. I choose my friends.”

  Lilith appeared next, risking one furtive glance in his direction before turning to face the hostiles in front of them. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, but her jaw was set in a thin line of determination.

  Robert appeared last and it all clicked into place. He’d teleported them in, one after another. He nodded at Bert and fell into their little protective circle.

  “Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Bert asked.

  “I already told you,” Neil said. “You can’t go on a suicide mission without us.”

  “Damn straight,” Hunter said.

  “Dickhead,” Kevin added.

  “It was a dick move,” Jim said, shrugging.

  Bert chuckled, realizing that his friends had figured out the intent of his plan. Unwilling to let him die for them, they’d chosen to come die with him. His plan was falling to pieces, but, he didn’t care. His friends were here. That was what mattered. He’d been prepared to go the distance for them, and here they were, prepared to go the distance for him. Even Lilith and Simon. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Bert realized that he wasn’t alone. That he wasn’t a lost cause. He had people who cared about him. He felt a surge of energy and righteous fury. Now, he was ready to fight. Numbers be damned.

  “Um, Bert,” Jim yelled at him. “What the hell is that walking mountain over there?”

  “That’s a rock troll, Jim,” Bert said, grinning. “His name is Ozark. He’s my buddy.”

  “Well, of course he is,” Jim said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Glad I’m not the only one confused by that statement,” Simon said, shaking his head.

  “Don’t worry,” Bert said, glancing over to see Ozark smash a vampire. “He’s on our side.”

  “Only you, Bert,” Kevin said as he let another arrow fly. It struck a Brotherhood goon in the throat. “Only you would bring a rock troll to a wizard fight.”

  “If we live through this,” Robert said, hurling a red ball of energy at a were-dog, “you’re going to have to explain how you became friends with a rock troll.”

  “That’s fair,” Bert replied. “We’ve got to survive first, though.”

  They fought as a single unit, forcing back any enemy who dared approach their little circle. Bert stole a moment to reload his gun, then started hurling lightning bolts into the crowd. Any who got within striking distance met Sharp. Beside him, Jim kept their group shielded while working his shotgun. Next was Hunter, his M4 singing as he focused fire on Brotherhood goons. Lilith stood to the right of him, her eyes glowing violet as she hurled spell after spell at their foes. Next was Neil, still mowing enemies over with violent gusts of wind. Simon stood beside him, hurling mini-fireballs into the gust Neil produced, causing them to sweep out over the crowd. Kevin was next, firing arrow after arrow and hurling the occasional sword. Closing the circle, and standing on the other side of Bert, was Robert, firing what looked like red laser beams from his staff.

  Jim’s shield held back a constant stream of gunfire and attack magic. Were-dogs and Brotherhood ninjas tried to close in, but gunfire held them back.

  None of Nero’s hipsters approached Simon’s side, but their eyes were on him. Perhaps they felt betrayed, as Bert had. Either way, Simon stood with him, and pressed the attack.

  And then the clowns came.

  Naturally, Jim noticed first. “Bert…. What the fuck are those?!”

  Noting the panic in his friend’s voice, Bert whirled around, knowing what he’d find. The crowd parted around them, creating a corridor for the clowns to approach. They strolled casually toward them, as though they were out for a picnic.

  The one carrying the chain and sickle was near the front. He swung it playfully overhead, occasionally picking a hapless target to shred to pieces. Another hopped along like a frog, brandishing a meat cleaver. He jumped into the crowd, cut off a vampire’s head, then jumped back into his own group, holding the severed head to his side like a basketball. Toward the back, another clown was juggling three heads. The frog-clown tossed him the head he’d just claimed, and the juggler added it to his collection. He removed one of the previous three, and hurled it at a Brotherhood goon, smashing him in the face. A moment later, another clown tossed the juggler a fourth head again, and he chose one, seemingly at random, to pelt a were-dog with.

  “Well, Jim,” Bert said, trying to keep his tone neutral. “Those are clowns.”

  “Why?” Jim asked, his eyes widening. His whole frame trembled violently. “Why are there clowns here?”

  Bert didn’t have an answer. He’d hoped his friend would never learn the truth. Jim’s coulrophobia was bad enough without learning the smiling bastards were a super
natural species of their own. But in the end, with the evidence before him, Bert decided to tell the truth. “It turns out that clowns are actually real.”

  “Real?” Jim said in a state of near panic. “What do you mean ‘real’?”

  “I mean, they’re a supernatural species,” Bert said in an apologetic tone. “Apparently, a very violent, insane, and powerful species. The Hand believes they’re extinct. Obviously, the Hand is wrong.”

  “No,” Jim said, taking a step back. The group followed suit, keeping him in the middle of the circle. Bert felt Neil’s shield flare to life, just in case Jim’s faltered. Bert did the same.

  “No,” Jim repeated, shaking his head. “No. No. No. I can’t do clowns. Not clowns. Anything but clowns.”

  “It’ll be okay, Jim,” Neil said, reaching over to pat him on the back.

  “No, it won’t,” Jim said, jerking away. Tears streamed down his face and he began to sob. “I can’t be murdered by clowns… Oh, God, look at them! Look!”

  “Do they bleed?” Hunter asked, yelling over Jim’s hysterics.

  “Uh, yeah,” Bert said. “I decapitated a couple of them earlier.”

  “Decapitated?” Hunter repeated, giving him an approving nod. “How about that, Jim? It’s your lucky day.”

  “What?” Jim asked, startled by the question. “How?”

  “We’re going to kill your worst nightmare,” Hunter said, grinning at him as he slammed another clip in his assault rifle. “Not many folks get the chance. What do you say we end a few of those smiling motherfuckers?”

  “I like that plan. I like that plan very much,” Jim said, still trembling. “Well, at least I was right all along.”

  “Right about what?” Neil asked.

  “I was right to be afraid of them,” Jim said, glowering at him. “All these years, you guys have been giving me shit about being afraid of clowns and I was right to be afraid. Fuck you guys and fuck clowns.”

  A chuckle died in Bert’s throat as he realized just how close the clowns were. In a few more moments, the scary bastards would be on them, and he didn’t know what to do.