The Tower - Part 2
At 22 years old, James "Wildfire" Walker should have been in his last year of college. He should have been living it up during the "best years of his life" - getting drunk with hot co-eds, worrying about finals, and thinking about what to do after graduation.
Instead, he'd spent the last year training with a military unit so black most of the government didn't even know about it. As far as his family knew, he'd dropped out of college and gone off to "find himself", working crap jobs along the way. Instead he'd spent the last year in classrooms, combat training, and VR ops. A year of cooling his heels, cursing the fact that he'd had to wait so long before starting his training.
A year of wondering if he should have just stuck with college, and tried to find a "normal" life.
But then the nightmares would come back - visions of the attack, of what could have happened, of it happening to someone else when he could have stopped it - and James knew he'd made the right decision. That he'd jump through all the hoops they put in front of him, as long as it meant he got to kill some fucking undead.
Besides. Lectures here were a hell of a lot more interesting than at that hippy college is parents had sent him to.
"So. Which one of you brilliant young minds can tell me what this is?" At the moment, he was sitting through his weekly two hours of "undead recognition". The instructor, Ms. Marsh, was an imperious woman in her early 30s - long brown hair in a severe French braid, pale green eyes, stern expression. James suspected she could let loose with the best of them, but kept that to himself.
"Come, now. It was in this week's readings." Ms. Marsh gestured at the holographic image rotating in the center of the room. The creature was small, mottled grey, with a large round head, luminous yellow eyes, and spindly arms and legs. At the ends of its fingers and toes were wickedly sharp claws, and its mouth was open to reveal tiny, pointed teeth. "Surely at least one of you testosterone-driven warriors knows how to read."
James cleared his throat. "It's a graveling, ma'am."
"Thank you, Mr. Walker. And, for the benefit of your classmates, what is a graveling?"
Well aware of the dark looks being sent his way, James rolled his eyes and sat up a bit straighter. "They’re spirits of the recently killed. A level five or higher warlock can raise a graveling from the corpse of a violent death within two to four hours."
"Correct." She nodded minutely before circling to face the other side of the room. "And who can tell me how to kill one of these lovely creatures?"
Silence fell again, filled with the shuffling of papers. James sighed, but before he could answer a familiar voice spoke up from behind him.
"Decapitation, silver poisoning, and of course, the undead kill-all, holy water."
James turned in his seat and met the laughing grey gaze of one of the many combat instructors: Bishop. Only a few years older than James, it was rumoured he'd already been in and out of the field for almost ten years. James happened to know it was closer to five, and even then only a couple times a year. Most of the time Bishop was in the training compound, acting as a mentor to the recently attacked.
"Correct as always, Bishop." Ms. Marsh's voice was cool - clearly she didn't appreciate the interruption. "Is there something we can help you with?"
Bishop nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "I need to steal Wildfire from you."
James felt his heart speed up slightly and turned to face his instructor. She was looking at him with a frown, but nodded eventually. "Very well. Mr. Walker, I expect you to get today's assignment from one of your classmates."
James nodded, switched off his notepad and stood before she had a chance to change her mind. "Yes, ma'am."
He wove his way between the other desks quickly, avoiding the stares that followed him. Bishop had already moved into the hallway, likely to keep Ms. Marsh from seeing his grin.
When James emerged into the hallway, Bishop clapped him on the shoulder and turned him to the right, towards the dormitories. "You're gunna need to pick up a few things, kid."
James nodded and glanced at Bishop out of the corner of his eye. "Where are we going?"
Bishop squeezed his shoulder. "You're coming to run a little errand with me. There've been reports of a small vamp nest nearby. Control wants us to do some recon, see what sort of team they might need to send."
James' heart sped up, and he found himself fighting the urge to smile. "Why am I going? I'm just a trainee."
Bishop looked at him, his eyebrows raised. "You've been here, what, a year now?" James nodded. "And has it been what you expected?" James hesitated, and Bishop squeezed his shoulder again before letting go. "Be honest."
James swallowed. "Not exactly."
Bishop laughed. "Too many books and classrooms, not enough action. That's what I figured. I can spot 'em a mile away. You've got the hate, kid. Same as any good soldier here. And you gotta feed it or else you'll forget why you're learning all that crap like 'undead recognition'."
They entered the dorms as Bishop finished speaking. "Grab your hunting gear, kid."
James nodded silently and pressed his palm against the lock on his wardrobe. He tossed his notepad onto the shelf and pulled out his training gear. He'd done practice recon in the city before, but this would be his first real hunt.
In an effort to distract himself from the conflicting feelings of worry and eager anticipation, he focused on a question that had tickled his mind earlier. "You said holy water back there."
"What?" Bishop looked up from the small hand-pistol he was loading. "Said what?"
James began to change quickly. "You said that holy water could be used to take out gravelings. That it's an 'undead kill-all'."
"Yeah?" The soldier began to flip the gun back and forth, like an old west gunslinger. "So?"
James pulled his shirt over his head and frowned. "I thought holy water was a myth. It's not in any of the training."
"Pfft," Bishop tossed the gun in the air and watched it tumble before answering. "That stuff they splash on babies at church, that's a myth. Real, actual, holy water is the most effective weapon against any undead. And the most dangerous."
"Why?" James began loading his pockets with what few supplies he had.
Bishop smirked. "Because holy water burns anything unclean - undead, mortal, or in-between. Any creature that's caused violence, spilled blood, or done evil. And there's no soldier in the world that hasn't done all three. So anytime you use the stuff, you're gunna get burned."
James shivered slightly and nodded. "So why do they make it at all?"
Bishop shrugged. "Sometimes, the worst option is the only option." He threw the gun at James, who caught it without thinking. "Come on, kid. Enough of this text book shit. Time to see what the real deal is like."
*
They'd ended up taking the nest themselves. Two hunters against a half dozen junior vamps. James had gloried in every moment of it - every vamp that crumbled to ash was another blow against the one that had attacked him and changed his world forever.
Bishop took him out for a drink afterwards at some seedy strip club, and paid for his first lap dance. Regaling both James and the shocking number of women that seemed to gather around their table with stories of hunts, battles, close calls, and adventure. James suspected most of the stories were at least exaggerated for the benefit of their audience, but if even half of them were true . . . He had to get into the field. And soon.
When he got back to the training compound the next morning, James found that he'd been bumped up to the next level in all his classes. He'd been put on the fast track, and could expect to be placed with a squad in the next year.
He ran into Bishop at the gym that night, but when he tried to give the gun back, Bishop just shook his head. "Nah, keep it. A man's first will always be his best. It'll take care of you."
***
As James brought his thoughts back to the present, the meeting was finally starting to draw to a close. The sun had long since set, the room was now completely lit by UV lights and the windows were sealed with rune-etched lead.
A sombre-faced man was standing, his fists resting on the table as he leaned forward and looked each of them in the eye. "The Tower cannot fall, gentlemen. The last of our species depends on it. I expect each of you to train your squads to the best of their ability; to think of every possible advantage; to prepare for the worst. And be sure of this. The Tower will not fall."
The only response was silence. The man - the president, James realized - looked at them a moment longer, then nodded firmly. "Very well. Get to it."
The president and his advisors left the same way they'd entered, while James and Stonewall went back to the sub-basements. Emerging from the elevator, James turned to look as his commander.
"It'll never happen, sir. We aren't enough to beat them. If we can't keep them out of the Tower, we're lost. And if the Necro himself is here," he paused, something tickling the edge of his memory . . .
Misreading his hesitation, Stonewall finished his thought. "If the Necro fights we won't keep them out of the Tower. I know, son. And that's why I have another mission for you and Blackjack."
James' chest tightened. "For both of us, sir?"
Stonewall nodded grimly. "As you so helpfully pointed out, there aren't many here. We need everyone who knows the environment, who has trained to defend it. And I thought you might appreciate a chance at . . . vengeance."
"You're sending us out there." James didn't bother making it a question.
His commander nodded again. "At the very least we need the Necro distracted. Aim for the generals first, all the control comes from them. Take out as many as you can, especially the vampire. If we can break her control hopefully the clan blood feuds will take over."
"And the Necro?"
"He'll have to deal with you, it'll buy us time. The sun will do our work for us if we can hold out long enough. So the objective is to distract Him. Eliminate if at all possible, but avoid direct confrontation."
James nodded. It was suicide no matter how they went about it. They weren't expected to last, just last long enough. "Have you informed Phoe - Blackjack?"
"She confirmed participation this morning."
Silence. There was nothing left to say. Technically, command couldn't order him on a mission this dangerous. But there was no way he could opt out, and they both knew that. What the hell, James thought. Better to die out there than in here. He'd spent enough time underground to last, well, the rest of his life.
"We'll get it done, sir."
Something flashed through Stonewall's eyes. Pity? Relief? It was gone too fast to read. "Good." His tone was as same gruff and matter-of-fact as always. "You're to rest as much as possible. Training areas are open for your use. Be sure to get your medi-chems topped up, and we're putting together some wards for you. We'll let you know where to go when it happens."
"Yes, sir."
"Good."
They shook hands, Stonewall's grip like a vice. "Give 'em hell, son."
***
Isabeth looked out over the encampment. No lamps, no fires, the scene was illuminated only by second-hand sunlight that flooded one corner of the cavern. The army was avoiding it, tracking it's movement carefully as if it were an enemy about to attack. So much power, about to crush the last human resistance, and they still had to hide from the feeble winter sun.
She shook those thoughts away, dismissing them as unnecessarily pessimistic. She was just tired. It had been a long run, and the more of her forces that gathered the harder it was to keep them from attacking each other. A lot of energy expended, not enough scavenged along the way. This had better work.
She shook that thought away as well. Of course it would work. And she daren't let Him suspect she worried otherwise. Just thinking about His reaction sent a shiver of fear up her spine. Scowling, disgusted with herself, she turned away from the view and walked back to the small command area.
Dy was oiling and sharpening the blade of a massive two-handed sword, as he did every night. Karn was drifting aimlessly against the cavern wall, touching briefly on anyone nearby to steal what little warmth they had. The wraiths were having the same problem as the vampires: too little to feed on in the rush to get here. She glanced at Shade, milky white eyes reflecting in the darkness. Even the hounds were getting hungry. Although they had a more direct way of dealing with it. Already Isabeth had several reports of missing vampires. They may be cold, their blood second-hand, but it was all the same to a hound.
She brushed off a large rock and sat down. "Two hours until it's dark enough to move."
Dy grunted, focused on his sword. "We have a place for tomorrow?"
Isabeth glanced in Shade's direction again. "The hounds will find somewhere, I'm sure."
Drawn by the conversation, Karn drifted over and took his humanoid form. His exhaustion was evident, the edges of his “body” fuzzy and undefined. “Battle ssoon. We hunger. The humanss musst fall.”
Isabeth nodded, inwardly wincing at the wraith’s disjointed sentences. He could have spoken while in his undefined form, but it was a matter of pride for him. And how much energy is that pride costing him? How much weaker will he be in the fight? There was no answer. No more answers until this was all over.
***
“Oof!” James landed flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. The tip of a blunted practice sword pressed against his throat, Phoebe’s stern face appearing above him.
“Yield?”
Still fighting for breath, he nodded angrily. Phoebe moved away leaving him to recover on his own. Although he understood why she was avoiding contact, it hurt that she didn’t offer to help him up. Just one more reason that vampire bitch had to die.
Inhaling painfully, James pushed himself into a sitting position and moved back to lean against a pile of mats. Apparently finished with sparring for now, Phoebe had moved to the targeting arena where she was using her two swords to attack the various lit targets. James watched her face, shivering slightly at how perfectly blank it was. He remembered training with her before the op. She’d laugh and chat, always pushing but genuinely enjoying her work. Now it was as if a light had been turned off, just another soldier-bot programmed to kill.
It won’t stay that way. We’ll kill them all, and then . . . the thought trailed off. There was no “and then”, James knew perfectly well. Neither he nor Phoebe would be alive at the end of this.
Growling under his breath, James pushed himself up onto his feet and retrieved his sword from where he had dropped it. His preferred weapons for this would be guns, but he didn't want to count on being able to attack from a distance. So he'd spent just as much time sparring as at the shooting range. There, at least, was some small comfort. His time as a vamp plaything hadn't affected his speed or accuracy with any of his preferred firearms. So if he could just keep his distance . . . Get the bitch. Take out the vamps, get the zombies. Can't touch the wraiths, don't worry about them. Get the bitch, get the Necro. Fuck the rest.
He placed his sword back in the rack and picked up a weighted long-staff. Not a weapon he was really planning to use, but if he lost everything else staves were easy to make out of whatever happened to be lying around. And better to practice with the extra weight. He'd need all the speed he could muster when it came to the real thing.
Resting the staff on his shoulder, James took a deep breath and walked over to the targeting arena. Phoebe was still running through the program, the flashing lights steadily increasing in speed. He stood in her line of sight, but well out of the way of her swords.
“I didn’t tell them,” Phoebe spoke suddenly. Her movements didn’t falter, her voice flat and uninterested. “I didn’t tell them about the games.”
James stared at her in silence, no idea what to say.
“They sent me a shrink. I woke up easier than you, they wanted to assess my field readiness. I didn’t tell them.” She swung a complicated manoeuvre, hitting two targets simultaneously before spinning to nail a third, shattering her off-hand sword in the process. Barely even breathing heavily, she stepped out of the arena and looked him in the eye for the first time since getting back. “I didn’t tell them, and neither will you. I won’t get taken out of this.” Her tone was still flat, but James could see desperation in her eyes. “I need to kill her. Once she’s dead, it will have never happened.” She paused and took a small step forward. “Never happened. She’ll die, and it will be over. You understand?”
James nodded, his throat tight.
She raised her sword slightly, seemingly unaware of the movement. “Say you understand.”
James cleared his throat. “I understand.”
***
He's on his back, coarse rope around his wrists and ankles tethering him, spread-eagle, on some rough surface. The room is dark. It may not even be a room, just a black, empty space in his subconscious. A place for memories and fears to be relived. A place his waking mind kept behind lock and key. A place he'd lived for far too long under the control of that vampire whore. A place, in short, of nightmares.
It's only a dream. He knows that. When the vampiress appears, leading Blackjack on a leash, he's well aware that this isn't happening. Phoebe is racked out safely in the room next to his. The whore is on her way to the Tower, just waiting to die. He tells himself all of this, but it doesn't matter. Dream or not, he can't get out of it. Can't control it, can't avoid the inevitable.
"Hello, Wildfire." It's a man's voice that breaks the silence. Strangely high pitched, almost musical, and irritatingly familiar. He tries to find the source of the voice, but his field of vision is limited. Other than himself, only the vampiress and mortal woman are present.
And they're coming closer.
"Hello, Wildfire." The whore's voice has a strange echo. That man . . . why can't he place the voice? Then Phoebe climbs on top him, sits abruptly, and his thoughts scatter.
"Hello, Wildfire." James glares, strains against the rope. Whether it's to push Phoebe off, pull her closer, attack Isabeth, beg her to capture him again . . . all of the above, most like.
"Do you miss us, Wildfire?" Phoebe is moving over him, her eyes wide open but vacant. Isabeth appears over her shoulder, fangs bared, eyes flashing. "Do you miss what we gave you?"
James clenches his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. He can feel the vampiress' hand, the tips of her claws teasing him. "Fuck you . . . bitch." Not the best response, especially when interrupted by a heartfelt moan. Phoebe is squeezing him, as she always did. He's caught in the same trap Isabeth always creates. Hating what's happening, but never wanting it to end. Horrified by what's happening to his partner, but revelling in her helplessness. More alive than he has ever been, and loathing himself to the very core.
"We're coming for you, Wildfire. Coming to take you back." The vampiress grazes her fangs down Blackjack's neck, just deep enough to draw blood. Two crimson rivulets fall down her pale neck and breast. He thrusts upward sharply, growling low in his throat.
"Come ahead. I'll kill you. You, your clan, your whole fucking species." God, he hates this. Phoebe is moaning now. Begging him to stop. Stop, please stop, kill her and it never happened . . .
"You can't kill us, Wildfire. You love us. You'll always love us. Come to us and never leave." The male voice is louder now, buzzing in James' jaw, temple, and lower back. He yells wordlessly. Denying it, embracing it, battling to stave off the inevitable. Phoebe is crying, and damn him if it doesn't excite him more.
"You belong to us, Wildfire. You are one of us."
"Aaah!" He arches his back, cumming in a rush. Phoebe sobs her release, Isabeth bites into her neck and digs her claws into him. The buzzing grows sharper, voices on the edge of hearing shouting his name. Everything starts to fade, until all that remains is a grey-eyed man standing before him.
"Hello, Wildfire."
***
"Wildfire!"
James sat straight up, bashed his head against the ceiling, felt the evidence of his dream clammy against his thighs and stomach, and realized the voice yelling in his head was his commander all at once.
"Fuck!"
"Son, you have 10 goddamn seconds to wake up, then I am throwing you out of this building with a fucking six-shooter."
James groaned, surreptitiously trying to clean himself off while rushing around the room getting dressed. "I hear you, sir. What's the situation."
Stonewall paused. When he spoke his tone was void of emotion. "They're here."
James froze. The words he'd been waiting for, praying for. The chance he needed to make his life right again. For a moment all he could feel was blind, animal panic. Then he saw Phoebe at the door - suited up, eyes cold, watching him.
He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. "I'm ready, sir." He buckled the last clasp on his body armour. "We’re ready."
***
So this was the Tower. The last refuge of the humans, their stronghold, their one chance for survival. Once nothing more than another of dozens of office buildings, it now stood alone, the surrounding office towers having long since been turned to rubble. A solitary pillar on the horizon, it was lit by hundreds of UV floodlights and surrounded by the strongest wards Isabeth had felt in a long, long time. It was more than a building. It was a symbol. A symbol of mortal defiance, an upraised fist against the inevitable.
The vampiress general had waited years for this moment - the chance to see the Tower with her own eyes, on the eve of its destruction. Now that the moment had arrived, it wasn't what she had expected. Despite the army at her back, the heady rush of strength from all the mortal fear before her, despite even the promise of His strength, Isabeth doubted. They were clever, these humans. And desperate. They had to know the cost of failure, and would fight with every breath to deny it. She had faced humans enough times to know: those without hope were by far the most dangerous. She had always defeated them before - laughed in the face of their pathetic last stands and gorged on their blood. But now . . .
"Dark thoughtss, ssisster?" Karn's voice came from a vague mist beside her. He'd finally given up his humanoid form, focused instead on conserving his strength for the coming battle. He must have been just as worried, although neither of them dared admit it. To show weakness was to invite true death. Especially when He was soon to arrive.
So Isabeth simply squared her shoulders and continued to look forward. “I’ve not seen it so close before. Foolish, to gather their last strength in one place. They make our task that much easier.”
A dry, rasping noise came from behind her other shoulder, Dy’s equivalent to laughter. “More efficient, perhaps. We only need crush them once, a concentrated mass of true warriors, rather than hunt them down in small, easily defeated packs.” His tone was light, but the strain behind it was obvious enough. So. The valiant zombie commander had doubts as well. Isabeth began to turn, to caution him on his candour, when she caught sight of Shade coming towards them. He was nearly invisible in the gathering dusk, white eyes flashing. And, coming behind the hound, Him.
“You disapprove of my plan, general?” His voice was calm, melodic as always, but with a razor edge Isabeth had never heard before. Dy didn’t respond, and she dared not look at him. The silence stretched out, broken only by the sound of the many sub-commanders getting their companies into position, until He laughed suddenly. “Of course you do. You all do. Small minded fools, you’d still be creeping in the shadows if not for me. How could any of you possibly be expected to understand?” This time the silence was filled with unspoken fury. Isabeth felt both hot and cold. How dare anyone speak to her like that? This once mortal, how dare He . . .
But then His cool grey eyes met her own, and Isabeth knew. He dared because He could. Because He ruled them all, and could crush them with a word.
A strangled noise issued from Dy’s ruined throat, evidently he had reached the same conclusion. “Apologies, Lord. You are correct, I simply don’t understand.”
Isabeth was glad she couldn’t see the zombie’s face, couldn’t see what it cost him to apologize. She stood perfectly still, trapped by His gaze, and waited.
He smiled suddenly. “Of course. Well, then. Let me show you.” Without another word, He turned and walked a short distance away, facing the Tower. He stood still, shadows crowding around His feet. Then He raised His arms and flung darkness towards the stronghold. Within a single breath it hit the human wards. And stopped.
Isabeth, Dy, Karn, the army, and no doubt the humans, watched. And waited. At first the wards held, keeping the unnatural dark well away from the Tower walls, and Isabeth dared wonder if He had failed. Then a sliver of night broke through. Then another.
And another.
The wards were dissolving.
Feeling His eyes upon her, the vampiress turned to look. He bared his teeth in a smile. “It’s time.”
***
Wildfire and Blackjack moved quickly through the corridors, their nav-implants directing them on the quickest route to the surface. They passed monitors showing a live security feed, so were well aware of the wards’ failure. Neither was surprised. They, of anyone, knew the extent of the power they faced and had already resigned themselves to the coming battle. The time for hiding behind wards and walls was long gone. Now was the time for iron and steel, muscle and blood. They would fight tooth and nail if they had to. Because to not fight was to admit defeat, something neither of them knew how to do. No. They would fight, they would kill. And, in all likelihood, they would die.
Better, far better, than the alternative.
When they finally emerged on the surface, they came into chaos. Darkness surrounded the Tower, smothering the UV lights. The sharp crack of rifles and short bursts of automatics sounded all around them, drowned out by the occasional boom of a blast cannon, or the soft puff of mortars. The defensive nests were already engaged, although Wildfire doubted they could see anything. At least they were all targeting well into the distance, he and Blackjack should be able to move without too great a risk.
Which they did. Without speaking a word, they both shouldered their weapon bags and broke into a trot. Had anyone asked they wouldn’t have been able to give a direction, but they ran without hesitation, drawn forward by an intangible force. Drawn to the main break in the wards, where the vampiress bitch was direction her legions into battle.
They stopped at once, halting in the concealment of a burned-out flood light. There were hundreds of vampires streaming in through the breech. Their general stood aside, her eyes closed in concentration, connected to all of them, personally directing the movements of each one. Her face lit only by the occasional tracer round and flash of dying defensive wards, every feature was still etched in James’ memory. He was filled with rage, humiliation, terror - it felt like black filth crawling up out of his soul as if to choke him. But still, always, sharp, painful, horrible arousal. For a moment it was all he could do not to throw down his weapons, crawl towards her, and beg she take him again. And again, and again . . .
An inhuman growl sounded from Blackjack’s throat, and Wildfire was back. Swallowing down any trace of emotion, wrapping calm around himself like armour, he dropped his bag and stooped to pull out a rifle already loaded with explosive UV rounds. James cocked the gun, took a kneeling stance, and lined up his shot. Phoebe hadn’t moved yet. As he slowed his breathing, Wildfire could only hope he got off a shot before Blackjack realized he’d taken her revenge.
Eye to the scope. Breathe in. Finger caresses the trigger. Breathe out. Squeeze . . .
“No!” He jumped at Phoebe’s shout, jarred the rifle, and grazed the vampiress’ arm instead of hitting her heart. The bullet burst too late, taking out two soldiers and burning half a dozen more, but leaving Isabeth with nothing more than a flesh wound.
He turned to face Blackjack, to see her cold, dead eyes looking down at him. "She's mine." James wished he could argue, that he could come up with a good reason to stop his partner from seeking her death, but Wildfire only nodded silently. Tossing the rifle back in the bag and swinging it over his shoulder, he turned and left without a word.
The calm came back. Let Blackjack take the bitch.
The Necro was his.
***
There were too many of them. She was too hungry, she'd spent too long playing with mortals, she'd forgotten what it felt like. Isabeth was aware of her body, aware of the ward scratching at her back, but only barely. Her eyes were closed, but she saw through hundreds of others. Heard the battle through thousands of too sensitive ears. With every death she crumbled to ash. Every mouthful of blood she used to bolster her fading strength. She couldn't hold this for long, would have to give control to her commanders and lose the efficiency that came from the focus of a single leading mind. But the power, oh the power! Just a little longer, a little bit . . .
She was dragged back to her body by the bullet. Her mind slammed shut, the soldiers around her faltering before the commanders could react. She staggered back, then was immediately thrown forward by the explosion. She hit the ground, dazed, the taste of her own blood in her throat. She could feel the commanders' shock, their confusion. Dozens of soldiers fell in an instant, too bewildered to fight. And a scream, a vaguely familiar scream of rage, coming towards her.
Out of reflex she lunged to her feet and struck out with her claws. Her attacker fell back long enough for Isabeth to throw control to her commanders, before spinning away from a silver edged sword. The minions resumed their flood towards the Towers defences, ignoring Isabeth's attacker. A mortal, a lone mortal woman, who dared attack the most powerful vampire in the world with nothing more than sword. If not for her shock, Isabeth would have crushed the human without a second thought. Instead she was scrambling, trying to collect her shattered thoughts while dodging the sword and clawing at her opponent. The human was good, fast, but her swings were uncontrolled. And she hadn't stopped screaming.
Dodging a swing meant to take off her head, Isabeth backed into the remains of the ward and shrieked in pain. Finally anchored back in her own body, she bared her fangs and attacked.
Claws and silver flashing through the darkness, she and the mortal circled each other quickly. They were both covered in small cuts, Isabeth was surrounded by the heady scent of blood, the burn of silver-inflicted wounds, the sheer joy of a fight. This was how it was meant to be: one-on-one. Her dark spirit singing, Isabeth knew she would win. The human may be good, but she was only mortal. Her swings were slowing, her arm tiring. Taunting her, Isabeth spun and raked claws across her face.
"Fool girl. Do you think you can kill me?" Isabeth sidestepped, hissing as the silver burned against her ribs. "Perhaps I'll have you join me. I could train one like you. Set you against the pitiful remains of your species. Show you pleasures you can't possibly imagine." The mortal stumbled, her screams faltering. Isabeth snatched at the sword, closing her fist around it, her flesh burning against the silver edge. "Oh, yes. You'd thank me for every moment. Kill anyone you've ever known and feast on their blood. Oh, the things that I could show you."
The woman tried to drag her sword back but she was far too weak. Isabeth could smell her tears, and watched as she crumpled to her knees. Throwing the sword away, the vampiress grasped the back of the mortal's neck and pulled her forward. The woman tilted her head aside, offering herself. Fangs throbbing, Isabeth pierced her flesh and drank deep. The woman moaned, hands fumbling at her side.
"Accept it," Isabeth murmured. She pulled back, met the woman's yes, then gasped in dual shock at the familiar face and the wooden stake at her chest.
The mortal! The mortal hunter who had died before her very eyes. The woman leaned forward, blood streaming down her neck, buried the stake and spat in Isabeth's face.
Then pain.
Then nothing.
***
Leaving Blackjack behind, Wildfire refused to let himself look back. As the vampire minions streaming towards the Tower's defenders faltered, he allowed himself to hope that his partner had gotten her revenge. But he quickly cast the thought aside. He had to focus on his own objective.
It wouldn't be easy. No one knew the true scale of the Necro's powers. That He was able to control the undead was clear enough, but no one had any idea how. Whether it was the result of some artefact He had found, some spell He had cast, or a natural born talent, no one knew. Of course, for many, it made little difference. Who cared how He had gained control of an unstoppable, undead army? Would knowing the cause make any difference to the millions upon millions of dead mortals?
Well. Perhaps it didn’t matter to the dead. But to the living it made all the difference in the world. Because if Wildfire knew how the Necro was controlling His army, he’d know how to stop it. As it was, all he could do was hope for some sort of miracle, because without that he had no idea how he was going to kill the Necro.
Not that it would stop him. Not that anything would stop him from trying.
Of course, that wasn’t his biggest problem. While figuring out how to stop the Necro was certainly on his mind, his biggest problem would be finding the Necro, without first being killed by one of the vampires, wraiths, hounds, litches, or warlocks crowding the field around the Tower.
Well. First things first. Standing against the wall wasn’t going to get it done. Time to get moving.
Lacking any sort of a direction, Wildfire opted to walk the perimeter of the Tower. Hopefully he’d come across where the Necro was directing His troops from. Stranger things had happened. Hitching his weapon bag over his shoulder, he began moving along the wall, away from where the vampires were still streaming through the wards, clockwise along the base of the Tower.
As he walked, it struck him as eerily familiar to “walking” the battlefield in “Rome: Being Caesar”. So many men and women, fighting and dying all around him. Everything was still dark, all of the UV floodlights long since taken out. Lights flickered past him, giving everything a surreal air. The noise was overwhelming: gunfire, the tear of flesh, screams of pain, roars of triumph. But it was the smell that he couldn’t ignore. Blood and shit, burning flesh and gunpowder, the sharp tang of magic, the salty scent of tears. He’d been in battle so many times, and always it was the smell that stayed with him.
Walking swiftly, a small rifle at his shoulder to take out any obstacles he came across, Wildfire struggled to get some sense of what was happening. There were so many bodies around him, so much floating ash, it was impossible to tell which side was winning. He spotted a small rise at the next corner, and hurried towards it so he could survey the battle.
It almost defied comprehension.
The field was a seething mass of mortal and undead figures. The forward defensive nests had been almost completely overwhelmed, forcing the soldiers into close combat as they tried to retreat to their fall-back positions. A pack of hell hounds had cut off a company and were starting to attack. Most fell to the explosive rounds in the soldiers’ weapons, but enough remained to tear through them like so much meat.
Another company of soldiers seemed to be screaming at nothing, but as the light flashed Wildfire could see the wraiths around them, covering them like a mist and feeding on their terror. The soldiers were shooting wildly, but there was nothing for them to hit but each other. Still. A cleaner way to die.
Two companies had managed to unite. They’d formed a wedge and were pushing through a mass of vampire minions. Laying waste with their guns, and a few swords, they were pushing towards the second-tier defences with steady progress. They were all screaming wordlessly, covered in the ash of their fallen enemies. As Wildfire watched one of the soldiers stumbled out of the wedge and was immediately dragged down by two minions. His comrades killed the minions, but didn’t stop. Too late. The wedge contracted to fill in the empty space, and continued to push forward.
Turning to the defences he tried to count the muzzle-flashes, to get some sense of how many were in the second line, but they were obscured by the brighter flash of magic. Some human mages were doing their part, wide swaths of cold-fire burning through the undead hordes. Still, the fire was sporadic as the warlocks found and focused on their mortal counterparts. Wards went up and were ripped apart in seconds, they were too evenly matched.
They were all too evenly matched. The undead may be strong, they may be many, but the humans were fighting for their survival. They were fighting to protect everyone in the Tower, the last of their species. The tide of the battle moved back and forth, each side gaining and losing ground almost faster than Wildfire could track. The only thing that would break the stalemate was sunrise. If the humans could hold out long enough, the sun would do their work for them.
Unfortunately, it was the longest night of the year. Sunrise was a long way off.
And as a wall of suffocating darkness moved over the field Wildfire realized there was no way the humans could hold out. The Necro was still out there. Still uniting the undead, casting His power over the mortals, and killing dozens at a time. As long as He was alive, the humans didn’t have a chance. With Him dead . . .
At least we’ll be close. At least we can make it to sunrise.
Back-tracking the course of the darkness, Wildfire spotted Him. He was just outside the range of most of the automated defences, surrounded by a circle of warlocks that seemed to be concentrating on destroying any attempts to hit the Necro. Cannon blasts, mortars, RPGs, all fell to dust before they got anywhere near their target. For a moment James felt completely lost. How would he ever get close enough to fight the Necro? And even if he did, how the hell would he ever kill Him?
Growling low in his chest, Wildfire pushed all doubts away. Look. That was the first lesson he had ever learned, the first thing he ever tried to teach one of the new recruits. The most important thing he wished he’d known before this entire life had started. Look. See. Not what you think is there, not what you wish would be there, but what is really there.
So he looked.
And he saw.
The warlocks weren't a full perimeter, they were only a half-circle, protecting Him from the Tower. He was vulnerable from behind. There was a rhythm to the waves of darkness He was sending out. A slow rhythm. He had to concentrate to gather the darkness, focus His energy to control it. He wouldn’t be able to sense an attack. One of the warlocks fell, He was feeding on them. He couldn’t maintain his power on his own. He needed strength, needed power. He didn’t have His own power.
He didn’t have His own power . . .
Take out the source and He would be weakened. Well, alright. How close did He have to be to feed? If Wildfire took out the warlocks, would that be enough? He sure as hell hoped so, because if the Necro could feed on the entire army, then it didn’t make much of a difference. But it didn’t look that way. As one warlock fell, another rushed in to take his place. They had to be close, had to be connected to Him.
Okay. Take out the warlocks first. Wildfire would take them from behind, he had a few grenades, shouldn’t be too hard. Which still left the Necro. The Necro who would likely be very angry, but hopefully without power. If Wildfire was wrong about that, he was dead. Of course, if he was right there was still a pretty good chance he was dead anyway. And he couldn’t think of anything better.
Right, then. Last desperate attack. Why the hell not?
*
He'd lost time.
The weapons bag over his shoulder was lighter than he remembered. He must have emptied and dropped some of his guns. There was blood on his hands and arms, viscous and black in the scattered light. The skin around his mouth and eyes was stiff, his body armour splattered with gore.
He couldn't remember fighting.
His chest was burning, breath coming in gasps. Standing still he could feel his legs trembling, threatening to give out. He was light-headed, black spots dancing on the edge of his vision.
He couldn't remember running.
Looking around, Wildfire wasn't even sure where he was. Bodies littered the ground - human and zombie, litch and hound - and everything was covered in ash. He could still hear the battle - the gunfire and screams and high pitched whine of magic - but it seemed far away. The Tower was on his right, to the west. To the left, the east, was nothing. Darkness. The horizon that promised the sun, but gave no indication of when. Surely the night had just started? But lord knew how long he'd been running.
Or how long he'd just been standing here.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Wildfire forced himself to inhale deeply, hold, then exhale slowly. After repeating the exercise a few times he could feel his heart rate slow down, the tension ease out of his muscles, the fog clear from his mind.
So he'd lost time. So what? It wasn't like it hadn't happened before. Worry about it later. Worry about all of it later.
For now: the Necro.
Opening his eyes, Wildfire took his bearings and began moving at a dog trot. He'd been circling out and around the Necro's defences. Far enough, hopefully, that he couldn't be sensed, but not so far as to lose sight of his objective. At least that had been the plan. Obviously something had happened, since he couldn't see anything other than the Tower. In any event, one direction was as good as the other. He'd come full circle eventually.
His mind must have wandered again, because he next found himself crouched in a shallow ditch, sniper rifle by his side. Gritting his teeth against the smell - he wasn't the first humanoid to try hiding here - Wildfire levered up on his forearms and peered over the edge of the ditch.
There. Less than 50 yards away. The Necro. Standing on a small mound of earth, arms spread open and head thrown back. Wildfire couldn't tell if the anguished screams were coming from Him or the five warlocks arrayed in front of Him.
Moving slowly, Wildfire gathered the rifle into his arms and settled his cheek against the stock. He hadn't been spotted yet, but he couldn't wait too long.
It was like watching himself move. Slide back, check the barrel, silver plated round. Slide locked, safety off, eye to the scope. Slow, even breaths, timed with the heart beat.
Breathe in and select a target.
Breathe out, and stroke the trigger.
And almost get thrown back by the magic recoil as one of the warlocks dropped.
But he'd already serviced a second target and lined up on a third before anyone thought to look behind them.
He managed to drop the third and get a rushed shot off at the fourth before the ground in front of him burst into flame. Shouting in surprise, Wildfire rolled back into the ditch and scrabbled for another weapon. The fire stopped just as suddenly as it started, timed with an inhuman scream from the direction of the warlocks. Wildfire forced himself to his feet just in time to see the Necro with His hand on a warlock's chest, somehow draining the life from him.
Bringing his weapon to bear, Wildfire already knew he was too slow. At a gesture the Necro sent a wave of darkness to knock the gun away, simultaneously halting the last warlock's attack.
"No. No, I don't think that will be necessary." Smiling serenely, the Necro walked forward and stopped only a few dozen feet away. "I suppose I should have known better than to trust you to stay dead. Hello, Wildfire."
Biting back a sudden rush of nausea, James' hands clenched into fists. "Hello, Bishop." He'd known. Of course he'd known. How could James forget the man who'd saved his life? Who'd fought by his side on dozens of missions? Wildfire had never forgiven himself for not being on the mission that claimed his best friend's life. He'd always been sure that, if he had only been there, Bishop would still be alive.
Well. He was. Careful what you wish for, and all that crap. But who could have imagined that the Necro was one of their own?
There were a hundred questions and accusations running through his mind. How long had Bishop known about this power? How long had He been planning this war? Had He ever truly been human? Had He ever been on their side? But there was only one question that mattered. "How?" James didn't bother specifying, sure that Bishop knew perfectly well what he meant.
Judging by the smile on His face, James was right. "'How'? You're not going to ask me why? Not going to try to make me see the error of my ways? Not going to ask me how long I was playing both sides? If saving your life was part of some 'master plan'?"
"We both know, none of that matters." James could feel his emotions start to drain away, Wildfire taking over.
Bishop laughed lightly. "I always liked that about you, kid. You cut through the bullshit. Focus on the job at hand. Speaking of which, I suppose I have you to thank for Isabeth going down? Or did you let your little partner take care of that?"
Something clenched in James' chest. "You don't get to talk about her."
Bishop tsked. "Getting cozy with the team? I thought I taught you better than that, kid."
James grit his teeth, but didn't say anything. If Bishop wanted to talk, then let him talk. More time to come up with a plan, more time for the sun to rise. More time, faint as the chance may be, for backup to arrive.
"No response?" The Necro raised His eyebrows and took a few steps forward, just far enough that he wasn't standing on the mound of earth anymore. Pausing as if to let James speak, Bishop eventually shrugged and glanced over His shoulder towards the Tower. "Well, kid, what'd you think? Cavalry on its way?"
James frowned, why was Bishop bothering to stop and chat instead of just finishing it and returning to His assault on the human stronghold? Unless . . . unless he couldn't. Without the warlocks to feed on, was it possible the Necro didn't have enough energy left to do anything?
Wildfire took a small step forward. "You waiting for an audience?"
Bishop just grinned. "Can’t give all my secrets away, kid. Want to make sure no one's watching."
Wildfire took another step forward, his hand slowly moving to the small of his back, to his back-up pistol. "Secret identity to the end?"
The Necro laughed. "Sure, why not. I do want them to think well of me, after all." He took a small step to the side. Wildfire circled with Him, maintaining eye contact. "Of course," the Necro took another step, turning them so James' back was to the mound. "It could be that I'm trying to protect your reputation."
Wildfire's eyes narrowed as he closed his hand on the grip the gun. "What are you talking about?"
The Necro bared His teeth in a grin and raised His hands. "I wouldn't want people to realize how stupid you really are. Honestly, kid, can't even recognize a burial mound? I thought I taught you better than that."
James swore under his breath, spun in time to see the first graveling launch itself at him, and fell on his ass.
"You didn't really think I'd be here without back-up, did you kid?" There was a note of laughter in the Necro's voice. Wildfire ignored Him, watched the graveling fly over his head, and kicked another one away.
Okay. Time for a new plan.
Scrabbling on his hands and knees, lashing out to try to keep the gravelings away, Wildfire fought his way to his weapons bag.
"I don't think so," the Necro called in a sing-song voice, tossing a ball of darkness at the weapons bags and casting it out into the night. But not before Wildfire closed his hand on the grip of his least favourite weapon.
Wooden word, edged with silver. The "optimal" weapon when fighting undead.
James stared at it in dismay for a heartbeat, then bellowed in pain when one of the gravelings closed its teeth on his calf.
Fuck it. Why not?
With a wordless roar, Wildfire whirled the sword over his head and launched himself into the fight.
Gravelings were small, ridiculously fast, with razor sharp claws and teeth. Wildfire didn't even feel the cuts in his flesh, just focused on swinging his sword at them. They were fast, yes, but weak, unorganized, and deathly allergic to silver.
Wildfire lunged and parried, swinging through their tiny bodies. Every time one dropped another crawled out of the burial mound. Who knew how many recent dead the Necro had to pull from.
Still, Wildfire fought. The rage was gone. The desperation and panic were gone. He was cold, empty. Cutting them down, kicking them away, ripping them off his body with his free hand. He was no more than a soldier, a warrior, an instrument of death.
The Necro danced around the edge of the fight, conjuring his army, urging them on, cursing as they fell. But he made no further move to cast darkness at Wildfire. Either He was saving His strength, or He really was out of power without something to feed on.
Well. Only one way to find out.
Moving carefully, Wildfire pushed his way towards the mound. Footing was treacherous - slick with blood and gore, cluttered with small corpses. As he neared the mound he tossed the sword to his left hand, and reached into his pocket with his right.
Closer.
Slice a graveling's head off, blink against the spray of blood.
Closer.
Duck a pitiful wash of darkness from the Necro, throw a graveling at him in response.
Closer.
Closer.
Now!
Bringing the holy water grenade to his mouth, Wildfire tore the pin out with his teeth and tossed it into the mound.
"NO!" The Necro's voice broke as He raised His hand to throw darkness and intercept the grenade.
But his power was gone.
Acting on instinct, James dropped to the ground, curled into a ball, and wrapped his arms over his head.
BOOM!
The shockwave went through him, rattling every bone in his body. He tasted stagnant water, muck, and blood. High pitched ringing pulsed in his ears. When he opened his eyes, everything seemed to fade in and out. Snapshots of death - broken gravelings, tiny skeletons and limbs, the remains of the fallen warlocks.
Over the ringing he could hear screams as the shockwave hit the army. The mist burned vampires to ash, sizzled along the flesh of zombies and soldiers alike. True holy water didn't distinguish between undead and mortal sinners.
Wildfire forced himself to his feet, staggered drunkenly. Every inch of bare flesh had been stripped a layer. Arms, legs, throat and face slick with blood, he looked like a walking meat puppet.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to focus. There was still something he had to do. Bishop. The Necro. What about . . .
"Damn you!" The sword hit James from behind, knocking him back to the ground, the silver edge biting into the back of his neck - if the Necro hadn't been exhausted from battle, James would have lost his head.
"Do you have any idea? Do you?!" The music in Bishop's voice was gone. He was shrill, screaming, battering at James with His sword. James scrambled back, rolling around on the ground to dodge as best he could, blocking with his arms when he couldn't.
"All I've given. All I've done. And you think you can finish me with some fucking water?"
"No." Wildfire lashed out, kicked Bishop square in the knee cap, relishing in His scream of pain. The Necro dropped, but managed to sweep His sword out and knock James' feet out from under him.
Gritting his teeth, Wildfire stood once more, reached to the small of his back and pulled out his back-up.
The gun Bishop - his partner, his friend, his teacher - gave him for his first hunt.
The Necro looked up at him, pale grey eyes confused. "Wildfire?"
"Goodbye, Bishop."
He pulled the trigger, and the Necro's eyes went blank.
***
They found him lying on his back, staring at the sky. He was surrounded by bodies, covered in blood, his fist still closed around the grip of a small pistol. But there was a clear blue sky above him, and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"Wildfire? James? You alright, son?"
The voice seemed to come from very far away. It was familiar, but he didn't want to move. It had been so long since he'd seen the sky. So long since he could just rest.
"Wildfire? It's over. You did it. You saved us."
Maybe he'd just stay here, a little while longer. He'd done what was asked of him . . . whatever that was. Everything seemed hazy, like trying to remember a story that he'd heard as a child.
"The Necro's dead. You killed him. James? Wildfire? Can you hear me?"
It was finished. The world was saved. He could sleep now. Really sleep. But the sky was so beautiful, he just wanted to stare at it. Just for a while, just for a little while.
"He's not breathing. Where's the medic? Someone get a fucking medic over here!"
He tilted his head slightly, and saw the silhouette of the Tower blocking out the weak December sun. It was pocked with holes, dozens of windows missing, smoke drifting from the upper floors. But it was still standing. The Tower was standing, the Necro was dead, and the humans were alive.
Rest.
As always: comments are strongly encouraged.