by Jake Stone
It’s then, as I look off into the distance toward the generators that I see Zorel and Atia and Chun Hei being surrounded by more waves of hellions. I should be there, I tell myself. I should be with them. Damnit. What have I done?
“They will not make it,” the kaster whispers into my ear, adding to the already unbearable pain of fear drowning my soul. “They will be captured. But don’t worry, those that are pleasing to me and mine will be kept alive and used… properly to their extent.”
The blood kaster has made a mistake. It has confused torture with provocation. And like a child who bats at a bee’s nest with a stick, he has awoken my anger, and with it, a steely determination to break my chains and cut off his head.
“What did you say?” I ask, twisting my gaze to meet his.
My action startles him, and his gaze turns to his conjured demon, a look of confusion adding to his already horrific face. “How?”
“You shouldn’t have brought my friends into this,” I reply, reaching up to grasp the nightmare by its bony wrist and twisting it back. My fear has inexplicably lifted, and I’m able to stand, my strength returned.
Drawing my rectifier, I place the barrel beneath the demon’s chin and fire, spraying the air with dark blood and bone. Its death shocks Petronelous back to life, and she’s instantly freed to breathe.
“This can’t be,” the kaster says as he staggers back in fear. “Unless…”
Before he can finish his words, I turn on the crowd of surrounding demons, spraying them with a round of plasma bolts that clears out the first rank. They fall back as their bodies are torn to shreds and Petronelous quickly joins me in the slaughter, her glorious red hair flailing in the snowy breeze as she cuts a wide swath around us.
“Here!” I call out, tossing her the bottle of holy water Chopra gave me before we left the ship.
She catches the bottle and sprays it around us, creating a barrier of water that wards the demons back.
“Now,” I say, turning around to face the blood kaster.
Frightened, he rushes to open the portal wider. His movements are frantic, anxious and he suddenly spills a vile of liquid on the ground, where it steams away. But this time there are no new creations, no summoned demons to appear before us. Instead, the liquid sizzles to nothing, leaving the blood kaster with one less weapon at its disposal.
“I’m going to chop off your fingers,” Petronelous declares, aiming one of her blades at the trembling kaster, “and then I’m going to shove them up your—”
“Petronelous,” I say, catching her by the wrist. “Atia and Zorel need help. Go. Let me take care of this asshole for you.”
Petronelous pauses, her hesitation fueled by her desire for revenge against the hellish wizard. But she knows I’m right. Our friends need help. And she’s the best to do it.
“Fine.” She shoots the cowering blood kaster one last glance. “But do it slowly.”
“I promise,” I say.
Activating her helmet, the beautiful redhead sets off into the fray, leaving me alone with this miserable bastard.
“What are you going to do with me?” the kaster demands haughtily like an aristocrat who’s just been captured by peasants. “Take me to your leaders? Interrogate me for Bantha’s location? I’ll tell you nothing!”
“Oh, I agree,” I say, holstering my rifle as I walk slowly toward him. “There’ll be no information to give because none will be asked for.”
“Kill me then,” he says mockingly. “I’ll simply return to hell, where I’ll be given a new form to return with.”
“I doubt that,” I say, drawing the scepter from my back and reciting the litany of words that were taught to me during my training.
“The annihilation prayer?” the kaster says, its face growing visibly frightened.
“We’ve learned much since your last visit, blood kaster. So I don’t think you’re going to reappear anywhere else again.”
His eyes widen as I press the tip of the scepter against his belly, and it takes only a few seconds before the corfew begins to burn through the thin silk of his cloak and into the rotting flesh beneath.
“Ahhh!” he screams, his face contorting from the pain. “Mercy!”
“You’re not getting shit, mother fucker.” I dig the scepter in farther, making sure that he can feel every inch of the golden standard. “Only death.”
When the standard finally reaches his spine, and I’m close enough to where I can smell its stinking odor through the breather of my helmet, I give it a final twist.
He grimaces in pain, fearing his death, but after while, instead of dying, he begins to laugh.
What? Why’s he laughing? What part of eternal death could cause such amusement? The suddenness of it draws me back on my heels, and I suddenly feel as if I’ve been ambushed with yet another trick.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You must be pious to rid me from existence,” he answers with a grin.
Oh no, I realize, remembering Chopra’s warning on the ship: “Only the most pious may wield it.” And I am not pious. Not by a long shot. Sighing in disappointment, I rip the scepter from his belly and draw my sword. “Fine,” I say. “If I can’t cast you out, I’ll cut off your head.”
“Do it,” he says. “But know this. My death will mean nothing. This invasion is doomed to fail.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say, raising my blade. “One less demon asshole sounds good to me.”
“Do you really think that demons are all you have to worry about on this wretched planet?” He laughs.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“There’s an evil here far worse than you can imagine, worse than anything we can bring to bear. But soon you will learn. Soon, you will know… it."
I swing my blade, unwilling to listen a second longer to the kaster’s lies, and his head flies into the air, where it disappears into the storm of snow. Disgusted by his body, I turn away. But there’s no sense of closure with the wizard’s death, no sense of satisfaction. Instead, I feel as if he’s left me with an unanswered riddle, one that gnaws at the back of my neck like curling fingers.
He was lying to you, I tell myself. All demons are liars.
In the distance, I hear the sweet blast of generators being destroyed. But amidst this weather, its fires and sparks and smoke can barely be seen. My only confirmation that my friends are still alive is the sound of Atia’s stern voice breaking over the com.
“Mission success,” she says. “Generators are down. I repeat: generators are down.”
Her voice reaches the massive naval fleet swimming in space, and it’s only a matter of seconds before I see the streaks of fire tearing across the snow-domed sky as cruisers, frigates, and battleships rip through the atmosphere.
Their arrival brings with them the growing roar of vertical thrusters as they fight to stabilize against the planet’s gravity, not to mention the War Council, whose orders to destroy the generators I have clearly disobeyed.
It won’t be long before I’m arrested, before I’m punished for my disobedience. Still, even in the face of such certainty, I’m still haunted by the kaster’s warning.
Chapter Four
The guards watch me with suspicious eyes, their fingers curling against the triggers of their pulsers as they anticipate my every move.
They came for me after the landing, removing my weapons, and escorting me through the camp like a prisoner of war. The women, to their credit, had tried to intercede on my behalf, Zorel even going so far as to threaten to “light their asses on fire if they didn’t let me go.” But Atia had been quick in commanding them to stand down.
Now, as I stand outside the War Council’s tent braving the cold, I wait to learn of my fate.
The guards stir as one of them mumbles something beneath their breath, and I see them all begin to snicker. Dressed in the black uniform of the Republic Guard, they wear black cloaks to help them against the frigid winds that assail us from e
very direction.
As a Battle Saint, I’m considered an elite. We aren’t hindered by the menial chores required of other soldiers. We don’t build our own fortifications. We don’t erect food tables for soldiers to line up around. No. Our purpose is for one thing and one thing only—war. And that type of preferential treatment incites envy amongst the other divisions.
“Is it true what they say about Battle Saints?” asks one of the guards, a powerfully built man with a smart-ass grin.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
He spits on the ground. “That they have no balls beneath their armor?”
The guards erupt with laughter, unable to control themselves.
This is a game for them, I realize. They’ve finally caught a Battle Saint and can do whatever they want to me without any fear of reprisal. They enjoy it to the fullest, adding quips and making more jokes at my expense.
But I ignore them. They’re not worth it. I’m already in enough trouble as it is, and I don’t need to make it worse.
Amongst the laughing guards, I notice a young woman with a slim face and kind eyes. She’s not laughing. Instead, her gaze is sliding up my body, examining the curves of my armor with a heated gaze, a smile touching her lips when our eyes meet.
“Oy!” the smart-ass guard chides. “Don’t be flirting with him. He’s a prisoner.”
“He’s a Battle Saint," she corrects him. “And I’ll do whatever I damn well please. You check out the female prisoners. What’s wrong with me having a bit of fun?”
We turn as we hear the sound of footsteps approaching from the entrance of the tent. The flaps are pulled to the side, and I see a male officer with a thick jaw and hard eyes glaring at us with a frown. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demands, turning his stare to his soldiers.
The guards quickly straighten, their amusement replaced with still faces.
Unconvinced, the officer strolls over to the smart-ass guard, seeming to know precisely where the disruption was coming from. “Is there something funny, Dalip?”
“No, sir,” Dalip replies. “Nothing at all.”
“Oh no?” he asks. “Then why the hell can I hear your stupid voice from all the way inside the tent?”
Dalip answers with silence.
“Nothing to say, eh?” the officer asks. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” He looks at me. “Battle Saint Cross, the council will see you.”
The guards quickly stand aside, as I’m led into the tent where I’m instantly struck by the accommodating splendor of its decorated interior. It’s like I’m back at the Palace on Dardekum. All pomp and splendor.
Chandeliers of gold and crystal hang dazzlingly from the ceiling, illuminating tables of fine linens that are splayed out with rich foods, like thinly sliced meats and creams and breads.
The highest ranking officers—men dressed in red pants and blue coats—take their time as they construct hearty sandwiches, washing it down with glasses of cranish that are brought to them by attractive young soldiers who dote over their every command. It’s as if the officers had handpicked every beautiful woman from the army and brought them here to serve as waitresses.
These guys…
From the corners of the tent, mobile furnaces burn low and slow, keeping the room nice and snug. While in the air, I catch the rich aroma of belen, a sweetly caffeinated drink reminiscent of a cafe mocha spiced with cinnamon, brewing nearby.
“Wait here,” the officer commands me, giving me a pointed stare before setting off.
I follow him with my eyes, watching as he makes his way to the far end of the tent where he quickly disappears amongst a crowd of older officers. The withered faces turn to stare at me, seemingly confused by my presence. As a Battle Saint, it’s not often that I find myself surrounded by superior officers enjoying themselves so freely. So, I turn away, feeling awkward.
“Can I offer you a refreshment?”
I turn to find a young woman with short blond hair and a fantastic smile standing next to me holding a metal tray with a couple of mugs of belen on top of it. Dressed in the tight gray fatigues of a trooper, I’m able to make out an athletic body with large breasts pressing against the thin cloth of her shirt.
“No, thank you,” I tell her with an appreciative smile.
Her enthusiasm darkens, and I see the corners of her smile wither in disappointment. “Well, if you want one, just look for me.”
“I will,” I promise, watching as she drifts to another group of officers who quickly turn to admire the young woman. One of the older officers, a bald man with a beard, wraps an arm around her waist, laughing at some joke as his hand falls sneakily to her ass. She does her best to hide her unease with a smile.
“The council will see you now,” the officer tells me. “Follow me.”
He leads me through the tent of officers, guiding me around the tables of food and into the back where I see three figures standing behind a holographic projection of what looks to be the nearby region.
Clouds of frost drift over the snowy peaks of an extensive mountain range, blanketing the rocky outcrops from satellite view. The image of it hovers under a holographic dome of light that sputters out of focus every few seconds due to the snow storm raging outside. In the middle of all of this, I see a single red dot blinking ominously over one of the mountain peaks.
“You see,” one of the men declares. “It’s there! I told you it was.”
“Will be one hell of a journey,” another replies.
“An easy trek for a Saint,” a third one growls in a familiar tone.
“You’d better hope so,” the first one says. “I need that data. My success depends upon it.”
“Don’t you mean our success?” the second replies.
“Oh Elzerath,” the voice replies. “Always the suspicious once.”
“I wouldn’t be where I am if I wasn’t,” the voice says.
I watch as the officer disappears behind the three-dimensional image, where he announces my arrival to the council. The holographic image is deactivated, and I’m struck to see three of the most well-known figures in the galaxy staring back at me.
I swallow.
The first is a plump man with a waxed mustache and a receding hairline. Senator Elzerath is a lifelong politician whose skill with the tongue has earned him a network of connections that rivals even that of our own President Alixia Davelkraft, the aging leader of the Republic who’s position is teetering in peril due to the army’s sluggish success against the enemy. He tugs down the front of his coat as he sees me, trying to hide the large gut that protrudes over his golden belt buckle.
The second is Cytax of Galantean, Primus Battorous of our legion. With a long beard and hard eyes, he looks just as intimidating as he did that morning on the holocams, only more frightening in person. A champion of the Republic, he’s a barbarian with the mind of a trained swordsman who’d rather use his blade to settle an argument than with words. He sneers when he sees me.
In the middle, standing far shorter than the other two, a man in his mid-thirties with long dark curls peers up at me, seeming annoyed by my appearance.
General Waxler Alvarium, leader of the Republic army in this sector, is a descendent of one of the most ancient families in the galaxy. An aristocrat whose descendants were blessed with money and influence, he’s as ambitious as he is shallow. Those who’ve met him, gush about his charm, while those who know him, hate him beyond belief.
“What is this?” he demands.
“General Alvarium.” I bow in salute, greeting him with the fist of honor.
But he merely arches a brow at me, feigning confusion. “Do I know you?”
I glance at the officer who escorted me, hoping that he’ll remind the council of who I am. But he says nothing, signaling to me that I’m on my own.
Thanks a lot, bro.
Clearing my throat, I meet the general’s gaze. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I was informed that the council wished to see me?”
“
You were?” he asks, turning to the other two members for confirmation.
The senator covers his mouth as he restrains a laugh, while Cytax continues with his hard stare.
“Ah yes, so I did,” the general finally concedes, a feint hint of a smile curling along his lips. “The one who disobeyed a direct order from the council and nearly got himself as well as his compatriots killed for it.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” I say, “but there was a blood kaster on the field. He was summoning a portal. If I hadn’t acted the way I had, he would’ve brought forth an army to rival our own.” I bow my head in shame. “I made a decision.”
Cytax, a soldier of centuries, who has fought in countless battles with countless brothers and sisters of the sainthood, grumbles his disapproval.
“You made a decision?” Alvarium hisses in disapproval. He walks out from behind the table and marches toward me in his knee-high leather boots that have probably never even touched dirt and halts before me, having to glare up at me beneath his manicured eyebrows. “You do not have the authority to make a decision like that.” His voice is calm, yet threatening. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord,” I reply, keeping my gaze fixed on the wall across from me.
“Decisions are for your superiors.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“If everyone were making decisions, we would have no order.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And order is what keeps people like me in power. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good,” he finally replies, granting me a moment of relief. “Now, tell me, Cytax, what fate do Saints receive when they disobey an order?”
“Excommunication, my lord,” the Battle Saint says, his gaze hardening as he looks at me.
“Excommunication,” Alvarium repeats, seeming pleased with the sentence. “Yes, I’ve heard of that.”
So this is to be my fate? I ask myself, feeling my heart sink into my stomach. Exile from the order? Simply because I thought with my mind, and in the process saved thousands of republic troops?