Tripping the Line

September 2001 – Al Anbar, Iraq

“We jump in thirty,” yelled the team leader.

Chris leaned back, breathing deeply, preparing himself to drop from the air and enter “The X”. As the Bell UH-1N Iroquois, helicopter, better known as the ‘Huey’, floated up and over the low hills of the Iraqi countryside, the marines watched the faded brown landscape pass beneath them through the open side doors. The fresh air helped to offset the oily stale metallic air from the interior of the metal box. He and five others sat facing each other in two rows of three, strapped in hard chairs with their backs pressed up against the vibrating fuselage.

Dusk was creeping across the sky to the east, but it was not quite dark enough for night vision. The helicopter had been flying due north at over 150 miles per hour for roughly an hour.

When not in wartime operations, moving across the open ground of Iraq was considered an act of war, but the six man team of Force RECON Marines had been dispatched to rescue three “independent” contractors who had been gathering intelligence in the region. The commander was clear with his orders.

“Our overpaid mercs are pinned down in a dilapidated farm house on the edge of a wheat field. I have assured command and the press that we are not, I repeat, NOT, going to rescue them.

“You all have been chosen to be a Recapture Tactics Team, or RTT, because you are trained in close quarters battle. As the RTT, you will conduct an In-Extremis Hostage Rescue before these men are killed or captured. Get in, get them, get out. We can’t afford to have them running their damn mouths. If you are caught, well, you know the drill, Donovan.” He ended by making eye contact with the team lead, Donovan. “No one knows we are there.”

The RTT waited for the signal to rappel from the sides of the Huey. Using hand signals, Donovan motioned for the co-pilot to drop the altitude to a height of fifty feet.

Abruptly, the helicopter angled and curved to the south. The pilot spoke over the radio, “The LZ is hot! Repeat, the LZ is hot! Recommend that we abort.”

Through the open doors of the sharply banking helicopter, the marines could see Iraqi soldiers arriving at the edge of the rows of wheat, constantly firing to hold the contractors in place inside the old shack.

“Hell no!” Chris yelled.

They are never going to make it. Even if we land and approach on foot, we are too late. The failures of the past were ghosts that haunted Chris’ sleep and cast a shadow over his waking hours. Since losing Smalls and his entire team, with the exception of Deely, just less than twenty miles from where they now flew, his new unit had been moved frequently.

And each move seemed like a failure. They lost two UN workers in East Timor, two journalists in Kabul, four Afghan informers in the search for Osama bin Laden, the twelve engineers – . Again. I’m not going to be able to save the people that I am supposed to protect. But I can.

Anger began to stir. As the slack man on the team, he was there to assist. He had absolutely no input on the decision to stay or leave.

Then Chris felt the familiar sensation begin to grow. The adrenaline induced speed of thought.

If I can harness this speed and adrenaline, I can save those men.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl.

Chris welcomed the warm feeling of blood pounding through his head and the shades of red that crept into the corner of his eyes. He reached his hand across his front and released the belts that held him to the chair. He heard his leader tell him to buckle his belt, but by that time he had stood to his feet. The jerking of the helicopter seemed more like the slow rolling motion of a dock rather than a platform jerking left and right at over 100 miles per hour.

This helmet is going to just get in my way. So is this pack.

In the briefest of movements, he tossed his helmet across the helicopter into the team leaders lap and shrugged out of his vest and gear, dropping them onto the floor.

Donovan saw Chris moving quickly and barked orders, “Parker, buckle your belt. Parker, this is an order, stay in your seat, put on your gear. Parker!” Every word was lost in the roar of the engine.

He knew that at the speed he was moving, he would be gone before they could even register what had happened. He made sure the rappelling rope was attached to a buckle, he dove forward, grabbing the rope as he jumped, and watched as the inside of the helicopter disappear as he rushed toward the ground.

The speed of falling was nothing compared to the speed in which his mind processed what he needed to hit the ground safely. The rope snapped as it held tight against the buckle, and he began to swing in a momentum driven arc like the playground game of tether ball.

“Land now!” Donovan yelled through his com to the pilot.

“Can’t land right now, the soldier is hanging below us.” The pilot yelled into his headset.

Chris waited for the swing of the rope to send him back in the direction of the enemy troops, and then let go of the rope and calculated the angle he would land and the necessary speed he would have to roll to keep from being injured in the landing.

Then there was a gentle shift in weight, and the Huey adjusted to the change.

A glance forward showed him that he would land on the south edge of the field, now some distance from where the enemy troops were beginning to sweep through the field under cover of the tall wheat, toward the farmhouse.

Upon landing, he rolled twice and then carried the momentum into his feet in a full sprint toward the back of the enemy.

Donovan watched through the opening in the back as he saw the blur that was Chris Parker run toward the field. “You can land!” Then he motioned for the men to exit the helicopter and lie prone at the edge of the low hill the low hill overlooking the field and shack from the far end.

Resembling the periscopes of submarines parting the waves, the Force RECON team could count fourteen hostiles spread out and approaching the cabin through the tall wheat fields.

At the nearest edge of the field just below the team, they could see a solitary something moving swiftly toward the enemy, parting the waves of light brown crops like a torpedo through the same portion of the sea.

They could only assume that it was Chris, although the speed that he moved toward the hostile farthest to the right was inhuman.

They watched as he approached, and one by one, the soldiers dropped beneath the waves as the blur of movement swept from right to left, eliminating anyone in his path.

Chris let the adrenaline flow freely, and it felt as if the more he wanted, the more he had. He knew that he was moving faster than he ever had before. With some extra focus, he could hear and sense every Iraqi hostile creeping through the field.

From his jump, he had been able to tell that the enemies plan was to surround the cabin at the edge of the field and take prisoners. Otherwise they would have blown the cabin up by now and moved on. He had no intention of allowing that.

Systematically he moved from hostile to hostile, taking each by surprise, and making sure that neither he nor his victims made a sound. He used momentum to take them to the ground while muffling them with their own scarves, and then used any manner of weapon they happened to carry to immobilize them.

He neared the edge of the field and realized that aside from the fifteen or so that he had dispatched in the field, there were four standing guard by the two pickup trucks that had carried the troops.

Chris pulled up and the edge of the field and paused, ever so slightly to consider his options. His mind was processing the surroundings along with possible scenarios for the way this should play out. His plan became clear and the resolution sound.

Donovan tapped Evans on the shoulder and gave the signal that he should take out the men by the vehicles. Chris was moving through the men in the field and would be finished in a matter of seconds.

Evans slung his M24 sniper rifle around and adjusted the scope for the distance and the gentle breeze.

Chris walked directly into Evans’ line of sight, standing in front of the most obvious first target.

“Parker is intentionally blocking my shot.” Evans said softly.

“What the fuck!” Donavan exclaimed. “What’s his plan?”

“He’s talking, using a lot of gestures, and pointing at us.”

“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” Donovan mumbled.

“Now he has his hands out in front of him. They are tying his hands and moving him to the trucks.”

“What the -?”

“Sir, he just winked at me.”

“Get to the Huey, get down there, and finish our rescue. When that asshole gets back I’m going to court-martial him all the way down to toilet cleaner. He’ll be wiping shit from my boots when I’m done with his insubordinate ass.”

The sky had turned dark purple to the east and the setting sun to the west cast an eerie glow. Sergeant Chris Parker bounced around the back of an old Toyota pickup truck. Two AK-47s and four dark brown eyes were pointed directly at him. He sat with his arms and legs bound tight, head down, and eyes closed.

The Iraqi soldiers had gladly agreed to take an American infidel Special Forces soldier as a hostage in exchange for the four contractors that had sought refuge in the dilapidated farm house. This gift from Allah had cost them fifteen of their best men, but in the end would be worth it. The intelligence and knowledge they would glean would be worth hundreds of soldiers.

Chris’ head bobbed back and forth as he brought his focus within. Rather than lose the adrenaline and anger that had fueled his rage, he was merely holding it back, like a foaming, growling dog on a leash, waiting for the moment he would be released.

The team worked efficiently to clean the area, leaving no trace of anyone ever being in the place, and strapped back into the helicopter.

The pilot turned and looked at Donovan, with a questioning glance in his eyes, waiting for direction. Donovan was conflicted: His mission was to rescue the contractors; his sworn duty was to protect his men.

But what do I do when one of my men surrendered himself, will be tortured, and has many secrets to share.

He glanced at his watch. They had been at the site for twenty minutes. He motioned to the pilot to take off and talked through the mic, “Head to the village where Sergeant Parker was taken. It is not more than ten clicks northeast of here.

Evans and Costas, get on the fifty cals and get ready to make a mess.”

The Huey jumped into the air and angled sharply forward, quickly accelerating to max speed.

Chris was sitting inside a one room house. Legs crossed, hands bound behind his back. The men had tied a blindfold around his eyes and still thrown a thick black shroud over his head.

His senses were peaked, and he could hear the conversations carrying on outside. The language meant nothing to him, but the intent was clear. They had no idea what to do with him next.

Then a voice broke through in broken English. “I talk. He talk.”

Several men entered the building, and the hood and blindfold was pulled from off his head.

“Look to me!” The man yelled. “You tell us everything we ass.”

Chris smiled to himself at the humor of the interrogators mixed up words, but didn’t look up to make eye contact, which confused his integrator and increased the volume of his yelling.

“You look, or we will torture. Where you from?”

Chris opened his eyes, head still down, and looked under his brows across the room at the interrogator. “The hood.”

“So you do understand. Teach now and we will kick you swiftly. What is hood? Is a fort?”

A broad smile spread across Chris’ face. The humor he found in the broken English and the mis-used words were beginning to diminish his determination to eliminate this enemy camp. He was losing focus in the simple way these rag tag soldiers seemed so helpless. Then he realized that his laughter could also provide energy to his anger. His smile grew even more, so much so that he took on the appearance of a grinning jack’o lantern. He slowly raised his head to make direct eye contact with each of the men in the room.

Chris held to this alertness and tension as long as he could. He knew they wouldn’t allow him to stay there for long without talking. He only had to be patient.

The interrogator stepped forward and swung the stock of his rifle at Chris’ face. Where it should have made smashing contact, it swung cleanly through the air, and then Chris’ face was again exactly where it should have been.

“You will shit still! We will perish you. You know not the hurt feeling we provide.”

And that was it. He couldn’t contain himself any longer, and he started to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed so hard his side began to hurt and he rolled sideways. Ever growing, the laughter moved into hysterics – the lost maniacal sounds of someone who has experienced the worst and doesn’t have the tolerance to stand for more, and just doesn’t care.

The laughter came from deep within, and seemed uncontrollable. Chris continued laughing while curling himself into a fetal shape, knees on the floor.

Two men approached.

Chris pushed backwards, launching himself directly at the interrogator.

The impact knocked the Iraqi soldier through the open doorway, Chris landing on top of him, wriggling and squirming. The interrogator had a knife at his waist, and by the time he could recover from the blow, Chris had grabbed the knife and cut himself free.

Knife in hand, Chris fell into a regular pattern of destruction and dominance. To those he assailed, he was less a man and more a wind of pain and loss. The Blur dodged and moved at a speed greater than the mind could fully comprehend. In his path he left blood and gore, shattered and broken bones, disarmed and disabled weapons, and dead soldiers.

The longer he let himself stay within the anger and adrenaline fueled frenzy, the more his reality seemed to fade. Every time he turned, he could see people, or beings, in the corner of his vision.

After a moment, everything he saw had the same look as when a storm is pushing dark clouds towards you from the edge of the horizon, but the sun is still casting a bright glow on everything in front of the clouds.

Shadows and silhouettes moved and shifted, and Chris fought against the confusion. He continued to see more of what wasn’t there, and less of what was real. Small figures all around his knees were moving quickly, back and forth, swinging weapons at each other. Some carried swords…other carried massive battle axes or large clubs. A bright flash of light flashed and sparked every time weapons collided.

Directly above the Iraqi village, the air changed. The sky turned from clear azure to a rolling mound of clouds. Two colors swirled continuously. A dark crimson fog was casting an angry glow over the landscape, and wrapped into that redness, a dark grey strand that seemed to writhe.

“Leave. Now!” a voice boomed from behind Chris.

He jumped forward and spun. The movement seemed effortless. Much like running with the wind at his back, everything moved at the speed that he chose. There was no limit.

A figure in dark cloak and hood jumped from behind Chris, covering the 20 feet in one leap. Mid-air, his right arm swung around, and from his fingers extended four sharp blades angling toward Chris’ head.

Even after all of the fighting that Chris had recently endured, his mind still slowed down to an even more thoughtful state that during his moments of rage.

In less time than it took for the warrior to reach the apex of his jump, Chris’ mind began to reel. He is not human. Really big, at least ten feet tall. Ancient battle armor. Knives for fingers, pale skin, pointy teeth grinning, jumping long distances, deep swirling liquid eyes. It needs to die.

Thoughts continued to pour as he was still air borne on the way to slice Chris into two. How did I get here? How did he get here? Man, he is big. Why would anyone have teeth that pointy? Why would he be wearing armor?

The creature’s feet landed. His legs bent to lower him with the swing of his talons. He bent at the waist to gather strength from his stomach and back. His arm muscles strained to pull the claws through the rest of their arc

Chris stepped back and to the right, spinning his torso to the left. Four talons swept through empty space. His right elbow struck down on the monsters wrist and he felt the sick crack of shattering bone. He continued to spin his body in a counter clockwise circle, swinging his left elbow backwards toward the monsters face connecting just below the ear.

Normally, when a connection has been made, especially with bone, momentum stops. This did not. Upon contact, the victims head spun away from The Blur’s elbow, the impact was similar to a baseball bat connecting with a bag of beans. He was dead the minute connection was made.

Chris stared in shock at the pile of bone and flesh that lay in a heap beside me. This is not right. This is not right!

When he looked up, he was surrounded by giants, all of them with the same look and stature of the one he had just fought, some of them bigger and bulkier than humanly possible, carrying swords, battle axes, and shields. They did not move toward Chris. They stared, with a level of disgust that caught Chris by surprise.

A massive, armor clad warrior stepped forward. He held no shield, but in both arms carried battle axes, one arm extended toward Chris.

He spoke in a low gravely tone, spit flying from his mouth every time he pronounced a word with his lips. The accent was thick, like words spoken by a mouth with no tongue.

“hhuuuee…whoo yought beyong here in Shan Beyamush. Eave us.”

The men parted, and one, thin figure passed between them.

He did not fit with the others. Clothed in black, but wearing no armor, this one carried a sword at his waist.

The man stepped softly toward Chris pulled his hood back enough to show his crystal eyes. He wore layered clothes that all were shades of grey. His boots were dulled leather, and looked to have been worn for a very long time.

A clear voice addressed Chris. “He is right, you do not belong here.” Then with a tilt of the head, he studied Chris for several seconds. Leave this San Bellumus now.”

Chris didn’t move. His face wore a mask of wonder and confusion.

A Cheshire cat smile spread across his face, and revealed razor sharp teeth“Ah, I see. You have no idea what you have done. This is a – a bellumus is a battle ground, I believe that is a word that will relate to you. This is a San Bellumus, meaning a great battle ground. Your impact here will have heavy repercussions. Leave this place.” He spoke. His voice was deep and laced with authority.

“We are done here.” He quickly glanced behind him and then back at Chris. “You don’t know how to leave, do you? You have no clue how you arrived. If you are still here when Savonarola arrives, I think it will be your end. I, on the other hand, would be greatly disappointed if we do not meet again in the future.”

He signaled to the giant warrior. A massive hand reached into a leather pouch producing a small round object, tossing it at Chris’ feet. Chris felt himself falling into a pink light, the adrenaline rush fading fast. His body began to shiver uncontrollably and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Then he collapsed into a heap. In the distance a soft repeating thud seemed to drift into his consciousness.

—–

“We have the village in sight. Night vision and infra-red show no movement. Several heat signatures behind walls. One contact in the open, not moving, prone.”

“Are you positive it is the correct village?” Donovan replied to the pilot.

“Yes, sir. The vehicles from the farm are parked outside one of the buildings.”

The pilot flew one sweep around the compound before landing the helicopter in a defensive position while the team swept the village.

Five soldiers met together in the center of the area, standing over the unconscious body of Chris Parker.

“Report.”

“We have eleven hostiles dead, three wounded. Twenty women and children in scattered huts, all unarmed and cooperative.”

“And Parker’s condition?” Donovan addressed Costas.

“Seems unharmed, in shock. Need to get him back.”

“Any sign of a struggle?”

Evans shook his head, “No sir, no weapons discharged. Chris’ hands are bloody and bruised though.”

“Fourteen hostiles down, no shots fired?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let’s get back to base. This hotshot bastard has some questions to answer.”

“I will report the mission was successful, sir. All accounted for and safe.” Summers, the radio man, replied.

“That is how I intend to write it up.”

A Flair for the Theatrical

June 3rd, 2005

Chris walked up to the mountain of a man standing on the corner. The giant wore a long black trench coat, a black t-shirt, black cargo pants, and matching black military boots. His beard was thick and curly, but his hair was shaved close to his scalp. Chris looked up into his dark eyes and said, “You realize that this isn’t the best corner to stand on, right?”

“It, in fact, is the ideal corner. It is well marked, and in close proximity to our destination,” the man replied without acknowledging Chris’ presence.

“I know, but others will suspect that you are up to something.”

Ivan made a grand show of looking around, twisting his head, leaning over, straining to look up and down the streets. “I see no one, anywhere, of whose opinion I am the least bit concerned.” Ivan locked eyes with the smaller, thin, young man. He sized his escort up. Chris’ hair was high and tight. He wore a crisp pink polo shirt and blue jeans. He stood straight, like a man used to standing at attention. Ivan snorted in condescending amusement. “I assume you are my local expert?”

“Yes, sir. Name’s Chris,” Chris said extending his hand.

Ivan sighed and looked off into the sky. “Your name is unimportant. You won’t live long enough for it to be worth remembering, Gracanjo.” Ivan sniffed the air.

“I might surprise you,” Chris retorted with a smile.

Ivan sniffed the air. “You smell new.” He sniffed again. “And unwise. Where is your elder?”

“He said this wasn’t really his scene,” Chris said with a grin. “He’s got better things to do than be your errand boy.”

Ivan laughed. “But you do not, I see. Errand Boy it is then. Or just Boy. Yes, small and young Gracanjo. From now on, to the Rothman you are ‘Boy.’”

“Are you ready to go?” Chris said, rolling his eyes. Darryl, his partner, had warned him that Ivan Rothman was an ass.

“I have been waiting on you, boy,” Ivan corrected, accentuating Chris’ new nickname.

Chris rolled his eyes. “This way,” he said as he walked down the street with his hands shoved his hands into his pockets.

Ivan spun on his heel, whipping his long black coat around behind him and moving into step behind Chris.

They walked away from the lights of the city, into an abandoned industrial area. Tall vacant warehouses and steel mills created long sheer valleys of sheet metal siding, broken every so often by an empty loading dock or decrepit dumpster that served no purpose.

They turned right at the next corner and headed for a windowless door that was flush against the side of the building. The door was held shut by a large key padlock.

Chris knocked and then stepped back to wait.

They stared at the door together.

Ivan huffed with impatience.

“Be patient,” Chris said.

“You, boy, are supposed to be my local expert. You have one job. Only one. Escort me. Any you, boy, have escorted me to a closed door.”

“Just be patient,” Chris said, then he knocked again.

“The boy is a terrible escort,” Ivan said under his breath.

More minutes passed. There was no sound. The only light was a dim glow from a street lamp that repeated the same process every 30 seconds of warming to its maximum brightness and then shutting off completely.

Ivan shuffled his black leather boots on the sidewalk, looked down at Chris, then back up to the rusted metal door and said “Contrico tempore!”

Chris laughed. “I don’t know what you just said, but just wait, okay?”

“The Rothman hates to wait,” Ivan grumbled crossing his arms across his bulging chest. “We should break in.”

“Listen,” Chris said rubbing his hair with both hands, “I was told you knock and you wait. So we have knocked and now we are going to wait.”

“Boy? Are you saying that you have never been here before?”

“Of course I’ve never been here. I don’t hang out in places like this.”

“You, boy, are the worst escort I’ve ever had – and I’ve had a lot of escorts. Once a stupid Gracanjo got me lost in the catacombs of Calcutta for two years. I abandon him there to play alone with the rats.”

Chris stepped forward and pounded on the steel door a third time. He screamed, “Hey! Open up!”

“You are wasting my time, boy. You should not dare to waste my friend’s time like this. He will not be as kind as I am being right now, boy.”

“Where is your friend, anyway? I thought we were here for him,” Chris said.

“He likes to make an entrance,” Ivan replied coldly.

The door scraped open. Ivan laughed as he and Chris realized that the lock holding the door shut was a fake, held against the door by a simple magnet. They could have pulled it open at any time.

On the other side of the door was a bald tattooed man with sleepy eyes. “Head to through the doors at the back into the next building,” he muttered looking back over his shoulder.

They walked in silence for more than a minute until coming to an open doorway. Above the door a hand scribbled sign said “All Comps MUST regester with Boomer B4 fitin”.

Ivan stopped and pronounced the words on the sign. “All comps must re-gester with Boomer, bah, roh, before fit-in?”

Chris corrected, “All competitors must register with Boomer before fighting. I assumed you could read, old man.”

“I can read. I can read twenty-seven languages. I can read languages you will never have the privilege of seeing. I read can read languages, boy, that are so old they are lost to history and only exist in my mind. But that gibberish,” Ivan said pointing angrily at the sign, “is not writing.”

“Follow me,” Chris said shaking his head as he stepped through the doorway into another massive building.

At the near end to the left was an open garage door wide enough for several trucks to drive through. Across a space that seemed the size of a basketball court stood the far wall that stretched two stories tall. The rest of the building stretched out to the right in an open expanse at least twice the width of the old steel mill.

Chris and Ivan crossed a large portion of the empty space and proceeded toward the milling crowd. Chis stopped just short of the press of people and looked up in frustration. He turned to Ivan and said “Everyone here is huge. I can’t see anything through the crowd.”

Ivan looked out at the crowd. “Maybe you are just small, boy.” Ivan peered over the heads of the mass of men. “I speculate that Boomer is that direction,” he said, pointing through the crowd.

Chris started weaving his way through a packed crowd of men and women, all sizes and builds. No one seemed to mind as he reached his arm through small gaps of elbows and muscles to push open a path to where he hoped Boomer was. Ivan followed as closely as possible, and from anyone looking on from above they would have seen a close cropped head of black hair part the crowd like a boat in the water. Where Chris had passed through the crowd almost unnoticed, Ivan was assaulted by sinister stares, as if they were estimating the price of a sow at the state fair before an auction.

Chris came to an abrupt halt to keep from bumping into the tattoo of the Punishers skull on the hair covered bare back of a man in front of him. The man towered above Chris. Chris looked up at the Punishers head, back at Ivan’s forehead where his hairline ended in a point, and back at the Punishers head. “Wow, he’s almost got you beat. Must be six and a half?”

After 30 seconds, the beast of a man moved away to reveal a small table built of stacked plastic crates. Behind the table, stood a stocky short bald man. The bald man finished counting through twenty dollar bills, snapped a large rubber band around the roll, and yelled, “NEXT!”

Chris stepped forward.

“New guy.” he growled in frustration, “I ain’t got time.”

Chris looked the man in the eyes. “I assume you are Boomer?”

The man turned his massive forearm over to show the underneath side where a fire red tattoo in calligraphy font read BOOMER.

Chris tilted his head sideways, like a dog trying to identify a new sound. “We are supposed to see you if we want to pay to fight?”

“Yeah?” Boomer let his eyes slowly move from the top of Chris’ head to his feet and then back to meet his eyes. “Are you sure about this? People don’t like lame ducks wasting their time.”

“Oh, no, not for me. I am paying for someone else to fight.”

Boomer eyed Ivan and mumbled, “Not bad, what’s your name.”

Ivan stood straighter that he had been and his voice resonated, “I am the Rothman. You have never seen the likes of me.”

“Is he for real?” the bald man said to Chris.

Chris replied, “That’s not the guy. That’s the guy’s friend.”

“We are not friends,” Ivan said to himself.

“The guy is on his way,” Chris explained.

“Fine. One hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills only and a name.”

Chris leaned sideways to reach into his pocket and extract a wad of cash, handing it to Boomer.

“Name?” Boomer said as he counted the cash.

“Ivan, what’s your friends name?” Chris asked.

“Lawson. Today it shall be Lawson,” Ivan said with authority.

“Spell it, ” Boomer demanded.

Ivan pronounced each letter as if it caused him pain. “L, a, w, s, o, n.”

Boomer looked up and said “Fine. Lawson.” Then looking past Ivan and Chris he yelled, “NEXT.”

Ivan, indignant with the lack of respect from Boomer, said, “Have you no interest in the capability of the man we will be presenting? He will non provocation patior.”

Boomer looked at Chris with question in his dull eyes, exasperated by the two men in front of him.

“Uh, what Ivan means to say is, don’t you want to know how good he is?”

“I mean to say what I said, boy,” Ivan snapped.

“What Ivan’s getting at is that Lawson will not be happy if he shows up to fight someone that is too easy.”

“Too easy?” Boomer asked surprised by the request. Most newbies wanted the easiest fight they could get.

“Death must be on the line,” Ivan said coldly.

Boomer closed his eyes and sighed. “Ok, fine, if you want to pay an extra one thousand dollars I can put Lawson at the end of the night. He’s fight the champ. Otherwise he fights his way through the ranks just like everyone else.”

Chris turned over his clump of twenty dollar bills and dropped them on the table. Then he leaned to reach into the other pocket and pulled out another fistful of twenty dollar bills and dropped them on the table. “That should do it. What time is the fight?”

Boomer looked up at Chris with disbelief. “Are you for real? What is it with you two? Can’t you just sit down and wait your turn like everyone else.”

“The Rothman does not wait in line,” Ivan said dismissively.

“Shit. Fine,” Boomer said. “Each fight lasts no more than ten minutes, last fight starts promptly at two.” Then once again Boomer looked past them and screamed, “NEXT!”

They turned and pushed back through the crowd together. Chris looked up at Ivan and said, “This is going to be a long night.”

When they arrived at an open area, they stopped. Ivan surveyed the crowd again. “How many warriors will die tonight, boy?” he asked..

“No one dies. This is the MMA. Ultimate Fighting stuff..”

“Why are they allowed to call it ‘ultimate’ if no one dies? It can’t be ‘ultimate’ unless it is to the death.”

“It’s a league. This is where it starts. Then you work your way up to the championship.”

“This is dumb. You are a terrible escort, boy.”

“You said your friend, uh, Lawson, wanted a real challenge. This is the biggest human challenge there is in the States.”

Ivan snorted in retort, unimpressed. Chris looked around and was satisfied that he could see the doors and the crowd, as well as the raised section of the floor that served as a ring. He glanced toward the wide garage door at the far end of the space wondered how many shades would be coming in later to feed off of the hate and pain that this old steel mill would contain tonight. Chris leaned to a woman to his right and asked, “So, how does this work?”

She looked toward Chris and her arching eyebrows made the studs pierced through her forehead stand straight out. Her hair was dyed purple and braided into six strands that hung to her shoulder.

“First time, huh?”

“Yeah, this is new to me.”

“So, okay,” She lifted her arm to point toward Boomer, accenting the tattoo of a snake that wriggled its way from shoulder to palm. “At the beginning of every match, Boomer will announce the record for each fighter along with the shortest time that it has taken to beat each fighter. If it’s a first timer, he’s called a ‘gimme’ and he doesn’t have a time. The amount of money each fighter wins is proportionate to how strong his record is and how fast the fight goes.”

“So, a first timer doesn’t have a time to beat to get a payout?”

“First timers don’t normally win, but if they do, they win the max payout for the fight.”

“Huh. And when does the timer start?”

“The timer starts when both fighters say they are ready.”

“What if things get out of hand?”

“Out of hand? It always gets out of hand. But, the rules are pretty simple. Don’t bite or scratch. No weapons or anything like that. And if things get too ‘out of hand’, Boomer and his boys step in. But it never goes that far. Once you have seen what his boys do, you don’t act out.”

Ivan leaned close to Chris. “Go to a phone and put the number ‘2’ into Lawson’s little black messaging box.”

“It’s called a pager,” Chris mumbled as he turned and walked toward the exit to look for a pay phone.

“I don’t care, boy” Ivan said, watching the ring as the first fight began.

The night moved fairly quickly. Fights lasted anywhere from less than ten seconds to the full ten minutes. The fights that “lasted out” were judged by Boomers guys and they decided the winner.There was one fighter that clearly was the “One to Beat”.

“Boy, clarify something for me.?” Ivan said as Boomer’s boys dragged an unconscious man from the ring.

“Shoot..”

“The hairy beast that we were behind in line, he is the crowd’s chosen, right?”

“You mean the crowd favorite. Yes, he seems to be.”

“His name is ‘Razor’?”

“Yeah. You think Lawson can take him.”

Ivan laughed. Ignoring Chris’ question, he continued, “Why would a warrior name themselves after something so small?””

Chris clamped his eyes close in disbelief. “I, I don’t know” he stuttered with frustration. “It’s scary. Razor is a scary name.”

“This is stupid. I miss Rome,” Ivan said. “The Romans knew how to hold a fight.”

Chris looked at Ivan in confusion. “Who are you? And who is this Lawson? Why are we here? This all seems, uh, off mission. This is off mission.”

“Ha!” Ivan laughed, smacking his leg. “The Gracanjo speaks of mission. What does the boy know of mission? Ha, ha. You will not live long enough to understand mission. You are like a disposable rag.”

“I don’t have to take this shit,” Chris said angrily, standing to leave.

“Alright, please stay,” Ivan relented, still laughing. “Lawson and I, we have deep history. We have an arrangement. We do things for each other. This is a favor I can do for him, he likes to be challenged. I also feel that the time has come to keep him proxime.”

Chris sat back down and sighed.

“But I fear this Razor will not be a challenge enough. Lawson may think of it as an insult.”

“But Razor is huge,” Chris said in disbelief. “And he’s fought twice tonight and no one’s even laid a hand on him.”

“Veritas,” Ivan replied.

“And you don’t think he’ll be a challenge?”

“This is what I said. Yes.” Ivan pointed to the digital clock hanging from a pole on the corner of the ring. It read 1:55. “We shall know soon.”

Chis began looking around excited to see this Lawson he’d waited all night for. “Maybe he’s here, and we just don’t see him yet?”

Ivan shook his head slowly. “No, you will know when he arrives.. He has a certain theatrici.”

“Theatrici?”

“He is not known for discretion, he can be, um, theatrical.”

“Like how?” Chris said with a curious grin.

“As he becomes more acclimated to current culture, he takes inspiration from what he sees. I believe that your World Wrestling Federation has given him many ideas. For a while he would rip a shirt off before a competition and walk around the ring waving his hands in the air for the crowd to cheer. Once he claimed to be the Ultimate Warrior, but he found that there was another competitor by that name. Before that, years ago when an actor named John Wayne was popular, Lawson liked to enter fights on a horse. He wor leather and boots and a large cowboy hat. His most recent fascination has been with your Terminator movies. He finds it difficult to separate veritas from falsum. He has requested me to find him Arnold Schwarzenegger because he believes the metal robot to be a fair challenge in single combat.” The clock turned 1:56. “He said he would even allow Arnold to bring two large guns to the battle field.”

Chris laughed in disbelief, “Well, if he doesn’t show, we will have a lot of angry people to deal with.”

They waited longer, watching the clock to tick another minute..

Boomer pressed through the crowd and appeared in front of Chris. “So, new guys, here’s how it works.. If your guy doesn’t show by two, one of you are going to stand in his place. And then, if you don’t last at least more than sixty seconds with Razor, I’m going to turn away and whatever happens, happens. This crowd doesn’t take kindly to waiting an entire night for some lame waste of skin an’ bones.” Boomer gazed up at Chris, eyes burning with anger.

Chris’ soft blue eyes showed humility as he leaned over to look close into Boomer’s face. “He will be here, or I will stand in his place.” Chris replied timidly.

The gentle eyes transformed into a deep dark blue, and Chris growled “And if I do, you won’t be disappointed.”

Ivan laughed and smacked Chris on the back in approval. “Look at the boy,” he said proudly to Boomer. “He has giant stones, no? I love it!” He squeezed Chris’ shoulder and said, “You are my favorite Gracanjo since Augusta of Carthage.” Then turning back to Boomer, Ivan added. “New deal. If my friend does not show, I will snap this Razor’s neck and then come for you.” Ivan’s smile filled his face. He drew close to the now unsure Boomer, “Because you do not threaten the Rothman and live. Are we clear?”

Boomer shook his head and held his hands up defensively. “I just don’t want to disappoint the crowd, okay,” he said backing away. “These people are animals.”

The clock flipped to 1:59, and Boomer made his way to the center of the ring.

He held his hands up and the crowd grew silent.

“Now for our main event,” Boomer screamed. “In this corner I give you our champion, Razor!” The crowd responded with wild cheers. “Forty seven fights and still undefeated.”

Cheers and applause erupted again until Boomer again held his hands up in the air.

The clock turned 2:00.

“Our second contestant, for the first time in our ring, is -.”

A burst of sound interrupted the introduction. It seemed like rolling thunder moving down the street until entering the building at the far end. When it cleared the garage doors, the roar became a deafening rumble that rolled through the warehouse as an all-black Harley Davidson Iron 883 Sportster. Closer to the crowd the bike slowed and gurgled its way to the edge of the audience. Tires as wide as Razor’s arms slowly pressed their way into the edge of the crowd.

The rider on the black motorcycle was bald and dressed in a black t-shirt that stretched over lean muscles. He wore black boots, faded jeans, and large mirrored sunglasses. He held one finger in the air.

Boomer looked over to Chris.

Chris looked at Ivan.

Ivan shook his head one time, yes.

Energized by the showmanship, Boomer screamed, “And facing Razor is the undefeated, the unknown, the unseen, Lawson!”

The crowd cheered wildly in response. Loving the attention, Lawson gunned the engine of his bike again. “To the death!” he screamed with joy.

“Not to the death,” Ivan screamed back.

Lawson turned to the stands, furious. “Not to the death?” he screamed at Ivan.

“No killing,” Ivan yelled, apologetically.

“Gamoti poutana sou!” Lawson screamed at Ivan, enraged.

“Ay gamisou!” Ivan screamed back, standing and throwing his hands into the air.

With the exchange over, Lawson faced forward once again and Ivan returned to his place.

“What did he say?” Chris asked, in awe of the size and power of Ivan’s friend.

“It translates in your language as something not said in front of women.”

Chris laughed. “What did you say back?”

“I told him to go and do the same,” Ivan said with a smile.

Lawson turned his attention to Razor. He deep voice boomed over the top of the crowd, “You who I am not allowed to kill, prepare yourself to face me!”

The crowd again cheered.

Lawson again yelled across the noise, “What has been the shortest time before you have been knocked down?”

Boomer yelled back smugly, “It took Gracie one minute fifty five seconds to knock him down with a kick to the face, and Razor still jumped back up and beat his ass. He’s UN DE FEATED! Now are you ready?”

Ivan whispered to Chris, “Ha, ha. Is Gracie his wife, and she kicked him and knocked him down?”

Chris shook his head, “No. Wow, you really are out of touch. Royce Gracie is the best – ah, forget it.”

Lawson reached down to change a setting on the dash of the bike and yelled “You say one five five?” and continued fidgeting.

“Then I am ready!” and he pressed play on the bikes radio.

“Bring it bitch!” Razor yelled in response.

The crowd responded again. They were frenzied with excitement. This was the kind of match they longed for.

“Ok. Start the clock!” Boomer yelled, stepping out of the ring. .

The digital clock switched to a timer that began spinning in hundredths of a second.

As the first second showed, speakers on the bike started to blare a high guitar solo repeating the same progression of notes in a rhythmic pattern.

The bike revved and started to slowly part its way through the crowd.

The sound system on the bike blared the same clear guitar, but now there were added vocals chanting in the background, “Ah ah aaa ah, uh aah aaah ah uh ah ah”.

The clock read 00:10:21.

The black bike reached the edge of the crowd and the motor cut off, but the song continued.

00:30:05

The entire crowd joined the music and at the end of the chant they yelled “Thunder!”

Lawson kicked the stand for the bike and slowly stood and swung his leg over the back fender. He stood to full height and towered above the surrounding spectators.

Over two hundred voices continued to chant, “Uh aah aaah ah, THUNDER!”

One by one, he pulled his fingers from the leather gloves of both hands and neatly placed them on the seat.

01:00:00

Two hands reached up to pull off dark sunglasses, and set them on top of the gloves.

Lawson turned to face Razor. Razor’s face was contorted with impatience and he paced back and forth.

01:05:05

The voice from the speaker screamed “I was caught, in the middle of a railroad track.”

The crowd chanted along “THUNDER!” while pumping their fists in the air.

“I looked around, and I knew there was no turning back.”

“THUNDER!”

01:20:85

Lawson stepped into the ring.

Razor ran forward like a bull running after a matador.

Lawson ducked and stepped aside.

Razor stopped and turned, and they faced each other, eye to eye. Identical build. Hatred oozing from Razor’s face, teeth barred, eyes black. Lawson’s face showed only the slightest sense of amusement.

Chris looked up at Ivan, “That’s him, isn’t it. I mean, his name’s not really Lawson? Right?”

Ivan held up his hand, signaling for Chris to stop talking and watch.

Razor swung a great big right hook that flowed cleanly through open air as Lawson leaned backward.

“My mind raced, and I thought, what could I do?”

“THUNDER!”

Razor followed his swing with running tackle, arms spread wide, aimed low at Lawson’s knees.

Lawson dove forward over Razor, landed and rolled back to a standing position.

Razor jumped up from his knees and spun to face Lawson.

“And I knew, there was no help, no help from you!”

“THUNDER!”

The two warriors circled each other for what seemed like an eternity. Then Razor seemed to lose all control.

Razor’s fists began to swing pointlessly on broad shoulders.

01:35:74

“Sound of the drums.”

Razor’s knees shot up and down, ineffectively trying to damage Lawson’s ribs.

“Beating of my heart.”

Lawson dropped down to the ground and rolled, and Razor’s feet stomped several times on the mat without ever connecting.

“The thunder of guns.”

Lawson jumped back up to his feet, arms curled in to protect his sides and face.

“Tore me apart.”

A growl erupted from Razor’s chest, and he stepped forward with a determined stride. Hands outstretched, fists clenching in and out, muscles tense, almost as if he thought he could rip Lawson in two by laying hands on him.

The closer Razor got, the more Lawson crouched. Knees bending, compressing leg muscles, arms tense, body angling sideways.

“You’ve been – ”

Lawson’s body shot upward as it unwound, his fist taking a perfectly vertical course along the front of Razor’s mid-section. Five thickfingers curled into the shape of a sledge hammer connected with Razor’s chin.

“Thunderstruck!”

There was a sickening crack as teeth slammed against teeth. His head jerked backward leading the way as his entire body fell backward and landed with a dull thud.

The clock stopped at 01:54:00

The crowd went berserk with joy.

Lawson stood for a brief moment and looked at the fallen Razor. Then, seeming satisfied with his work, walked back to his bike. Methodically, he placed his sunglasses on his face and pulled gloves on each hand.

With a rumble, the Harley roared to life again.

Lawson pointed at Boomer. Rubbed his fingers together making the international sign for money.

Pointed directly at Ivan. Then he gave a slight nod to Ivan and gunned the engine. He accelerated toward the open garage door of the warehouse.

“Went down the highway, broke the limit, we hit the -”. The song faded into the distance as Lawson disappeared around the corner.

Ivan looked to Chris and with a smile said, “Yes, boy. His name is not Lawson. That was Clovis.”

The Alley

April 1, 2002, Baltimore, MD

He stumbled, his heavy dragging foot snagging a raised edge on the sidewalk. Catching himself with his hands against the pavement, soiled water splashed on his shirt joining the stains of coughed up whiskey and vomit. Chris stood and continued to wander aimlessly down the crowded sidewalk. He’d tried to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come when called. All that responded to his beckon were the ghosts of gun fire and the faces, face after face of those who had died by his hand.

His caked and cracked mouth cried out for water as he looked through window after window of the bars line the street. Trendy ones like “My Blues Heaven”, where the patrons inebriate themselves while someone plays blues and jazz music in the background. Or “Tequilaville” (and obvious copy from Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville”) with piñatas in the shape of animals hang from the ceiling. A place that allows anyone to get a buzz with a Mexican flair. Or “Ben’s Sport’s Bar”, a spot where testosterone filled college students and middle age men that wish they were college students can suck down long necks while various sports programs play on ten flat screen high definition televisions that line the walls. Chris watched them through the darkened glass, seeing only the drinks in their hands, wishing it were in his.

Chris flinched as a crowd of co-eds emerged from the bar behind him, their laughter and clanging about transformed in his mind to more sinister sounds from the past. He turned abruptly into an alley to avoid the haunted noise. Since leaving Force RECON, had struggled to remain calm around throngs of people.

There was another group at the other end of the alley. Three laughed and shoved one another while a fourth relieved himself on the wall. Feeling trapped, Chris sat down in the empty space between the buildings, resting his back against a brick wall. He closed his eyes and wished they would all go away. He longed to be left alone. He thought about the bar again and the glass mugs full of escape.

The shadowy outline of four tall figures stood looking narrow lane, all looking at a homeless man. And then something went wrong.

A familiar voice carried down the alley. “Hey man,” was all Bobby said. Chris glanced at his friend, laying askew on the pavement. His eyes were blood shot and his thick grey bread was frazzled. His Yankees hat had found a new smug of black since Chris had last seen him. Chris hadn’t made many friends on the streets of Baltimore, but those he had, he cherished. He was happy to see Bobby still wearing the boots Chris had given him. A few months ago they had looked new. Chris remembered showing his friend how to lace up the nicely polished, military issue, shoes. He remembered Bobby’s giddy smile and the older man’s jog up and down the alley.

“It’s not a good idea,” Chris croaked to his friend. His throat burned. He tried to remember the last time he spoke.

Bobby didn’t hear. The old man was singular minded, in pursuit of cash to buy the one thing that might dull his thoughts. He stood and stumblingly approached the four men, his hand extend. “H-h-h-hey. Hey guys. E-exc-c-c-cuse me,” the old man muttered sheepishly. “H-h-hey, you got a few bucks. I just need a few b-bucks.”

Chris could feel in his gut the danger ahead. He pushed himself up, forcing his legs to support him. He squeezed his eyes tight, willing his mind to clear.

The fourth man turned and zipped up his jeans. They laughed and pointed at Bobby.

“P-p-p-please,” Bobby stuttered again, looking at the ground. “I. I. I just need a few bucks?”

“I. I. I j-j-just need a few bucks,” one of the men mocked.

“You smell like shit,” another said.

Chris moved closer.

“Listen,” Bobby said, stepping back. “I just need a few bucks.”

A jolt of hostility sparked in one of the young men. Shoving Bobby with one hand he yelled, “Why don’t you get a job you dumb piece of shit?” The rest of the pack laughed.

Chris stretched his neck to the left and then the right. The muscles ached and cracked as they loosened.

“You smell like shit you Old Fuck!” another said, escalating the situation by shoving Bobby with both hands. The drunken twenty-something resembled the caveman in evolution posters, striving to walk upright.

“Hey old man, got any extra change?” the shortest one with the build of a bulldog yelled with a drunken slur. He pressed Bobby against the wall. The other three moved in, surrounding the old man.

“I. I don’t want any trouble,” Bobby said, looking at his boots.

“What a waste of air!” came the third comment. This one was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect voice, perfect clothes. Chris thought that he probably was the star quarterback of some local college. After a second glance, Chris identified the short “bulldog” as a wrestler. Small and stocky but with no wasted muscle. Not many soft spots. The only one of the group that gave Chris pause was the quiet menace lurking in the back. He wore loose fitting sweats and a black Raven’s hoody. The dark figure’s stance was reserved. He was large and bulky, a head above the rest. Chris struggled to remember if this one had been with the others, or had he been in the alley already?

“I. I. I’ll just go,” Bobby said, easing forward. “I. I’ll j-just go.”

Chris and the big one exchanged glares. The hood nodded, acknowledging Chris’ presence. Chris thought that he saw a sadistic grin cross his face.

The bull dog moved into Bobby’s face. Looking up at the old man he barked, “Someone needs to teach you some manners you old piece of shit.” The others laughed. The bulldog gave Bobby a sharp jab to the ribs. The old man doubled over. The others laughed. The bulldog shoved Bobby to the ground and held his fists high in victory. The others laughed.

Chris appeared between the pack and his friend. His vision narrowed a bit as he welcomed the rage that flooded his system.

“Move out of the way!” said Neanderthal. Thick, dark messy hair, sloping forehead, no visible neck. His head was set on top of wide shoulders with dark hair down the neck.

Chris took a deep breath. The familiar chant stilled his mind, “I am focused. My balance is perfect.” Time slowed to a crawl.

In a low monotone growl, Chris responded, “You should move on.”

“This doesn’t concern you, asshole,” added the shorter one.

“You should leave,” Chris muttered through gritted teeth.

The large one in the back remained still. He radiated a cold hate. No emotion was visible beneath the hood.

There was a pause as the oppressors didn’t seem to know what to do next.

The break in the action just fueled Chris’ anger. He realized that no matter what happened next, they would not walk away untouched. He took another deep breath, an attempt to control the outcome to something that he wouldn’t regret afterwards. He stood with feet spread evenly and gained a balance from which to act.

For the briefest of moments, Chris felt remorse. His military career had ended because of situations like this. Situations where Chris was the only one between the oppressor and the innocent victim.

“Listen, skinny”, the caveman says, “this isn’t about you, so move along and don’t look back. Just get the fuck out of here.”

They didn’t know. They had no clue how this would end, but Chris knew. Chris had it all worked out. Every step. Every thrust. Every move. It was all over in his mind. Everything decided, except for the giant in the back. Chris mourned their pride. He mourned the pride that caused those in wrong to push bad situations further.

Every one of his senses tingled in anticipation. The sound of their increasing heart rates and shallow breathing, panting like dogs waiting for a treat. Chris was aware of the car that passed by on the street. He knew that there was not enough air in the tires by the sound of the rubber hitting the pavement. He was completely aware of the gentle breeze that brushed across the back of his neck, carrying the stench of dumpsters and rotten beer down the alley. Through it, he could still smell the stench of body odor emitting from the wrestler.

His senses told him one piece of critical information. The only victim that is remotely aware of the danger he was in is the silent guy that now stands behind his left shoulder. He wasn’t breathing at all.

Chris focused his eyes straight ahead, peripheral vision aware of the most minor micro expressions on the faces of his assailants.

In a voice no more than a whisper he urged them one more time, “Back down.” Not a request, not a plea, but a command.

They didn’t budge. Waiting for the reaction seemed like an eternity. Then he felt it. The hint of movement from directly in front of him. The motion started with the jock, who probably didn’t realize that he had moved while contemplating his first swing.

The chain reaction began.

Chris’ feet were steady and balanced. Hands loose at his side, arms slightly bent, legs straight but knees not locked. His breath slowly left his lungs. His pent up anger and energy over the past few months had been conserved, waiting for discharge. His fingers and toes tingled with anticipation.

The jock stepped forward and planted his right foot while his right fist came rushing forward.

“Nice stance,” Chris thought to himself, “This guy has done this before.”

Nostrils flaring. Friends grinning. They knew it would come to this. Something in them had wanted this all night.

Chris processed the movements that began in unison. The wrestler circling behind to the left, presumably to catch him after Jock hit him. The caveman hadn’t budged. The quiet watcher remained still tensed for action. All of this information was taken in and comprehend in less time than it took the swinging fist to move six inches.

Chris’ left hand began with an upward counter clockwise arc. His right hand dropped to his waist in a clockwise downward arc. As the left reached the top of its swing and moved out and away, the right hand swept up to intersect the punch that was now is about eight inches from his face. His palm turned outward to catch the back of the Jock’s wrist. His right hand locked onto Jock’s wrist, and continued the forward momentum pulling him across in front of Chris. The look of shock on the Jock’s face made Chris laugh. His left hand completed the circuit and landed on Jock’s back to push forward and sent him floating over Bobby’s still body to flop face down on the sidewalk between Wrestler’s feet.

Before the first victim had landed, Chris’ right foot shifted backward to absorb the motion. He kept the momentum moving along in the clockwise direction. His right hand swung in a level arc, his left arm continued its counter clockwise circle. His head swiveled to bring Caveman into view. Snapping his right hand out, Chris slammed a closed fist squarely into Caveman’s throat.

Chris processed the actions. His opponent may have seen it coming, but the young man’s wind pipe collapsed. He would be concentrating too much on breathing to cause any more trouble. Chris realized he needed to be careful, or these men would die tonight.

The watcher crouched back, preparing to pounce. The giant extended an arm straight down, the movements combined were faster than Chris had seen anyone move before. Still deep in focus, Chris sensed the shift in air, the gentle rustle of clothing, the energy expended. He could see something in the watcher’s hand. A knife? A gun?

“He will aim for under my ribs,” Chris told himself. All of this ran through his mind in less time than it took for Watcher to change the direction of his hand to swipe.

Chris dropped down, bending at the knees, and reversed direction to spin back to the left, placing Watcher directly in front of him. Then used the recoil motion to send his left hand swinging itself through an arc aimed for Watchers right hand at waist level.

But there wasn’t a hand. There were four extended claws, sweeping toward him. There was no way that an adjustment could be made to the current motion. The surprise sent Chris’ mind reeling, “What the hell is going on?!”

He knew that Watcher had registered the movement and realized that it had extended himself beyond what he can recover to defend.

The back of Chris’ left hand struck with enough force to knock the wrist sideways. There was a sickening ‘CRAK’ as the wrist and arm loosened from the breaking bones.

Chris continued and pushed up with his legs, building strength for his right hand as it streaked toward Watchers head.

At this speed and force –

A closed fist would shatter his jaw, knock out several teeth and leave him in the hospital from a concussion.

An open palm strike to his face would break his nose and leave him with permanent eye damage.

The added speed of an elbow across the face would break every bone on the left side of his face and cause possible hearing loss in his left ear.

By the way he is gritting his pointy teeth, whatever this thing is, he knows all of this. And realizes that there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Chris scanned the face of his victim, searching any sign of remorse. It wasn’t there. All he could see was a hope of survival, a possible chance for revenge, and dark eyes with no pupils.

With rage and satisfaction, Chris finished the movement, choosing the elbow to strike the victim.

Upon contact, he felt bones crumble and watched as life left the swirling eyes of the watcher.

The body dropped limp to the ground.

Shock settled in. Energy dissipated. With no new movement from attackers, the encounter had finished as quickly as it had started. Chris looked to Bobby to check his condition. He seemed fine. No pain that was out of the normal. Chris looked to the Jock, who was just turning to look at Chris from his prone position between the wrestler’s feet. With a quick nod, Chris indicated that they should collect themselves and continue the way they had been going before the violence.

Without a word, Jock stood, and with the wrestler, collected the wheezing caveman and walked back into the street. They didn’t look back.

Bobby looked up at Chris. “Hey Blur, got any spare change on ya?”

Chris helped the old man to his feet and said, “What did you just call me?” Quickly realizing that the question would never be answered by drunk Bobby, he quickly continued, “You need to be more careful.”

Chris let out a long sigh. The dryness of his mouth and soreness of his throat crept back. He forced a smile and stumbled away, his feet returning to their heavy, drag.

“Oh, Shit,” mumbled the raspy voice as he watched Chris walk away. “Oh, shit,” the same voice mumbled as sirens echoed through the street. The grey haired man hurried into the alley, and tossed Bobby a ten dollar bill. “Keep quiet, say nothing about any of this.”

“Whatever you say Carl,” Bobby slurred.

With ease, Carl lifted the body of the hooded stranger, threw the dead thing over his back, and walked back down the alley, away from the police car that had just entered from the other end.

Several blocks away, Carl popped open the cramped trunk of his old Honda Accord and grumbled, “Man do I miss the Ninety-Eight,” as he dropped the body in and slammed it shut.

Mental Disturbance

“Thank you for coming, Ivan.”

Crossing the Veil was always disheartening for Ivan. It churned his stomach. It wasn’t the leap. That was as instantaneous as stepping through a doorway. It was the perspective that rattled him, like looking through a telescope lens through the wrong end.

Across the threshold, everything grew and became a ghost of itself. Tall trees became monstrous, transparent towers. Buildings grew to three times their size and lost their substance. Most unsettling was the people. The people who had been flesh and blood around him became giant hollow specters. They loamed over him and move passed him as if he were an invisible toddler.

If Ivan were honest with himself, a practice he did not enjoy, and therefore did not practice often, being small and unseen by his world was the most unsettling. In Reality he was a mountain. In Midian, he felt like a child. The ghostly mountains of men in Reality stood above him, unaware he could see their specters. He hated being ignored.

“Bashi insulted me,” Ivan grunted. “The Rothman doesn’t like being insulted. I should leave you here to handle your problems on your own. The Rothman owes you nothing.” Ivan could feel his blood burn with energy. He closed his eyes and soaked in the charge of power running through his veins. This was the only bonus of Midian. Here, he was twice as fast, twice as strong, and almost indestructible. Here he was a warrior of epic legend. Here he was close to a god.

Hyoi shot a disapproving eye at Bashi. “Not today, Bashi. For Ignors sake, not today.”

Bashi grinned in reply. The tall, slender, conculos’ crystal eyes beamed with playful mischief. Bashi nodded an apology to his commanding officer, bowed to Rothman, and produced from his grey tunic, two forearm length black rods with metal tips. He spun them in the air and then handed them to Rothman.

Rothman accepted the weapons and concealed them beneath his black robe.

“I tried to ask him to help us nicely,” Bashi said. His voice was high and piercing, an odd and surprising contrast to his powerful frame. “But he said he wasn’t in the mood to play with me today. So I took his toys and ran. I knew he would follow. This one loves his toys more than anything.”

Rothman watched a giant smoke like leaf fall from a transparent tree and land on the ground to his left. The raw energy throbbing in his body tempted him toward rage. He looked to the sky, hoping it would ground him, but the unmoving clouds of Midian hung like grey cotton balls tacked to a white wall. A chill shot up his spine. “I hate this cursed placed. Why have you brought the Rothman across the Veil?”

“I can imagine how disorienting it must be,” Hyoi said. His voice was smooth and soothing, like a mother’s lullaby. Despite the purple crystal of his eyes, he would pass for a pale human. He was tall and lean, like a twenty-something blue jean model who’d spent a long winter hiding indoors from the cold. “We wouldn’t have asked you here if it wasn’t important,” Hyoi continued apologetically. “What we need you for is, um, delicate? If my commanding officers were to discover it. Well,” Hyoi paused to laugh to himself. “Well, Bashi and I would be banished to live with the Tinker. Please know, we have not brought you across lightly.”

“Explain. What do you shinny-eyed demons need? And what does the Rothman get in return?”

“Our commanding officer will be here within the hour,” Hyoi explained with grave seriousness. “He has assigned Bashi and I to a mission we, um. Well, let’s just say, we do not believe should be allowable.”

“Good God man,” Ivan said with impatient disgust. “Get on with it.’

“Our squad has been assigned to interfere in your realm. They are afraid of one of yours, a potentially powerful Gracanjo. They plan to cross into Reality to assassinate him before his gifts are fully revealed.”

“Sicutinfernum!” Rothman interjected.

There was a distant shout. Hyoi turned toward a small hill. He felt anxiety run from his feet to his fingers. The fear filled his voice and words rushed from his mouth in urgent rambling. “That’s our squad now. We must meet them. If we don’t meet them, they will be suspicious. I’ve already spoken out to much against the action. I can’t miss the jump. That is why Bashi and I need you to intervene. Do you understand? We need you to intervene when the time is right. Before the Gracanjo is executed. You must intercede before he is killed. If they are successful, there will be no stopping them.” Hyoi turned back to Rothman. He looked the large man in the eye. “Our team will cross together. It will be best if you stop us before we jump through the Veil. You will not be capable of contending with us on your side. It must be here. You must catch us here.”

Rothman grunted.

“We’ve set up a trap on the other side to mask our actions here. Do you understand? We will distract the Gracanjo on your side and then, execute him. You must put a stop to this. If we succeed today, there will be no end to it in the future. They will hunt every potential. Once a precedent is broken, it need not be restored. They will hunt every one. This is why you must attack before the jump. Before we jump. Instill fear. Teach us that we are not to meddle. Create a new precedent. The precedent of the Rothman, as is the precedent of Clovis. You will be legend. Your name will be in our nightmares. The Rothman who knows when we break precedent. The Rothman who will come. But you must attack on this side. If you come too late, every potential Gracanjo will be hunted and ambushed. Do you understand?”

Rothman grunted in affirmation. “Mighty big of you to break rank for a Gracanjo. Not like you Hyoi.”

Hyoi hung his head. “This is not something I do lightly, Ivan. Know that I break rank with deep despair. But precedent must be maintained. The way of things must be protected. If not, then are we any better than the Tinker?”

The distant shout repeated. Hyoi sighed. “We must go now. When the fighting begins, we will not claim you. We will not assist you. We will stand with our team. This is why, Ivan, you must attack before we jump. Remember, before we jump or all is lost. Precedent will be broken and never restored.”

———–

Sharn looked over his command. The twelve warriors stood in loosely gathered clumps by race. They fidgeted quietly, restless with anticipation.

Sharn was muscular for a conculos. The muscles of his arms and legs were pushed against his grey skin. Like most of his race, his face was sharp and symmetrical. He was a perfectly chiseled rock, with no visible body fat. Except for the long scar across his cheek (a gash left by the horn of a rather nasty Egrat during the fourth raid on the Tinker’s fortification that would not leave him even in rebirth), he was perfectly crafted. With his hands grasped tightly behind his back, he surveyed his men with his crystal eyes. “The evidence planted in Reality,” he said with harsh command. “Has it been removed?”

“Yes sir,” replied a slink named Esh. His tail flicked back and forth with nervous energy.

“This is a critical moment,” Sharn said. “We’ve bled together. We’ve died together. But nothing we’ve done before is more important than what we are about to do now.”

As was their routine, the squad replied with a sharp ‘Huh!”

“We put down Azo’s forces at the battle of Vermanth.”

“Huh!”

“We were there at the battles of Rome, and Antigua, and Miami.”

“Huh!”

“We stormed the Tinker’s gates and reformed together in the Cavositas of Nativitate.”

“Huh!

“But now we do something that is yet to be done. Now we shape the course of our world. Now, we take things into our own hands. Now, we start a new day. Today, men. Today is the day that we write the history. They will add our names to the Book of Malacandra for what we do today. Because today, today we stomp out a threat before it arises. Today we prevent tragedy. Today, we strike first. Today we end the threat before it begins. Today is our day, gentlemen. Today, is our day.”

The squad replied with a celebratory cheer.

“We must cross today, gentlemen. Do not take it lightly. We will jump the Veil and return. No one lingers. More than a moment or two and you will burn out, your soul returned to home. Andregrunt,” Sharn said, pointing to the first creature in line. “You crossed at Miami. How long were you over?”

Andregrunt, a strong Mardock, head and shoulders above most other, licked his sharp teeth at the memory. “I was there for no more than a ten breaths, Sir,” he barked. “I passed out on breath ten and was pulled back through.”

“Zachariat?” Sharn pointed at the second man in line, another Mardock with giant shoulders that consumed his neck.

“I crossed in Rome,” he replied. His voice was scratchy and soft. “I was there until the Gra-, until we were forced back. Several hours in Reality, Sir. Several hours.”

A second slink, new to Sharn’s command, unwisely offered his thoughts without prompting, “I crossed in Rome too, Sir. Under the command of Genteria? I was not in combat though. We watched the perimeter. We jumped over in five minute rotations.”

Sharm moved silently to stand in front of the new recruit. “Did I ask you to recount you endeavors?”

The slink looked to his feet, shaking in silent with fear.

“Oh. Now when I address you, you decide not to speak.” Fluidly, Sharn slid his right foot and thrust his right fist into the slink. He struck the creature in its pointed nose, causing the slink’s black blood to flow from his snout. The new recruit crumpled to the ground. Sharn applied his foot to the soldier’s neck. “When I want to know your thoughts, I will ask for your thoughts. Until then, you have no thoughts. Until I ask you to say something, you only have ‘Yes, Sir.’ Is that clear?”

The veterans sneered with amusement. The two other new recruits shook with fear. “Yes, sir,” all eleven chimed in unison.

Sharn looked down at the bleeding slink, “Stay down there for the remainder of the battle or I will expedite your next rebirth. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” the slink replied, embarrassed and defeated.

Sharn looked to the end of the line where two other conculous stood. “Hyoi, you requested this mission. Have you jumped before?”

“Yes, sir,” Hyoi snapped, looking forward. “I was in Miami with a different unit, sir. I’ve also jumped often during my time in the Selinda, sir.”

Sharn walked slowly down the line until he was standing directly in front of Hyoi. He looked the conculous up and down, measuring his worth. Hyoi looked forward, unflinching. “I’ve heard the exploits of you Selinda. Sneaking around, whispering to one another. There will be no secret sharing on this mission, do you understand? We need warriors, not story tellers.”

“Yes, sir,” Hyoi said, firmly.

Sharn drew close. Hyoi could taste the commander’s breath. “If you disappointment me,” Sharn whispered with malice. “I’ll break both your legs and leave you on the other side for the humans to dissect. Don’t fail me. I won’t tolerate failure.”

“I won’t fail you, sir,” Bashi said with a smile.

“The sidekick speaks,” Sharn said, tilting his head in curiosity. “I’ve heard you aren’t right in the head? That you follow this one around like a dog?”

Bashi grinned. “Better a dog to a great leader than a lieutenant to a fool, sir. That’s what Andregrunt said last night anyway.”

Sharn’s eyes flared with rage. Channeling his fury, he struck at Bashi’s chest with his right fist To Sharn’s shock, unlike the slink before him, in harmony with Sharn’s hammer, Bashi stepped to the side, avoiding the punch complete. Then as Sharn’s strike recoiled, Bashi swiftly returned to his original stance.

Sharn bore his teeth. “You’re games are not amusing.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Bashi replied, his eyes fixed forward. “They say that I am not right in the head, and thus, must be forgiven for my foolish ways.”

Sharn spun on his heal and called to the group, “I will jump first. Zachariat after me. Then you three. The rest will guard our point of reentry. I will indicated the target. Stay focused on him. Keep interaction with the other humans to a minimum. Is that understood?”

The group again responded with a strong, “Huh!”

———–

“Alright, listen up gents.” Captain Deely commanded the attention of his Marines. “This is your briefing for today’s mission.”

The dimple on his pronounced chin was framed with a defined jaw line, which encased his infectious smile. He had short dirty blonde hair and the confidence that Marines admired. His education at the Virginia Military Institute had paid off. He was well versed in combat tactics and warfare.

The Marines of 2nd Platoon were sitting on metal folding chairs on top of a plywood floor inside a large coyote tan canvas tent, awaiting their mission briefing. It was 0800hours (8am) and bitter cold.

Captain Deely played with a computer remote, smacking it on his hand. “Why does this shit never work the way it’s supposed to? Can somebody work the computer for me?”

Lance Corporal Jefferson from the intelligence platoon stood up and walked towards the laptop computer that was connected to a projector. “I’ll get it sir.”

“Thank you… Let’s get started. I think we’ve all been here long enough to realize that we aren’t being used for typical recon missions, so here’s what we’ve got today.” Captain Deely pointed the remote control at the computer, pressing the buttons sarcastically as it refused to cooperate. “Next slide, Lance Corporal. …there we are.

“I will be the convoy commander for this mission. Take a note of what vehicle’s you’re assigned to and your role in that vehicle. I will be in vehicle five. We’ll step off at 0900hrs. Lance Corporal, next. …thank you.

“This map shows the route we will take; down MSR Michigan, into town, where our objective will be to search this warehouse for weapon caches. Large ones.” He used the red laser pointer on the remote to circle around a structure on the map. “Our goal is to confirm or disprove this warehouse as a weapons storage location. We have intel that says this building is storing the big ones, as of three weeks ago.”

The captain pointed to Second Squad. “You guys are going to use the rooftop of the warehouse to provide a strong, elevated support position while we are inside.”

Pointing at Third Squad. “You gents will secure the entrances and windows on the first floor.”

“First and Fourth Squads will be with me, conducting the search. Vehicle gunners will remain in their turrets to secure the vehicles, machine guns, and radios. Our usual call sign will be ‘Snake Eyes’ and headquarters is still ‘Dark Horse’.” Captain Deely looked around at his Marines. “Are there any questions?”

Sargent Chris Parker stood up. “Sir, is the building that we are searching already secured, or are we clearing it when we get there?”

“Good question sergeant. The building has not been secured. Upon our arrival, Second squad will clear it on the way up to the roof and ensure that it’s safe for the rest of us.”

Corporal Faulk spoke up. “Sir, are we ever gonna get a real god-damn mission? We all put in a lot of effort and training to come to this shit hole and fuck shit up and all we’ve done so far are these bullshit hide and seek missions.”

“Look, I know this is boring shit gentlemen. But we’ve been tasked with it, so we’re gonna get it done. I’m sure at some point we’ll get tasked with something a little more up our alley. Until then, I want all of you to keep your head on a swivel and remember, complacency kills.”

Captain Deely tossed the remote to Lance Corporal Jefferson. “If there aren’t any more questions, let’s mount up and be ready to roll at 0900.”

The Marines filed out of the tent, into the bright sun and walked across the dirt lot to finish preparing their vehicles and equipment for the mission. Smalls picked up his pace to a slight joh to catch up to Chris. “Jose,” Smalls yelled after his friend.

Chris turned to face Smalls, but continued to walk backwards so as not to slow his pace. “Hose B?” Chris chuckled in response.

“You’re a jerk,” Smalls laughed. “That’s what we decided on. We’re naming our boy Jose.”

“Not bad. It’s a classic. Can’t go wrong with a solid, classic like that. I mean, it’s no ‘Chris.’ But it’s alright.”

“Yeah, asshole. Like I’d name a kid after desert trash like you. It was her dad’s name, so it has some sentimental value and stuff.”

The two friends separated and proceeded to their respective trucks. The trucks were lined up in the order of their assignment for the convoy. The six, boxy, four wheel drive, high mobility, multipurpose, giant wheeled monsters, or “Humvees” for short, looked ready for action. The Humvees were stout trucks with high clearance above the ground, but a large amount of interior space. They came primarily in two colors. Standard olive and tan. These were all coyote tan to match the desert environment.

Chris bent low as he walked to see below the massive tires of his vehicle. “So, are you going to stay in the middle of nowhere,” he yelled, “or are you going to raise the kid someplace normal?”

“Normal? Normal like Philly or Baltimore? You mean that kind of normal?” Smalls laughed as he made final equipment checks on his vehicle.

“True,” Chris laughed. “I just mean, a place where they teach things other than growing corn and country music.”

“Well, we’ve been thinking about it. Al has some relatives in Baltimore.”

“See there. That was easy. You didn’t need to give me all that lip. You could have just said, ‘Yes Chris, we are going to raise the kid in your hometown because no other place would be good enough for him.’”

“Yeah, but its Baltimore. Murder capital, unemployment, blue flashing lights on the street corners.”

Chris rolled under his Humvee and walked over to stand in front of Smalls. “Is that really all you know about my town?”

“Look,” Smalls said, not turning away from his equipment. “We need to focus. I don’t feel like having this conversation right now. Talking about my wife and kids doesn’t blend will with driving through shit filled, desert canyons looking for things that don’t exist.”

Chris nodded his head in understanding. They separated again to finish the vehicle preparation. Chris loaded into his Humvee. The engine roared. Standing on his seat to see over the cab, he yelled one more comment to his friend. “Jose. Can’t wait to meet that little guy!”

Smalls nodded his head and screamed back, “Me too, man. Me too.” Then he loaded into his truck.

Each Humvee was occupied by five Marines; a driver, the vehicle commander in the front passenger seat, a passenger on both sides in the rear. In the very center, one man would stand in a turret mounted to the frame of the Humvee. The Humvees were traditional military issue. They lacked armor and only donned either a canvas top or a fiberglass roof. They were incredible off road machines, but the need for additional armor wouldn’t be fully realized for several more years.

Vehicles one, two, five, and six had 240G turret mounted machine guns. They fired fifteen bullets a second, each about the size of standard crayon.

Vehicle three had an M2 fifty caliber turret mounted machine gun. Each of its bullets were the size of a man’s index finger. The gun has the capability to send out ten bullets every second. There are not many walls, vehicles, or structures that this beast would not penetrate.

The fourth vehicle’s turret carried an MK19 grenade launcher. It weighed over 70 lbs. and launched grenades over one half mile, raining down a relentless barrage of explosions.

The fifth and sixth vehicles also carried 240G turret mounted machine guns.

In a standard convoy, the first and last vehicles (in this case, vehicle one and six) included an AT4, a shoulder fired rocket launcher. AT stood for anti-tank, and would only be used in dire circumstances. The AT4 had a sling for carrying purposes that marines used to hang the weapon on the outside of the turret until it was needed.

Captain Deely’s voice crackled over the radio. “Attention on the net. This is Snake Eyes Actual. Begin radio checks, over.”

“Snake Eyes Actual, this is Snake Eyes One. I read you lima charlie, over.” Corporal Barnum responded over the radio.

Corporal Faulk in vehicle two looked at his driver, Lance Corporal Proach. “Shit, Barnum is vic one commander. Nobody can understand his retarded accent on the damn radio!” Keying up his radio, Corporal Faulk replied to the radio check. “This is Snake Eyes Two, lima charlie, over.” Looking back at his driver, “seriously, does anybody know what the hell he just said?”

Chris keyed up his radio. “Snake Eyes Actual, this is Snake Eyes Three. Lima charlie, over.”

“This is Snake Eyes Four, I read you lima charlie, over.” Smalls replied to the radio check, then announced to the occupants of his vehicle. “I’ve got five bucks that says Faulk curses on the radio at least once at some point today.” The other marines in vehicle four laughed.

Corporal Vandertrip responded. “This is Snake Eyes Six, lima charlie, over.”

“All vics, this is Snake Eyes Actual. That’s a solid copy from all vics. Prepare to go oscar mike, over.” Captain Deely looked at his driver, but asked all of the marines in his vehicle “you guys good to go?”

The marines all gave a unanimous “yes sir!”

“All vics, all vics, this is Snake Eyes Actual, we are oscar mike.”

With the command given, the six Humvees rolled out of the camp and down the dirt road in a single file, kicking up a trail of dust behind them.

———–

Esh ran to Sharn, the slink’s tail dragging the ground, leaving a light trail in the sand in behind him. “Commander,” he reported breathlessly. “It’s time.”

Sharn grinned and looked around. There was nothing but sand, hills, and the massive ghostly clouds of the world the world they were about to enter. Sharn gave careful attention to the massive, foggy structure before him. He’d watched it for days, trying to understand what he would encounter on the other side. It was never what he expected. The commander had grown accustom to the unknown.

“Soldiers, form a circle around me and Zacharias. Mish will open a jump site with the Lamina. Timing will be critical and sensitive. Do your jobs, and we will all feast and laugh together tonight, warm in front of the fires of Malacandra.”

“Huh!” the troops replied with nervous energy.

“Mish, please validate our entry point once more, and place the coin where we need to enter.”

———–

The morning drive through the wasteland passed quickly. Clearing the final hill, they continued through a ravine that ended as the first buildings in a small village. The rough buildings of the village stood between them and the warehouse building.

“Snake Eyes Actual, this is Snake Eyes One, over.”

“This is Snake Eyes Actual, send it, over.”

“Where are all the people? This place is a ghost town, over.”

“Just keep pushing through and stay vigilant, over.”

The pot holes and narrow roads slowed the convoy as they reached the entrance to the village. Brick and mortar structures lined each side of the street. The back of each house almost touched the hills that rose behind them, to create a natural valley that channeled the road toward the warehouse.

Corporal Faulk scanned the area with his eyes, “This place is fuckin creepy.”

“Hey, there’s a guy up there, eleven o’clock.” Lance Corporal Proach said, pointing to the first rooftop on the left side of the road.

The dirty brown, two story building had a flat roof with a small parapet surrounding the frame. One lone figure could be seen moving toward the front corner of the roof.

Corporal Faulk keyed up his radio, “Snake Eyes One, this is Snake Eyes Two, there’s a military aged male on the rooftop to your ten-o’clock. Keep your eyes…”

———–

Rothman squinted toward the ghostly the town. He crouched behind a collection rocks, atop the hill that separated him from the Malacandrian soldiers. He could barely make out the foggy shape of a figure moving along a roof of the first building in Reality. The man picked up a long barrel shape, held it to his shoulder, and jerked backwards as a plume of smoke erupted from the back of the barrel.

“It’s beginning,” he said to himself, as he gripped tightly with each hands the murderous bars, his weapons of choice. He crouched, preparing to pounce.

Sharn shouted. “Prepare yourselves.” His mouth watered in anticipation. He stood directly in front of a small silver disc lying on the ground. The disk cast a shimmer above it that looked like heat waves radiating from sun baked asphalt. He drew long straight sword from a sheath on his back and held it in front of him at the ready.

The disk began to spin, kicking up a small cloud of dust around it.

“Hold! Hold!” Sharn commanded.

It spun faster and faster. The air was pierced by a blinding light shooting in a beam from the disc.

Through the shimmering air, there was a blinding burst of light.

“Hold! Hold!” Sharn yelled again.

———–

Corporal Faulk keyed up his radio, “Snake Eyes One, this is Snake Eyes Two, there’s a military aged male on the rooftop to your ten-o’clock. Keep your eyes.” Faulk’s voice stopped mid-sentence. He was rendered silent as his mind fought to comprehend the rapidly changing environment around him.

A large ball of flame is erupting from under vehicle one. It soared into the air doing a backflip. There was an explosion. Pieces of the Humvee shredded off and flew in all directions.

Lance Corporal Johnson shot out of the gun turret like a ball from a canon.

Debris flipped end over end, coming toward the front of Faulk’s vehicle.

“I need to turn away. I need to turn away,” his mind raced.

A shockwave just sent him sideways.

Debris slammed into the front of our vehicle.

“We won’t be able to move. We won’t be able to move,” Faulk’s mind screamed. The world slowed around him. It felt that minutes passed before he could comprehend that his vehicle had also been hit with an explosive and they were under attack.

Men seemed to have appeared from nowhere on all sides of the convoy. Some fired the standard wooden stocked, machine gun of the terrorists. Their AK47 let out a steady “thump thump thump” as shells leaving the gun smacked against the sides of the vehicles they were tearing to ribbons. Others men stood erect with the long tube shaped RPGs. These took careful aim before pulling their triggers. Trails of smoke burst from behind the tubes as the explosive tips rocketed toward the Humvees.

The air filled with violent sounds of destruction, the snapping of bullets, and the whiz of projectiles in the air. Explosions filled the small village. Screams from injured men sent chills down the spines of the living.

———–

Rothman breathed in sharply at the wavy images of war and death below. The wispy trail of the projectile sent from the tube hit the ground under the first metal wheeled carriage, an explosion sending it skyward. “Unnecessary violence. Killing without purpose. Is this all the efforts of Sharn?” he mumbled to himself.

A beam of life shot through the sky and Rothman knew it was time.

———–

Regaining his composure, Corporal Faulk continued with his radio transmission, “…all vics, all vics, Snake Eyes One is down. Shit! Repeat. Snake Eyes One is down and blocking the roadway. We are taking RPG and small arms fire. It’s a fucking ambush, over! A fucking ambush!”

“This is Snake Eyes Actual. All vics, back up and…” Captain Deely was interrupted as an invisible wave of sound rattled his teeth.

Lance Corporal Krinler shouted down to Captain Deely from the machine gun turret, in between bursts of his 240G, “vehicle six is down, sir! We’re blocked in!”

“Fuck!” Captain Deely screamed. He knew the kill zone had been set. He needed to get out. They needed to escape the blockade or they’d all be dead. He looked left and right, searching for a hole in the chaos, a place to exit the trap. Then he saw it, a home, the second building on the left. It appeared sturdy. He snatched the radio and transmitted, “All vics dismount! I say again, dismount and regroup in the brown building at the convoy’s nine-o’clock!”

Lance Corporal Krinler dropped from the turret onto the floor of the Humvee. “Krinler, let’s g…” Captain Deely stopped shouting when he saw the bullet hole just below Krinler’s left eye. “Move out!” Deely continued shouting as he jumped out of the Humvee and began running towards the brown building.

He was fifteen feet from the entrance when his body shook in a spasm and he collapsed to the ground in confusion. “Why’d I stop? Why won’t my legs move?” his mind raced.

The marines from vehicle three had dismounted and began making their way towards the brown building. They crouched low, scuttling between points of cover. Chris watched Captain Deely run to the door. A pink mist puffed out of his lower abdomen and he collapsed to the ground. Chris’ view was interrupted as Smalls jumped out of his vehicle and ran to the captain, bent down to a knee and used his brute strength to left the Captain from the ground.

The other four marines from Smalls vehicle stacked up at the front door of the brown building, preparing to make entry. The first marine drew back his knee and thrust it forward, shattering the door.

A ball of fire erupted, consuming the pieces of his body as they flew into the street. The three other marines were hit with enough force that their lives ended before they could register that they were in danger.

Chris crouched behind his Humvee and scanned the buildings for movement. An Iraqi man on the roof of the building behind Smalls was taking aim. Probably the same man that had shot Deely. The gun steadied in a direct line with Smalls back.

“Smalls, behind you!” Chris screamed.

Smalls was weighed down by Captain Deely and could not maneuver to free up his rifle. Chris saw the man on the roof take aim. Chris moved, leaving cover, running toward the building, screaming. Chris took aim and fired at the building, but he had no angle. His bullets pelted the wall meaninglessly.

The moment would live in Chris’ mind forever: Smalls’ body jerking uncontrollably as bullets tore through him, the expression of recognition and terror on his face, the red mist bursting from his body.

Chris screamed in agony. His eyes burned with tears. He reached helplessly for his friend as he ran.

Smalls fell to his knees. The bullets continued to riddle him. The massive man fell backward on top of the Captain. Then it was still. The bullets turned toward another victim. Smalls lay in the blood soaked dirt, peaceful and unmoving despite the horrors still going on around him.

Chris pressed his back against the building. He looked at his fallen friend. Tears mixed with sweat burned his eyes. He felt a sudden need to be present. He needed to break from the pain. He needed to gain control of the chaos around him. He took a deep breath, pushed his sorrow down, and calmed his nerves. A cold rage filled his heart. He gripped his weapon and assessed the scene. His senses came alive as they never had before. He dropped to one knee, raised his riffle to his shoulder, exhaled slowly, placed his finger on the trigger, and whispered to himself a single word, “Smalls.”

———–

Sharn stood still, focused on the actions in the large ghostly town around him. More specifically, he watched one man in the town.

The shimmering air that normally indicated the existence of the veil had completely disappeared around one individual. Sharn moved closer to look through the foggy wall, through the house, until he was even with the smoky front wall. He watched Chris intently. Sharn saw the human drop to a knee, the human’s shoulders even with Sharn’s eyes. The commander ran his hand through the side of the man he intended to kill, his hand pushing through the fog but touching nothing. “This is him. This is the one. Everyone take a good look. He is the one who must not live.”

“Huh!” replied the circle of men.

Sharn moved back to the coin. He crouched, preparing to leap into the light. “On my mark we prepare to jump. Steady men. Steady.”

And then, with a guttural roar, and the whiz of steal weapons piercing the air, the clarity that surrounded the Malacandrians dissipated.

———–

Captain Deely watched in awe at the rapid movement of his sergeant. Chris was targeting, firing, and then targeting again before the previous victim had hit the ground. In seconds, the soldier cleared ten combatants without hesitation.

Deely’s legs throbbed. The shock was passing and his body was experiencing the pain of his injuries for the first time. He breathed deeply, sucking back the agony. Bracing his shoulders against the ground, he pushed up hard. The body of Sergeant Smalls rolled from on top of him. To his shock, Sergeant Parker was already there. In a solid motion, Chris swept down, threw Deely over his shoulder, and backed toward the house, all while continuing to drop terrorists. Deely had never seen anything like it. The Sergeant’s speed and power were inhuman.

Chris backed the two of them toward the door of the house. In the seven steps it took to get to the safety of the shattered door, Deely thought he heard Chris drop eight more enemies.

Pausing at the door of the building, Chris barked orders to the four marines from vehicle three, “Clear this building!”

The four marines snapped into action. They entered the building with riffles raised. The sound of gunfire echoed out of the doorway.

Seconds later a voice came from the roof top, “Sergeant, the building is clear!” Deely looked up to see the marine’s torso spin as bullets from separate angles pierced his body, launching his body off the roof.

Chris didn’t pause at the site of the man. He stepped into the building and propped Captain Deely in a corner. The Sergeant retrieved his side arm and handed it to the Captain.

Deely was still in shock at the efficiency of his soldier. He breathed and took in the room. The feeling of safety was quickly washed away by the feeling of sorrow, as Deely saw the other three marines from vehicle three lying dead on the steps to the second floor. The safety of the building had been bought with a bloody shootout and more men had been lost.

Deely looked to his legs. Both ankles were twisted in odd directions. A piece of Humvee protruded from the left one.

More Marines entered the room. “Keep it together,” Deely whispered to himself. He swallowed back his pain, fighting to stay conscious. He saw Sergeant Parker in the doorway, again firing one round per target with terrifying precision. “You three,” Deely yelled with all his might to the three who were catching their breath. “Secure the roof. Provide elevated fire.”

“Yes, sir!” the three remaining Lance Corporals from vehicle five acknowledged.

“…and keep a low profile!” Deely warned.

Two more Marines entered the house, provided safety by Sergeant Parker’s cover fire. “Who are we missing? I need a sitrep,” Captain Deely said with a painful groan. “Everyone from vehicle six was KIA.”

A young man stood in front of the Captain. Deely’s vision was fading. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. He couldn’t place it. His mind was blacking out. He forced himself back to the present.

“Vehicle one looked like it was hit pretty hard, sir,” the young soldier reported. “And probably all KIA, but I couldn’t see it very well past vehicle two.”

“Okay, we can’t lose focus,” Captain Deely said. “As far as we know, they were diverted and found a different building for cover.” He retrieved a map and a handheld radio from the pouch on his side, he switched radio channels and began to transmit, “Dark Horse, Dark Horse, this is Snake Eyes, over.”

Sergeant Parker’s firing went silent. The blond haired man stayed on alert, ready to attack again at the sight of a combatant. The room waited for a long eight seconds, then the radio began crackling with a reply, “Snake Eyes, this is Dark Horse. Send it, over.”

The three marines exchanged gunfire on the rooftop and their voices echoed down the stairwell, “Contact from the tan building, nine-o’clock! …reloading!”

“Dark Horse, we need QRF to our pos for a platoon sized hostile force with small arms and RPG’s, break-, – and casevac for approximately 12 packs. Prepare for coordinates, over.”

“Ready to copy, Snake Eyes. Send it.”

“Our pos is 33.405, 43.917. How copy, over?”

“That’s a solid copy Snake Eyes. QRF has a fifteen mike ETA and casevac will stand by until a non-hostile LZ is established, over.”

“Roger, Snake Eyes out.” Captain Deely looked up at Chris. “We need to make contact with somebody from vehicle two,” the Captain called. “Check for other survivors, and prepare to evacuate the area.” Switching his radio back to their channel, he keyed up the microphone once more, “Snake Eyes Two, this is Snake Eyes Actual, come in, over.”

The radio stayed frustratingly silent. The snap of gunfire continued to echo from building to building. Sergeant Parker fired off more deliberate rounds.

Another marine knelt in front of the Captain. “Sir, we need to get you patched up,” he said as he bent down and began opening the captain’s first aid kit.

Deely could feel himself losing consciousness again. He pushed the marine’s hands away. “No. No,” he said. “Take Sergeant Parker and find the others.”

“Captain, we can’t just leave you,” the marine said.

“That’s an order!” Captain Deely barked.

Chris stopped what he was doing, stood up, and took a few steps back. “Marines, we’re moving out!” he commanded. “No one gets left behind. Let’s go.”

The two marines complied and, following Chris’ lead, low-crawled to the front door.

“We’re gonna go find the rest of our guys and get the hell out of here. Check your ammo and prepare to move out.” Chris instructed.

One of the three Lance Corporals began to speak, “I’m running low on ammo, does -.”

A small thump on the dirt floor interrupted the marine. Before Chris could look down to see what it was, Captain Deely screamed, “Grenade!” Chris wrapped his arms around the two marines, and with all the power he could muster, he picked them up, and with unbelievable speed, launched himself and them up the stairway, knowing he would catch the blast, but they would be saved.

———–

Sharn was on his back. The human had leapt into the center of their circle and put the commander on his but with a powerful kick. Sharn screamed in furry, “Now! Now! Now! The Gracanjo dies now!”

But his troops could not respond. They were caught in a whirl wind of metal and pain, entangled in battle with the large human at the center of the circle. The man brought his steal rod down on the head of a lunging Mardock, crumpling its skull. Before the Mardock hit the ground and liquefied, the human swung low and took the legs from under a slink. As the slink fell to his back, and the warrior monk in all black rammed a steal rod through his forehead.

Sharn screamed in rage as his troops liquefied before him. Another Mardock died as the human jammed the steel rod in his left hand through the Mardock’s chin. The rod burst through the back of the Mardocks head and then slid back and found its way to the slinks jaw.

Sharn rose to one knee. He looked up and mumbled with recognition, “The Rothman? Why is the Rothman here?” Two more of his troops melted into black sludge, their spirts returning to be reborn. Half his force gone in the blink of an eye.

Sharn watched Zachariat ran forward, but Rothman didn’t move his feet. His right hand swept forward. With a shimmer of black steal, Zacharias’ head snapped sideways, his body following in a twirl, his eyes closing in immediate ending to his existence in Midian.

Sharn pressed himself up off the ground. “Rothman!” he screamed. “Face me!”

Rothman locked eyes with Sharn and smiled. The thick, black life of the fallen was splattered across his face. His dark eyes were wide and wild. “It will be like it was in Pompeii, Anzac Cove, and Berlin. I have sent you to rebirth many times, Sharn, and I shall do it again today, and one day you might learn to run when the Rothman arrives.”

Sharn hesitated for one second, “That was you?”

“Indeed.”

Sharn drew his long sword, gripping the hilt with both hands. “It is a shame you humans only live once. I would enjoy killing you over and over. Today is your final day! Leave now and I will permit you to live.”

Rothman laughed. “I never grow tired of your bravado. Good. Good for you. Let us finish this.” He spun his rods in his hands, and with a shake of his arms, double edged blades extended from each of the smooth black rods.

The remaining four soldiers stepped back to give the warriors room.

Sharn lunged forward, swiping down with his blade. Rothman dodged to the left, spun his body, and stopped to face Sharn head on. He pushed forward with his left and right legs, jumping forward toward Sharn. Sharn jumped backwards into a roll and landed outside the circle of men surrounding Rothman.

———–

Both Bashi and Hyoi saw Rothman’s assault on Sharn, but they were not focused on battle in Midian. Instead they watched the large, foggy figures in reality. They saw a breaded man approach the door. The man pulled a round object from his jacket. They both recognized the smoky grenade as itbounced across the floor.

Bashi knew he had to act quickly. He took two strides and leaped feet first into the beam of light extending from the coin. The sound of Hyoi screaming, “No!” faded behind him.

Hyoi and Andregrunt, the giant Mardock, made eye contact. They raced to the light together, both hoping to stop the other from crossing the Veil. Hyoi moved as quickly as he could, but Andregrunt’s long strides won out. The Mardock leaped into the light behind Bashi. Hyoi pulled up short of the light, unsure where he would be most useful, deciding to wait and see what transpired.

———-

The grenade should have exploded. It should have torn Sergeant Parker and Captain Deely to shreds. It should have destroyed everything in the room, but instead of the deafening blast, the air was sucked from the room with a deep inhaling sound.

Deely watched in horror as a grey circle of light appeared in the middle of the room. From the circle came a beautiful, pale man with purple eyes. He was like a person, but seemed more than a person. Later, in interviews that would result in Captain Deely being declared unfit for duty, Deely would describe the figure as a beautiful angel who’d descended from Heaven to save them from the grenade.

The purple eyed man grabbed the grenade and tossed it, underhand, through the grey, shinning circle in the ceiling. He then turned to Sergeant Parker and smiled.

He paused to smile. Why did he pause to smile? At Sergeant Parker? The question would haunt Deely for the rest of his life. A small mystery that relentlessly bore itself into his brain. Maybe, if the angel hadn’t of paused to smile, he would have seen the monster behind him. Maybe.

Behind the angel came a demon. A massive, muscular, sharp toothed, man like, demon with grey, colorless skin, and black swirling pools for eyes. Deely watched in terror as the demon grabbed the angel from behind by the head, and, with one hand, flung the beautiful purple eyed creature back through the glowing circle of light in the ceiling.

Deely screamed in horror. He watched, helpless, as the giant beast took two long steps toward the stairs, grabbed Sergeant Parker under the arms as if the Sergeant were a small child, and moved back toward the circle of light in the ceiling. Deely scrambled for the firearm Sergeant Parker had given him. He raised it toward the monster, his hand shaking with fear. He pulled back on the trigger. Shot after shot after shot rang out, but he was to unsteady. His bullets went wide, breaking holes through the wall around the beast.

The monster crouched and then jumped toward the light, with Sergeant Parker still under his arm.

———–

Chris waited on the stairs, every muscle tense, shielding his men. He waited for the blast of the grenade, for the explosion to shatter his ears and pierce his flesh, but the blast didn’t come. In its place, Chris found himself floating backwards. He watched the captain fire his pistol from his seated position in the corner. He saw the looks of utter horror on his men’s faces. He saw the powerful, rippled, muscular arm around his chest. He felt warm, acid breath on the back of his neck.

He squirmed and fought to escape, but it was useless. He couldn’t break his captors grasp. He strained to turn and look his captor in the face. What he saw sent him limp with fear. Two rows of jagged, sharp, white teeth in the mouth of a man. A dark, black, unending pit of swirling tar when the creature’s eye should have been. A horrible, proud, smile of victory.

Then he was moving up. Up with rapid speed, toward the ceiling. But where the ceiling should have been was ground. Chris emerged from a hole in the dirt. Like an elevator traveling up with open doors, he saw the threshold of dirt pass before his eyes. Strange bodies lay all around. A pair of black boots and powerful, tan legs were in front of him.

Everything looked strange. More than the black robed warrior. The sunlight cast a strange glow that illuminated the rocks, the dirt, and everything else. Clouds stirred in violent sweeping spirals directly above him.

He counted the bodies that fell at the mad warrior’s feet. Six, eight, ten. Ten men lying still, two struggling to stand up, and one with a vice grip around his body. The carnage was incredible, the smell of explosives hung in the air.

The creature that was holding Chris was now crawling, dragging the rest of Chris’ body through the portal. Chris thrashed, frantic to be released. Panic filled his chest and vomit filled his mouth. He fought and kicked.

Then there was a voice and strange words. The dark monk spoke in a deep, distinct voice, directly to the beast that was trying to drag him through the portal, “Quos ego faciamhinc.”

———–

Hyoi watched the grenade transform from mist to solid material as it passed through the Veil portal.

Rothman pivoted on his right foot to move out of the path of a powerful downward thrust from Sharn. The grenade rolled between the two warriors. Neither noticed the small black ball.

Knowing there couldn’t be more than a second left before the ball exploded, Hyoi sprung into action. In one fluid motion, Hyoi grabbed Rothman by shoulders and yanked the giant man back, and he kicked the grenade in the air toward Sharn.

Reflexively, the commander caught and cradled the strange object against his chest in celebration. “I now have a relic from Reali-.” His sentence was cut short by the massive blast. Heat and shock knocked Hyoi backward, but he managed to land in a crouch.

Hyoi had only regained his footing for a moment when Bashi flew through the portal in the ground, and collided into his friend.

Rothman burst into heavy, think laughter at the two conculus entangled on the ground, but the warrior’s laughter was cut short by the sight of Andregrunt’s vicious, pale face grinning, dragging the Gracanjo through the portal in the ground. With snapping reflexes, Rothman caught the Mardock by the neck before the beast’s body emerged into Midian.

Squeezing tight on Andregrunt’s neck, Rothman leaned close to the Mardock’s ear. The stench of death and suffering on the monster’s breath made Rothman want to vomit. Rothman whispered to his prey, “Quos ego faciamhinc” as he choked the life from the beast.

———–

The monster’s grip loosened after he heard the monk speak to the beast. Chris began to fall. The strange land rose quickly out of view. He passed through the ceiling and landed on his butt in the middle of the room. Above him came a rush of air as a circle of light spiraled to a close. Chris looked around the room. He saw Captain Deely fighting to remain conscious in the corner. The two remaining Marines on the stairs, raced toward the door and fell just as quickly to enemy fire.

Deely held the pistol with a white knuckled grip and sent rounds through the doorway of the house as militants attempted to run through the entrance.

Crumbled bodies were piling up at the entrance of the room, then Chris heard the bleak click of an empty ammunition magazine as the Captain continued to pull the trigger without result.

This is it, Chris thought to himself. This is where we die. He rose to his feet, preparing to face what ever came through the door.

A brief glance into the street showed another group of men running towards the building. Chris glance back at his Captain in the corner. Chris’ vision blurred with grief as he saw Captain Deely’s hand drop his weapon into the crimson pool of blood in the dirt growing larger as he helplessly bled out from his wound.

———–

Hyoi stood still, looking down at Bashi. “Did any escape?”

“No, sir,” Bashi replied, still laying in the dirt.

“Where’s the Lamina?”

“Rothman took it. He is gone.” Bashi pointed toward the rocks. “He went that way.”

Hyoi brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Let him have it,” he said. “He needs to get home somehow.”

“Hyoi, look at this,” Bashi said, his finger pointed at the giant, smokey figure of Chris.

———–

Sorrow and frustration slowly transformed into determination. Chris inhaled a long breath. Calmness passed over him in a warm wave. Time slowed. Every movement seemed to hang in the air. Motes of dust slowly drifted through the open window. Enemy soldiers took slow steps across the threshold.

Chris crouched and launched toward the intruders with his arms thrust forward. He became a blur of motion. His fists collided with the insurgents chests. They flew backward with the same force of the initial explosion that had opened the doorway. Their lives ended before they hit the street behind them.

———–

As Chris landed on his feet outside the doorway, Captain Deely’s eyes opened enough for him to watch Chris move away into a mirage like shifting wave of motion.

Deely pressed a hand to his side and pulled it away covered in blood. He saw the men piled upon men in the doorway. He used his good arm to pull himself up to the window sill, and he scanned the town for signs of Chris.

Across the street, where the shots had originated that had ripped his men apart, he found Sergeant Parker.

———–

An arm sweep across the neck of the sniper and broke the vertebrae. Instead of releasing his arm from the neck, he used his momentum to turn his body into a horizontal scythe. His boot made contact with the second sniper on the roof, the man’s body collapsed in a heap.

Chris landed, planting his feet on the roof top, never releasing the insurgent’s neck. He located four insurgents creeping down the street to search the empty Humvees. With his feet anchored, he snapped the dead body over his head, releasing it at the apex, sending it flying down the street. He ran forward and jumped from the rooftop, toward the Humvees. Overhead, the limp body still drifted in a lazy arc toward the vehicles. Chris ran at the group, his legs pumping furiously. He was in the center of the gang before the were aware of his approach. The moment of recognition barely had a chance to register on their faces before their fate was sealed.

———–

Deely drew his knees under him to support his weight as he watched through the open window.

Chris stopped moving in the center of the soldiers just in time to catch the falling body by the feet. Using the momentum of the corpse, Chris caught the body by the feet and spun in a circle. The four attackers were bashed with the corp’s head. The men went flying in four directions. Two bodies slammed against the burning hulk of a Humvee. Another became airborne, soaring in a flopping tangle and landing in a barren tree, branches piercing the body in five places. The fourth body slammed into the smoldering doorway, tearing in half, the waist and legs to stop at the captain’s feet.

With precision and efficiency, Deely watched the blur of Sergeant Parker continue to from house to house, leaving bodies in a trail of gore and death behind him, until finally, there was no movement in the village.

———–

Chris stood alone next to the line of abandon Humvees searching for survivors. His racing heart pounded with pain in his chest. His arms and legs cried in pain. The world was still around him. He closed his burning eyes tight, held them for a moment, and then opened them again. He looked down at his hands. They were soaked in the blood of countless combatants. The horrors he’d committed over the past five minutes were a haze in his foggy mind. He felt as through the world had grown centuries older.

He walked back toward Smalls. He looked down at his friend. His eyes stung and filled with tears. He sat in the dust, collapsing to the ground like an exhausted child. He wrapped his arms around his friend’s motionless body and cradled Small’s head to his chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He wept softly and freely. Exhaustion and grief began to overtake him. The flow of tears grew heavy and uncontrolled. His chest heaved with spasms as he tried to catch a breath. Moans began to escape his lips. They rolled from him in waves of pain.

He began to fade. His lids grew heavy. As he drifted into the sleep from over exertion, he caught a glimpse of two dusty small men watching him to his left. They were knee high ghosts. He recognized them. He stared for a moment, trying to comprehend, but his exhaustion overtook him

———–

Hyoi and Bashi watched in frozen awe as Chris wept.

“I still don’t understand the depth of loss that they experience,” Bashi said.

“In Reality, life without rebirth. Life with an end, a terminal point. It does add passion to living.”

“Where do we go with this next?”

“I’m not sure. Others will wonder what happened here. Who knows how much Sharn and his crew will retain when they return.”

“Hopefully very little.”

“Either way, we will have to give account to Mikael.”

———–

The sounds of marines filtered into the room from outside. “Vehicle clear! The area is all clear!”

A young marine approached the entrance to the brown building and saw Sergeant Parker collapsed, paths of tear smudged dirt drying on his face. Smalls’ body limp beside him. He quickly turned around and shouted “I found one! I found a survivor!”

Seconds later, a group of marines approached Chris and began shaking him, trying to ask questions to no avail.

“Are you injured?”

“Is there anybody else?”

“Where is the rest of your team?”

“Can you walk?”

The questions kept flowing and Chris couldn’t answer.

From inside the bullet riddled house, Captain Deely was attempting to answer, but everything he responded with seemed ridiculous. “There was an angel with purple eyes! Then a demon with pointy teeth! The demon took Sergeant Parker through a hole in the ceiling, but only half way. And then Sergeant Parker flung a body from a roof and used it as a weapon!”

Eventually, still shrouded in silence, Chris stood up and stumbled to follow the marines back to their Humvee for evacuation.

Before they departed the small town, Chris had a glimmer of hope and shouted to the vehicle commander. “Did you guys find corporal Faulk and his fire-team? Are they okay?”

Deely shook his head. A brief silence filled the inside of the Humvee and only the diesel engine was heard.

The vehicle commander responded with a somber tone. “Yeah, we found them.” After another brief pause he continued. “It wasn’t good.”

Chris’ slipped back into silence.

The ride back to base seemed to last an eternity and Chris remembered the horrific incident over and over in his head. He wondered what had happened towards the end. Why was I pulled away? If I didn’t get pulled away, would it have mattered? Who pulled me away? Why did I get to live? I wish the grenade had taken me from this sorrow. He was tormented by his own questions and doubts.

After arriving at the base, Captain Deely and Seargant Parker went through the debriefing at the headquarters building. They attempted to answer all of the questions that were asked. From majors to generals, they all believed the story of the ambush. They had to listen without comment when hearing about Deely’s demon and Chris’ “out of body experience.” They chalked that up to post traumatic stress, until-.

———–

Captain Deely lay in the hospital bed as men pummeled him with questions.

He answered them all with precise accuracy. The soldiers asking questions often would exchange glances, usually at the most unbelievable parts.

Deely held up his hand. “Stop. I’ve have had enough of this. Have you talked to Chris?”

“Yes,” one officer answered.

“And I am going to guess that our stories matched up, perfectly.” He paused. “No, you don’t even have to tell me, I know that answer, because I know what I saw, and I know Chris.

“So here is what you are going to do. You are going to confirm each casualty on that battle field, and you will verify that the enemies’ dead were in fact killed in action, exactly the way I have described. Only someone moving at the speed of a blur could have cause the carnage that you will find.

“Then, and only then, will I answer any more of your questions.”

———–

When the debriefing was finished Chris walked back to the barracks, where he approached the door to his room. He slowly opened the door, proceeded to his bottom bunk and sat down.

His eyes wondered around the room and things started to sink in, one observation at a time. He looked at the other three empty beds. Faulk, Barnum, and Smalls were gone and they would never lay in these beds again.

Scanning the room with his eyes, he looked at each marine’s personal space. They had been adorned with pictures of loved ones and items sent with love in the mail.

Faulk had a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs on his desk that his girlfriend had sent him. Barnum had several stuffed animals on his bed from his wife. Smalls had a picture of Alessandra and a sonogram photo on the wall by his bed.

“Jose” Chris said quietly and the uncontrollable weeping continued.

A Smalls Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving, 1999 – Algona, IA

“Thank goodness we’re here. I don’t know if I could deal with eating my own knees any longer.” Smalls exclaimed as he struggled to climb out of the car. “Who’s idea was it to rent a Yaris for a two hour drive, anyways?”

Chris held back a laugh. “Hey, I was only trying to save us some money and apparently Des Moines International Airport doesn’t have a huge selection of economy cars. But it got us here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna be a week before I can stretch out of the fetal position.”

“I don’t wanna hear it. Let’s get inside. It’s cold and I’ve been looking forward to mom’s amazing green bean casserole for months.” Chris loved being around Smalls’ clan. They treated him like a member of the family.

The Smalls’ house was a charming two story colonial with a white wrap-around deck. Its wooden siding had been well maintained throughout the years and had a fresh coat of white paint. The dark trim around the deck framed the front door beautifully communicating authentic hospitality would be found within. The house sat on almost eighteen acres, most of which was covered with rows upon rows of corn.

They hadn’t even had a chance to knock on the door, when it swung open and Alessandra exploded into Smalls’ arms, kissing him.

“Alright, I’m gonna give you two a minute. I’ll be inside when you’re done,” Chris said with a smile, as he walked past them into the house.

Alessandra whispered into Smalls’ ear. “Are we still good?”

“Yes. How much longer? I need to get it off my chest.” he replied as he squeezed her in his arms.

“Soon. Come on, it’s chilly out here.”

“Ugh.” Smalls released his bride and held her hand as they walked into the house.

This was the second time Chris had spent Thanksgiving with the Smalls family. He enjoyed watching the women hustle around preparing the food, while the men sat around salivating over the smell and catching up on life. The antique wooden table in the dining room was filling up with traditional Thanksgiving food; turkey, ham, cranberry sauce, rolls, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, and Chris’ favorite, Sarah’s green bean casserole.

The pies and desserts wouldn’t bless the table with their presence until after everybody had gorged themselves with the main meal. It’s usually several hours after the main meal and consists of pumpkin pie, apple pie, ice cream, cherry cobbler, and chocolate pecan pie.

Every item consumed on Thanksgiving was home cooked and prepared in the Smalls’ kitchen. Sarah had a gift for country cooking. When Alessandra joined the family, she added some Brazilian spice to the traditional meal, making Salgadinhos for a main course and Pavé for dessert.

“Do you guys need help with anything?” Chris asked as he walked into the kitchen.

Sarah waived both of her hands dismissively. “No, sweetie. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

Alessandra walked to Chris with both hands held up, until they lightly collided with his chest. She continued pushing, forcing him to retreat. “Go spend time with the guys. Relax.”

“Okay, okay. If you insist.” Chris held both of his hands up, just above his shoulders, complying with the demands and walking backwards out of the kitchen.

In the living room, Chris made himself comfortable on the couch, at the opposite end from Smalls. Henry was sitting on his old, worn recliner, with his feet propped up. The fireplace was crackling and giving off a warm wave of comfort, while the television displayed the college football game quietly. “Aahh, come on! He never stepped out of bounds!” Henry proclaimed his dissatisfaction for the recent play.

A commercial came on the television and Henry twisted his head towards the couch where his son and Chris were sitting. “You boys deploying anytime soon?” He said with a casual tone. His face betrayed his underlying emotion.

Smalls quickly responded before Chris had a chance. “There’s a possibility, but nothing set in stone. Why do you ask?”

“Ah, you know. I see things on the news. All this stuff in Iraq… …and now it’s starting in Afghanistan. I may be old, but I’m not stupid. Some of our country’s boys are already headed over there, and with you two bein’, you know,” then in a whisper, “recon, I figure it’s only a matter of time.”

Chris looked at Smalls with a half tilted head, and the corners of his mouth pulled back.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s probably coming, dad. But we don’t know anything definite.”

“Alright, I was just curious.”

Sarah walked into the living room, leaned over the back of Henry’s recliner and kissed the top of his head. “The food is on the table boys.”

The sturdy hardwood floors creaked under the weight of everybody walking as they all shuffled from the living room to the dining room, where the table was covered from edge to edge with large plates and bowls of food. At once, the whole family dragged out the antique wooden chairs surrounding the old table and shuffled to find space.

There was barely enough room as everyone sat shoulder to shoulder, and Chris relished every bit of it. He was sure his family had enjoyed similar holidays in Florida, but they were buried in memories that he couldn’t pull to the surface.

After a moment of silence, the room erupted in a chorus of praise to Sarah for her cooking accomplishments. Chris marveled at the coordination that it must require to have all of the food prepared and finished at the same time, steaming hot and filling the air with the most wonderful smells.

Sarah thanked everyone and directed attention to Henry at the other end of the table. “None of this would be possible without your father’s hard work. It hasn’t always been easy, but he has always provided this family with everything we ever needed.” Her eyes began to fill with tears of joy. She quickly grabbed a napkin and wiped them. “Honey, would you mind saying a prayer?”

“You bet, momma.” Henry reached his hands out to the sides, grabbing Alessandra’s right hand with his left hand and Chris’ left hand with his right.

Everybody followed in suit, holding each other’s hands in a circle around the table as Henry’s deep voice began blessing the family and food with prayer. “…and in Jesus’ name I pray, amen,” he ended and the feast began.

After everyone had eaten more than their stomachs could hold, conversation continued for an hour. Everyone shared the role of beginning a story, and then each person in turn would make corrections as they remember the stories differently. Laughter erupted spontaneously as Sarah described stories of her “little” boy Smalls. Chris smiled, trying to picture his best friend as a little vulnerable boy.

There came a pause in the stories, and Chris spoke up. “Um. I need you all to know. Well, you probably already do, but, you are my family. I can’t quite describe how it feels to be included.

“When I first met our boy Smalls here, he was a grumpy, proud oaf of a man,” he paused while everyone shared knowing smiles, “But through my hard work and persistence, he is now a presentable member of society.” Everyone smiled but waited. They knew that Chris hadn’t finished. “And beyond just a friendship, he is my brother.”

After a few more stories, festivities began to wind down with everyone at the table breathing deep sighs of contentment, and Alessandra interrupted the silence by tapping the side of her glass cup with a spoon, calling for everybody’s attention. “So, there is something that we would like to tell all of you,” she said looking to Smalls. A grin of anticipation dominated his face.

“What’s going on?” Henry inquired.

Alessandra placed both of her hands on her belly. “You’re going to be grandparents.”

Sarah gasped. “You’re kidding me! That’s wonderful news! When are you due?”

“June fourteenth.” Alessandra couldn’t stop smiling. “We’ll find out if it’s a boy or girl in a few weeks.”

“Congratulations, son. Congratulations to both of you.” Henry said proudly.

Chris leapt to his feet and raced around the table to embrace Smalls, “Congrats brother,” he said. Then he gave Alessandra a huge hug. “This is awesome guys. I’m gonna be an uncle!”

After dinner and desserts, the activities slowed and everybody found a cozy place to sit and socialize in the family room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as they all held their warm mugs and took small sips. Sarah and Alessandra had hijacked the conversation and began going back and forth, bouncing baby name ideas off of each other.

Chris’ cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out to check the incoming number. His smile faded a bit, but was quickly replaced again. No one noticed, except Smalls. Smalls saw and knew. “Excuse me,” Chris said stepping from the room. “I need to take this call.” The smile was replaced by a foreboding look of gloom as he accepted the call and walked out of the room. “Hi Staff Sergeant, what’s up…” His voice faded as he turned the corner into the kitchen.

Smalls counted to thirty before moving to join Chris, creating distance between their departures to avoid drawing attention. He walked into the kitchen to see what was going on. As he rounded the corner, he could hear Chris talking again. They made eye contact. Chris’ facial expression was now grim. Whatever the call was, it wasn’t good news.

“…right. I’ll start calling the guys in the morning and let them know.” Chris said in a somber tone. “I’ll let them enjoy the rest of the day.”

Smalls held his hands out in front of himself and rotated his palms upwards with shrugged shoulders and a look of curiosity.

Chris held out his right index finger, indicating that he would tell him in a moment. “Yes, Staff Sergeant. You’re welcome. Goodbye.”

“Dude, what’s going on?” Smalls inquired.

Chris shook his head. “That was it, brother. That was the call.”

“On Thanksgiving? They called on Thanksgiving to deploy us? What kind of shit is that?”

“The call was intended just for me. I’m supposed to tell the rest of the squad tomorrow. He didn’t know I’d be here with you.”

“Whatever. Now I know.” Smalls looked down at the ground, then back at Chris. “I guess we better tell the family and get back to base.”

“Yeah,” he said with a deep sigh of regret.

As they both entered the family room, all of the talking stopped. The looks on their faces grabbed the attention of everybody in the room.

“Why do you both look like you’ve lost your puppy?” Henry asked.

Smalls felt overcome by what had to be shared. He leaned against the doorway to support himself. “We just got some news that sucks.”

“You boys are getting deployed.” Henry said.

“Yeah, dad. We won’t be leaving for another couple weeks, but we just found out for sure.”

Chris tapped Smalls on the arm. “Look, you don’t have to come back from leave until Monday. I’ll catch an early flight back and I can meet you there. That way you can spend some extra time with your family.”

“Are you sure? I can go back with you.” Smalls asked with concern.

“Yeah, I’m positive. I’ll have to start working on some stuff, but you don’t. There’s no reason we both have to miss out on a few extra days with the family.”

“Okay, I guess you’re right. I’ll see you back at the barracks?”

Henry spoke up. “I can drive you to the airport.”

After long hugs and tearful goodbyes, Henry and Chris left. They drove together in silence. The Buick came to a stop in front of the airport entrance. Chris could tell Henry wanted to say something, but was struggling to get it out.

Staring out the front window, Henry found his voice. “So, the truth is that I’m a little scared. My only child is being deployed and the inherent dangers of military deployments are daunting. Then there’s you. You’ve been much more than my son’s best friend. You have been like a second son to Sarah and I. Alessandra loves you like a brother and so does my boy. We all love you very much…”

“I know. I love all of you too. You guys all are the most important people in the world to me.”

“I’m not gonna put the responsibility solely on you…and I’m gonna tell my boy the same thing.” Henry paused and swallowed. “You look out for each other over there. Watch each other’s backs. Okay? I want both of you back. Come home safe. I’ll be here waiting for you.”

“We will. We always do.” Then Chris added cautiously, “Thanks dad.” They sat for a moment together, unsure what else to say. “I’ll see you when I get home,” Chris said. Then he opened the car door and marched into the airport.

Tears streamed down Henry’s cheeks as he watched the young man walk away. “Take care of yourself, bud,” he said softly. “Take care and come home safe.”

On Elesea’s Watch

1979, Northeast, MD

Elesea moved with silent swiftness, following the faded outline of the vehicle that held her target. Her loose fitting pants and tunic left freedom for movement. The lack of wind or air prevented the light grey fabric from the sound of rustling as she moved.

Through the veil, the car was almost invisible, but stood out against the still trees it passed by. Elsesea feared the vehicle would change pace at any moment. The relative change in size and space between Midian and Reality was not consistent. Currently, Elesea could run through Midian and keep pace with the vehicle speeding along the highway in Reality. At any moment, proportions could change, but for this particular stretch of land it was fairly simple.

The Architect had impressed upon her the importance of following the driver of the car, Suzanna, on her journey back to Baltimore. He’d made it clear her mission would require the assistance of others, that this was beyond her ability to complete alone. He’d said the involvement of others she trusted should occur before she crossed the river into Havre de Grace, but nothing more.

“The Harbor of Grace. That’s a great name for a place. Somehow I don’t think that this will be as peaceful as it sounds. Otherwise I wouldn’t need help,” Elesea mumbled to herself as she jumpped a stump, struggling to navigate the terrain of Midian and watch the car in Reality.

————-

Bashi sighed loudly. He rolled his eyes and glared at Hyoi.

“Your patience is commendable,” Hyoi said, not looking at his partner.

Bashi spoke through a yawn. “Hyoi, this is crazy. The Architect is a myth, a bedtime story. No one talks to bedtime stories. I think Elesea may be a little touched in the head. This is crazy.”

“I trust her.”

“Everyone can be trusted until they show that they can’t be. I was chatting with Reality’s Easter Bunny yesterday. He said there’s amazing coffee in the land of Seattle we should try. Don’t worry, you can trust me.”

Hyoi did not reply.

“What exactly did she say?”

“She said that she was bringing someone to meet us. Someone in whom we would find a common mind. She also said that she believed that our help would be needed.”

“And she said that we were supposed to be standing on this particular hill, next to a river, at dusk, waiting for her to show up? There are a lot question marks. I don’t like it.”

Hyoi again did not reply. He kept his eye focused on the horizon.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

“She said that she would be along after sunset.”

“Why are we hiding in the trees?”

Hyoi did not respond.

Bashi dropped into a cross leg sitting position, sweeping the swords at his waist behind him as he crashed to the ground.

“Bashi, you cannot see through the trees if you are sitting down,” Hyoi said annoyed, still not breaking his focus on the horizon.

“I don’t need to see, you have lookout. Let me know if you see anything OTHER than Elesea coming down the road.”

“She will be with someone.”

“I have a theory. You want to hear it?”

Hyoi did not respond.

“Good. My theory is that the real reason we’re here, the truth of the matter is, the facts are – you don’t believe in the Architect either. Rather, you are smitten with Elesea. That’s why we’re here. You have a crush.”

“Any feelings that I may or may not have are not impacting my judgement.”

“Hyoi and Elesea, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” Bashi said, playing with a pebble in the dirt.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious who she is bringing?”

“A little. But very little. I don’t like it here. Something feels wrong.”

“If you don’t want to wait with me, then leave.”

Bashi laughed. “And leave you by yourself? Who’s going to look after you?” They had been a team longer than many Malacandrians had survived one cycle of living. They knew each other enough to know that neither would ever be alone.

Hyoi pointed off into the distance at a pale glow moving through the valley. “That’s got to be her.”

————-

His orders were specific. Stop the driver of the car before the car made it past the river. He didn’t know why, he didn’t need to. He had been given a specific instruction that he should end the human’s existence. With a smirk Mander mumbled to himself, “Ours is not to reason why…something, something, something.”

He stood on a hilltop across the Susquehanna River from where Hyoi and Bashi were waiting. In Midian he hadn’t seen them hidden behind the trees. Now in Reality they were visible. He was focused on the distant movement in the dark. A lone vehicle cruising along the road as it twisted through the rolling countryside.

He had practiced remaining in Reality for many years. Even still, the nostomonia, the pull to return to Midian grew exponentially the longer he stayed. Still, at times it would reach to the a level of strong distraction.

He shook his head to clear the growing fog. From the corner of his eye he saw what he needed to disguise the elimination of the target as an accident.

————-

Squeeaaak, thump; squeak, thump.

Sue turned off the wipers as they rubbed against the parched windshield. The road was finally dry after leaving Philadelphia ninety minutes ago in the middle of a downpour.

The rain had been just one thing on her list of concerns. It was late, after ten. The defroster had been fighting to keep the windows free of fog the entire drive. She had the seat pushed back to leave room for her seven month baby bump, which meant uncomfortably stretching to reach the steering wheel.

“At least the traffic is fairly light,” she through to herself. Every so often headlights would appear in her rear view mirror, and after a few minutes would pass her in the fast lane. Lights from traffic travelling north on interstate 95 would wink into view briefly before passing by on the other side of the median.

“It’s been a peaceful drive,” she thought, assuring herself. The Delaware radio station that faded in and out was playing a James Taylor song.

She sang along, drumming on the wheel. “I just want to stop (stop) just to thank you baby, I just want to stop (stop) to thank you baby, how sweet it is to be loved by you.”

At this rate, she would be home by midnight.

————-

The truck sped down the highway toward the long bridge, and didn’t show any sign of slowing.

Mander ran down the hill and began to calculate the gyrations necessary to get inside to cab of the tractor trailer. Matching pace with the tractor trailer in Midian, he looked forward, and estimated where the driver side door would be when he jumped. He focused his energy at a specific space in time that, when opened, would allow him passage across the Veil to where the truck was.

This was something that Mander had been practicing. Few could cross the Veil, even with the help of a Lamina. As far as he knew, he was the only creature that could cross the Veil at will. “Spend enough time with the Tinker and it is incredible what one can learn,” he thought to himself.

Ahead of him, there was a brief blink of light and a ripple in the air. As the truck neared the narrowing of the road, before crossing onto the steel grate transition to the bridge, Mander took two long strides and jumped toward the driver and steering wheel.

The truck driver let out a startled yell. In the small space between his arms and the door there was an abrupt change in the air. A chill sent goose bumps up his arm, and he was knocked sideways across the seat of the truck as Mander struck with full force.

Tires squealed as the truck swerved sideways before Mander could regain control. The side of the truck scraped along the guard rail before righting itself to the center of the two lanes on the bridge.

The driver wore a navy blue button up shirt with “Troy” embroidered above the left pocket. Mander looked at him with an evil grin, displaying his pointed teeth. “Troy is it?? Troy, you should leave.”

Troy attempted a reply, “No way in he-!”

Mander let go of the wheel, reached across, opened the passenger side door, and pushed with enough force to send Troy sailing out of the opening, and over the guard rail. Troy splashed into the river below. The truck jumped the curb and scrapped along the guard rail again. Mander left the passenger door swinging and slamming back and forth, and regained control of the truck.

————-

Interstate 95 was busier than she’d expected. She passed the rest area that occupied an open space between the two strips of highway. Cars and trucks appeared in the opposite lanes every minute or so. Headlights blinked in and out of the rear view mirror, momentarily blinding her vision. She drove under the sign that read “T. J. Hatem Bridge ½ mile”. A glance into the rear view mirror showed a large car or van alone in the distance. Other than that, she was alone again.

Then, suddenly, the high beams of a tractor trailer in the oncoming traffic blasted light into her eyes. She held her hand up to shade against the glare. The headlights began to swerve and then dropped abruptly.

It took her a moment to comprehend that the tractor and trailer was pointing directly toward her, breaking into the grassy median and dropping into the dip in the middle. Pain stabbed her heart as panic filled her veins.

————-

“Should we head into the valley?”

“No, not yet. We will wait for Elesea to get closer.”

“She is close enough, Hyoi.” Bashi waved his arm, the dark grey sleeve accenting his gesture.

The blurred movement that was Elsea kept speeding up and slowing down, shifting side to side to stay in a particular spot, relative to the transparent vehicle below.

And then she was gone.

“Did she just jumped into Reality!?” Hyoi said with shock.

“If she just crossed… This is going to break so many rules. This is bad. This is really bad.”

————-

Her eyes locked on the truck with shock.

The truck tore through the median, the bumper ripping up grass and dirt, scattering it across the road and into Suzanne’s car. She crushed the pedal and sped forward, hoping to pass by before it crushed her.

Following the clods of green and brown, the nose of the tractor bounced up and out of the ditch. She could read the words “Peterbilt” clearly as everything shifted into an adrenaline induced slow motion.

————-

Elesea saw the truck cross the median and made the next move without consideration. She pulled the coin from a hidden pocket and tossed it in front of her.

Lamina were rare, but this coin had been handed to her, pressed into her hand by a short creature in a dark brown cloak. She’d attempted to follow him, but after turning a few corners, he was impossible to find.

She watched the coin land and focused her jump to place her squarely in the middle of the growing round portal that had torn the air open in front of her.

The jump through the Veil had been timed perfectly. She’d landed inside the passenger seat next to where Sue was frantically trying to avoid being crushed by the oncoming sixty thousand pounds of metal.

Elesea threw her arms around Sue as the tractor smashed into the rear panel of the car. Debris flew everywhere. The sound of tearing metal and crumpling plastic was deafening. The car spun, sliding toward the shoulder and away from the incoming trailer. Finally, it stopped with a jolt when the front end smashed against a guard rail post, setting the horn to a continuous blare.

The truck tires caught on the ground and squealed on the pavement, bringing the tractor to a halt. The sudden stop blew out the tires on the cab and trailer, tipping the load sideways. The diamond shaped warning on the side of the tank read “Extremely Flammable.” It landed on the road. Liquid spewed from gaps torn in the side.

She jumped through the smashed windshield and ran toward the truck as the driver climbed up through the passenger side door, now open to the night sky. The driver lightly sprang to the ground and landed with a splash in the growing pool of liquid on the road.

Her left hand reached across and drew a long dagger sheathed to her side. Her right hand grabbed the hilt of a sword that was strapped to her back.

————-

Sue began to refocus. Muddled, her head pounding with pain and fear, she picked up details, like pictures being flashed before her eyes. The back of her car lying spread across the road. Axles. tires, chunks of mangled frame.

The license plate still attached to the bumper, the bumper rocking back and forth in the fast lane, bumping up against the tanker.

The van that was once in the distance behind her, now rambled slowly through the grassy median to get around the tractor and fuel tank it had been towing.

The cab of the tractor was tipped over. Black fuel gushed from its tank. The liquid flowed across the road, and mixed with the liquid gushing from the belly of the tanker trailer, rushing closer to meet the gasoline that gurgled from the fuel tank of her own car. She noticed the truck driver pop up from door the sideways truck and land on the ground, seeming untouched by the crash.

She couldn’t move. The steering wheel was pressed up tight to her chest. She tried to reach the seat belt, but she couldn’t wriggle her hand between the steering wheel and her pregnant stomach to release it. The door was jammed shut, the handle wouldn’t release.

She looked again to where the driver of the truck had been, but instead of running away, he had stopped. She could see that he was standing still. Cast in shadow, his features were blacked out. Another figure walked slowly away from her and toward him.

———————

Mander’s head shifted to watch the van screech to a stop as the three passenger jumped from inside.

The good Samaritans ran fearlessly toward the car, feet splashing in the fuel that had now covered all three lanes of road and the shoulders beyond.

“Elesea, this is not meant for you,” he said, coldly. He dropped his hand to his side, releasing a small object, and a flame shot up from the pavement. In a flash, exploding fire leapt in all directions at once.

————-

Without hesitation, Hyoi and Bashi exploded into action.

The tanker truck had just veered to the left and crossed into the grass strip between the lanes. Elesea had obviously seen the same and moved into Reality to somehow intervene in the crash.

The partners sprinted down the hill. Bashi’s hand flicked forward and the air shimmered in front of them, allowing them to effortlessly pass through the Veil and into Reality.

“Remind me to ask where you found a Lamina!” Hyoi yelled. Without another word they split up, Hyoi moving to the right toward Elesea, Bashi running toward the car resting at the side of the road.

Hyoi heard a voice speaking to Elesea a brief moment before the entire scene erupted in an explosion of flame. Hyoi had just reached the edge of the road when the driver of the truck jumped backward and vanished. He watched as his friend Elesea seemed to lift briefly into the air and fall again to the pavement. She flared into a brief flicker of bright flame before disintegrating. Hyoi screamed in pain, but there was nothing to be done.

The fire flashed backward and took the tractor trailer in a blinding explosion. It shot under the three passengers of the van, immediately consuming them and continued onto the van where the explosion lifted it into the air and set it back down with a shattering of screeching metal.

————-

The inferno raced across the road toward her.

Sue’s head clearing, she was able to take in several events at once. The driver vanished. The female figure walking toward the driver was consumed in an instant. There was another figure at the edge of the road that seemed taken with surprise and grief as he crouched to protect himself from the heat. The three people from the van had also been taken suddenly in flames. They were writhing on the ground, screaming in pain, their bodies melting into black ash.

Sue struggled again against the seat belt and the handle of the car door. A glimmer of light from the corner of her eye slid between her shoulder and the seat belt and cut it free. A second flash of light sent the car door spinning through the air. After that, she remembered only the blinding glow from an engulfing explosion, and the safety of a cool shadow.

————-

Bashi had arrived at the car to find the woman in the front seat, held fast by the seat belt and pressed tight against the steering wheel, struggling to break free. Without thinking, he drew a short sabre and slashed the belt with a precise stab, never touching the woman.

A surge of heat and sound covered them both. He reached forward and yanked at the door with every bit of strength he could exert.

————-

Hyoi and Bashi stood again on the same hill where they had waited just moments before, but this time in Reality, fighting the effects of the nostomonia. They wouldn’t leave until they were sure that the person that Elesea had been trying to protect would remain safe. They would investigate why later.

Bashi tried to catch his breath. His light blue pants made of loose fitting cloth that tied at the waist and stopped just below the ankle, smoldered at the hem. The shirt was one piece of thin cloth that hung loosely in tatters to just below the waist. The short sleeves were baggy and frayed at the edges with marks of char and dirt stains.

Hyoi’s eyes were filled with tears. He stood, silent.

Bashi looked at him, troubled by the emotion that his stoic friend normally portrayed. “What is it, Hyoi?”

“Elesea,” he whispered softly.

“You know even now, she is beginning again in Malacandra.”

“Bashi.” He paused and took a deep breath to cleanse his thoughts. “Outside of you, she understood me more than any other. We were much closer than friends. She will never be the same that she was.”

“I’m sorry, Hyoi. I didn’t know.”

“I know. I never told you. I felt it was a sign of weakness to… To embrace another. So human. We spend to much time here.”

———————

A black 1970 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight with white walls pulled up at the edge of the flares and cones that blocked the wreckage and the roadway. A stocky man with a receding hairline pushed open the door of the car. His white hair could barely be seen above the roof of the large vehicle.

Wearing faded jeans and a tattered shirt, walked with slow deliberation toward Sue, who sat at the back of an ambulance. He paused to pick a small object, examined it, and then continued to walk across to her. She was leaned forward, her hands around her belly. Her eyes were closed. The stranger was unsure if she was awake or asleep. Reaching her, he leaned in, and spoke into her ear. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and showed her something. From their perch, Bashi couldn’t tell what.

The woman stood. She and the stranger walked back to his car, together.

Hyoi sighed, “She is safe, we can return.”

“Hyoi?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have the Lamina. We can’t get back home.”

Hyoi stood in silence, feeling even weaker than he had a moment ago. “This is why the coins are kept secret. They are dangerous.”

“Where is it?”

“At the edge of the road in the burnt grass. Actually, I think that man with our target just picked it up.” Hyoi didn’t say any more. His face filled with concern.

The man opened the door for Sue. He closed it and turned in a circle, examining the area around them. Then he drew his arm back and threw the Lamina into the trees, directly at Hyoi and Bashi.

————-

After crossing back into Midan, Hyoi and Bashi continued to watch the activity through the veil.

“Bashi, I think that the man that was driving the truck and started the fire, I think that he was one of us. A conculous from Malacandra.”

“You do realize how crazy that sounds, don’t you?”

“Yes, and yet I think I know who it was.”

————-

The newspaper stated that only three people had been killed in that crash and the ensuing explosion. The reporter said in his article that Suzanne had been found after the explosion some distance from the car, and had no signs of being affected, but the area surrounding her on all sides had signs of burning and scattered pieces of charred remains from the car. The remainder of the car that hadn’t been shattered from the original impact was found upside down in the weeds beyond the guard rail, presumed to have landed there after being thrown during the explosion.

A man had shown up shortly after the wreck, clinging to a piece of drift wood. The night watch at a marina on Water Street called an ambulance, and the man was taken to Harford Memorial Hospital. Police reported that he claimed that he was thrown from the tanker truck, from the top of the bridge. Severe bruising, four broken ribs and a broken leg matched the damage that would occur from a fall of that height. He was held for psychiatric evaluation and placed on suicide watch.

A Battle in Wittenberg

November, 1517

A stone chapel sat atop a small rise in the middle of an otherwise flat field. Dusk had begun to throw long shadows of the building across the wind swept grass.

Inside, a middle aged monk in the plain brown robe sat at his desk. One hand fidgeted with the rope sash that wrapped his waist as a belt while the other hand held a long feathered quill hovering above an ink well. He was lost in contemplation over the words that he had just read from the ancient script. The words were in Latin. Some things just do not translate well from Latin to German. Even worse, the manuscript was worn and faded parchment.

Moments passed, and the frustration of moving words from one language to another began to wear on him. He sat in the hard wooden chair with his brow furrowed and his teeth clenched, willing the words to obey and reveal their translation.

He jumped at the sudden banging on the door. The startle caused his heart to skipped a beat or two…

“What?!” His temper burned below the surface. For the past two hours, the monk had stared at the words on the page, but nothing seemed to make sense. He didn’t need an interruption.

The response was muffled.

“Clank, clank!”

This time it was the snarling lions head door knocker.

He jumped from his chair, knocking it backwards, banging his knee against the table and spilling the inkwell that held the feather pen. Cursing softly, he righted the ink well but the spilled ink was ignored until after he could properly reprimand the impatient person at the door for disturbing him.

The monk shouted “If only the bishop would have granted my wish for a gargoyle on my front stoop, I would beckon him to devour you that I might return to my study!”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” came an unrestrained laugh from the other side of the door. “They say the sacred beasts do not dine on monks,” said smooth deep voice.

The man outside yanked door open. Wind rushed through the small room carrying leaves with it, scattering them along the wood floor. The glow from the fireplace flickered and cast angry shadows against the wall. He wore a black monks robe with the hood pulled over his head that revealing nothing about his appearance, rope belt at the waist, black leather sandals. He stood at least a foot taller than the monk.

The monk in the brown robe paused and reflexively stroked the top of his shaved head with his hand. “Rothmann,” he said now understanding the rude interruption.

“Yes Martin.” Again the deep voice carried across the threshold.

“I think my gargoyle would have a belly full by now. You are no monk.”

Rothmann pulled back the cowl and let it drop to rest on his broad shoulders. His most commanding feature was his dark visage. Close cropped dark black hair in a widow’s peak accented dark brown eyes and heavy brows. His beard was smooth, starting at the corner of his mouth and ending in a point where his neck ended at the top of his chest.

“And you? Do you still claim yourself to be a monk? You should venture more from your sequester. You should behold the mess you have made.”

Martin stared at the man through the doorway, and finally sighed “Ivan, please forgive me my manners, come in and warm yourself by the fire.”

“Thank you, Martin. Could you spare some tea?”

”Yes, of course. I was just going to prepare some for myself, the water is already heating on the stove. What brings you here?”

“The time is approaching. Many have read your Ninety-Five Theses. A gathering is beginning. You would be remiss not to be among the throng.”

“And why is that?”

“Surely you don’t deny, you are the horizon upon which the light of truth has risen.”

“Your smooth words are persuasive. However, I will not be part of your madness. Never have my words given creed to your actions.”

“I believe that you will change your mind. I believe that presently, you will be grateful for my actions.”

“Ivan, it is good to make your acquaintance once again, can we not talk of peaceful things. Here, sit,” he said pointing at an empty chair at the table where the spilled ink was still seeping into the papers.

“Bah ha ha ha ha,” Rothman laughed loudly. His voice boomed through the room, dominating the space. “Peaceful things such as tea? Martin, you have stirred a troublesome pot in more than one place. Not only does the church wish you gone, but there are darker forces plotting your imminent demise.”

Martin rose and fidgeted with the boiling pot of water. Neither man talked while he dropped the tea into two cups to steep. The silence grew heavy and accented the increasing sound of the wind battering the shutters.

“Ivan, you are a long way from home. What brings you to this part of the world?” Martin asked as he set the cups of tea on the table.

Rothmann sighed, recognizing the monk would not be rushed. He grabbed a stool far too small for a man of his size and sat. His knees pressed toward his chin. “I felt a pressing need to check in on you,” he said uncomfortably. A few moments passed as the two men shared stories of the most recent news, until both cups of tea were empty.

“Would you like more?”

Rothmann held up his hand, indicating that Martin should remain quiet. He said calmly, “No my friend, do not trouble yourself any longer. Thank you for the offer, but I regret that duty beckons with immediacy. I will depart. There is someone that demands my attention.”

Without a backward glance, Ivan Rothmann pulled the door open again and stepped through. The wind from outside sent the papers in the room swirling into a frenzy.

“Lock the door behind you,” Martin called, but Rothmann did not respond. He instead left the door swinging open.

“Rothmann!” yelled Martin. The monk ran across the room and looked outside. There was no sign of Ivan. Martin shook his head and pulled the heavy door closed. “There is nowhere to go, and yet he leaves without a trace,” he mumbled to himself.

Martin sighed as he turned to clean up the strewn papers. He bustled about, gathering parchment in one arm while chasing the unclaimed pages with the other. Every time he retrieved a piece of paper and added it to the pile, another dropped from his arm and fluttered to the floor. With most of the papers recovered, he set a stack of documents on the table and placed the inkwell on top of the pile. He then proceeded to collect the rest. Finally finished, he sat down once again and began rearranging the papers into their proper sequence.

Outside the gusting wind calmed down and gave way to an eerie silence. “Alright,” He said to himself. “Where was I?” He took a rag and cleaned the ink spill still puddled on the papers, and then returned his attention to the manuscript.

Clank! Clank! Bang! BANG! Clank!

Martin was startled again by the clamor at the door.

“I swear by all things holy, Ivan, you will be the death of me! Come in, will you?” Martin yelled without bothering to look up from his work. The door creaked open behind Martin. “Yes, Ivan, you have reconsidered, as expected, and have come back to discuss at length over more tea. The water is still warm. Go and help yourself.”

“No sir, I am no Rothmann, sir. Just a traveler wishing for guidance.” The voice was dark and barely audible.

Martin glanced up. A giant of a man stood in the doorway silhouetted by the fading sun. He wore a brown monk’s robe with the cowl pulled up. His head was bowed so his features could not be ascertained.

“Yes, yes. What can we discuss today?”

“You are Martin Luther? Composer of the Ninety-Five Theses?”

“One in the same.”

“Esteemed monk, I have read your documents and have issue with your writings. I wish to discuss them.”

“Pompous youngsters” Martin whispered under his breath. “Of course. What errors have you brought forth?”

Martin noticed the difference in the garb. This new monks robes were not tied at the waist, but hung loosely and draped the slatted floor of the church. The sleeves were long enough to completely cover the tips of the fingers.

“I have issue with the actions of others motivated by writings of which you are the source.”

“So you are here on behalf of the Church?”

“No, I am here on behalf of me.” Martin could hear the sneer in the man’s quiet rumble of a voice.

“You give me a great deal of trouble; I have no time for this. I have other business in hand that I should attend to. I bid you good day.” Martin motioned with both hands for the man to leave.

But the man did not budge. Rather, he lifted his eyes to meet Martin’s. The man’s skin was pale, as if the color had been drained from it. Where eyes should have resided, two pools of black liquid swirled. His teeth were sharp and hungry like a wolf’s.

For Martin, time froze in horror. “My God, Ivan was right,” Martin whispered breathlessly. “You are one of them.”

The visitor moved into the living space. “One of them? Believe me, there is only one of me,” he said with a grin that better revealed the white sabers in his mouth.

“You are nothing!” Martin commanded, recovering from the site of the beast. “You are but a shade of something greater!”

“Do NOT call me ‘shade’,” the creature said with quiet ferocity.

“I did, and will continue to do so,” Martin defied. “Listen to the sentence that I pronounce against you now, shade. The seed of the woman shall break the head of the serpent, and that includes the likes of you! Now leave me!” Enraged, Martin picked up his inkwell and hurled it at the beast.

The monster moved to the side. The inkwell crashed against the wall. Ink splattered on the floor and the beast’s robe. From within the sleeves of the robe, sharp talons extended below the cuff. The shade crouched low, both arms extended behind him. Martin stumbled up from the chair and fell, landing on his back. The creature pounced, clearing the distance between them in one leap. Martin rolled to the side as the claws from one of the beast’s hand ripped the folds of Martin’s robe. The Shades other hand swept up toward Martins face, claws extended for a killing strike.

Martin watched as if the world were moving in slow motion. He turned his head and cringed, waiting for the sharp edges to slice his throat. One claw caught his chin and opening a small, taunting gash.

Both Martin and the creature leapt to their feet. The pause in action gave them a chance to size one another up. The crouching demon monk smiled beneath the cowl. Martin reached a hand up to touch the cut on his face. It was clear the monk had no chance against the beast. The monster was toying with him, like a cat with a mouse.

But then Martin smiled a very out of place smile. The monster tilted his head sideways in curiosity.

Martin’s voice was oddly confident for a man about to die. Pointing at the monster, Martin declared, “Beast who dwells in the dregs of excrement, you are made of weakness and deceit. As a rat feeds on the garbage of the impoverished, you also feed on the sorrow of the suffering. Your muscles are made of twine and your fangs are but hollow molds of powder. You have no power here. You are the lowest, the least, and I have no fear of you. For you, despite your false appearance of physical might, are subject to a greater power. And that great power is the equalizer. And it has now come to claim you and return you to your rightful place! IN HELL!”

A voice boomed from the door behind the monster, “Mardock! Turn and face the force of justice. The Rothmann has come for you!”

The monster’s eyes grew wide in terror and its mouth hung open in surprise as it pivoted on its left foot to face the danger behind it. But before the beast could counter, a flash of metal swept in an arc and separated the Mardock’s head from his body. With a thud the monster’s heavy frame fell lifeless to the floor.

“Bah ha ha ha ha,” Ivan laughed loudly. “Fantastic speech Martin! A little over dramatic, but wonderfully done!” he declared loudly, stepping over the corpse of the beast and crossing the room to slap Martin on the back in congratulations.

“That’s what I like to hear. ‘Who dwells in dregs of excrement!’” Rothmann teased, mimicking Martin’s high pitched voice.

“‘Rightful place. IN HELL!’ Ba ha ha ha ha,” he laughed again. “It’s perfect. The perfect end to such a fowl thing.” Rothmann placed both hands on Martin Luther’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You are a most amazing man. Today I understand why you are wanted both here and across the veil.” Rothmann then turned, bent down, grabbed the body of the fallen beast, tossed it over his shoulder like a bag of flour, and began searching the room for the thing’s head.

“It’s over there. In the corner, by the spilled ink.” Martin said, pointing. Looking at the decapitated demon made his stomach turn.

“Ah, thank you. Very threatening, by the way, throwing an ink well. You could at least have hit him with it.”

“You were here the entire time?”

Rothmann smirked as he crossed the room and picked up the skull by its jaw. “We have to burn these you know. The stench of them is awful once the spirit’s been sent back across the veil.”

Martin did not need to be told. He stomach lurched again as the stench of the fallen beast began to fill the room. “Be safe” he said to Ivan, bidding him to leave.

“Be safe,” Rothman replied. Then the man turned and walked out the open door.

Martin sighed and moved to close it behind him.

Immovable Object Unstoppable Force

The box turned in his hands, flipping and twisting in frustration.

“Clotilde, this box will be the death of me!”

“Will you set it down for a bit? You’ve been obsessed with it since the battle, since the last phase of the moon. It’s evil. I am sure that is what the man in black is looking for.”

“There is no man in black. We have searched enough, there is no man.”

“There is. I told the guards that I saw him again earlier today.”

Ignoring her. “I know it. There is something with it. Look here…”

“No, Clovis, I will not. I have seen you throw that box across the room too many times. I will not let its cursed aura take a part of me as well.”

“These runes carved in the face have no beginning or end. They seem to, but everytime one stops it crosses another and continues.” Again he spun the box to follow the carved pattern and it moved over one edge along the length of the bottom and back up another side.

“Put it down on the stand and come to bed.”

“Ugh. There is something in this box, and it is haunting me. The rattling of it from the inside drives me insane. Someone put something in there. There is no opening. No way to open it. No slide lock, no seam, no hinge; but someone put it in there.”

“Please, the box will be there in the morning.”

As if she hadn’t even spoken, he continued, “Look at it, the different shades of wood are crafted to match with no ridges. It is smooth on all sides.

”There is a power to this box, and whatever is contained within.”

“Clovis. Please.”

And then she grinned in the corners of her mouth. ”Ask your new God to care for it while you sleep.”

“Woman, your humor is lost on me. I have been baptised. All of my men have been baptised. We have pledged ourselves to him. The least He can do is care for my box.” He slammed the box down on the table across the large bedroom, slowly walked toward his wife while grumbling the entire time, and slumped into bed next to her. He wrapped an arm over her stomach and looked at her with a longing look in his eye.

“No. You’re obsession with the damned box has become the focus of your desire. I suggest you figure out a way for it to grant you the pleasure that your attention deserves.” She flipped his arm from off her stomach and turned to face away from him.

Clotilde lay in her bed, listening to Clovis’ breathing deepen into the relaxed rhythm that meant snoring was not far behind.

Even though she hadn’t touched the box, she could feel it as it lay on the table on the other side of the room.

The man it black had visited her twice before, privately, but she hadn’t told her husband. She knew that if Clovis was aware that a man had approached her, his obsession would be unbearable.

One morning just past dawn, as Clotilde had moved through the courtyard enjoying the peacefulness of the early morning, the man dressed in all black had whispered to her from behind a column at the edge.

He had warned her that the ‘nostomonia’ that drew the box back to its creator would make it unbearable to ignore.

And then a second time, he approached her in the market behind tapestries hanging to dry after cleaning. He had asked if Clovis had opened the box. She didn’t understand why, but his intensity to find the box seemed beyond the interest of random curiosity.

Now as she drifted to sleep, her last sensation was of restlessness that seemed to emanate from the box. It led her to dreams of a short, strange looking man that yelled in frustration at a crowd of creatures. In the dream, the box was his, and he wanted it back.

As soon as Clotilde drifted into slumber, Clovis stopped pretending to snore. Nights were rarely a peaceful experience for Clovis. He never completely relaxed. After years of fighting the Gauls to the north, the barbarians in the mountains, and his cousins against the coast, he couldn’t afford to doze deeply. Now, with the box as a preoccupation, any relaxing was pointless.

Clotilde’s breathing was deep and relaxed.

In the stillness of the night, Clovis heard a soft scraping moving across the wooden slatted floors.

He didn’t move, but began to think through his actions. Mace and sword are out of reach beyond the box. The box lies beyond me and the creepers. Whoever it is must have stealth beyond human, I will have to be quick.

Clovis waited one moment more, to identify the sound and make sure he could place its location.

Another shuffling sound came from just beyond the edge of the bed.

Clovis shifted his head gradually enough to peer between the slits in his eyelids and chance a glimpse in the direction of the movement.

There was nothing to be seen, but the sound continued. A slow dragging sound moving slowly across the wooden floors.

Then there was a shimmer in the air. Just the slightest movement, all but transparent in the glow of the moonlight passing through the open window.

The open window! He had closed that window when first entering the bedroom earlier this evening.

Clovis rolled out of the bed into a fighting crouch to confront the wraith moving through the room.

Still, there was nothing but the gentle shift of breeze and the overwhelming feeling of being watched. The briefest of change in the air and the outline of a thin figure stopped fast.

A breeze drifted gently through the open windows, curtains shifting slightly back and forth.

Clovis remained in his place of defense, hunkered by the side of the bed, knees bent, ready to strike – at nothing.

After a shadow of brief movement, the sound of dragging across the oak planks became more distinct as it continued toward the box.

“Clovis, get to the box!” A resounding voice demanded from the flowing curtains. Then toward the moving sound across the floor, “Beast, you have no place here!”

With an instantaneous movement, the shimmering figure propelled itself across the room and through the window in a dash. The shuffling sound disappeared.

The bearer of the voice moved swiftly from the bedroom door to throw himself through the open window in pursuit of the specter.

Clovis grabbed the box and then sprinted past the bed to look through the window. There was no movement in the dark, and no sign of the man in the black robes that had spoken.

Longinus stood shoulder to shoulder with the dark shadow of the legendary warrior, Hrodman, and watched Clovis sparring with several other men.

Hrodman shivered and pulled the hood of his cowl farther over his eyes until nothing but his nose and chin could be seen beneath it. The setting sun was leaving a chill in the air.

The continuous clang of metal striking metal carried over the walls surrounding a large courtyard and echoed through the streets of the city of Paris.

“Now they have switched from swords to battle axes and war hammers,” Longinus mumbled, “we will be waiting for hours.”

Hrodman let out a huge sigh, the breath turning to cold steam the moment it left the warmth of the cloak.

Longinus looked up at Hrodman. “Something wrong?”

“Yes, this is a waste of time. I don’t know Bashi cannot care for the box himself.”

“Seems to be of great import, for them to ask for our assistance.”

“Bah, what is important to others does not always demand the aid of Hrodman.”

“You realize that I am here also. That Bashi requested that I assist you.”

“Yes, a fact that he avoided to tell me when we last talked.”

“It must be critical. Besides, I think you and he share a kindred spirit.”

The hood shifted just enough for Hrodman to glance at Longinus, dark eyes blinking twice before looking away again.

The posture of both men never shifted. Their identical large muscular frames stood ready for action. Knees slightly bent, hands on concealed weapons.

“Hrodman does not need assistance. He allows you to remain simply because he respects Longinus the Spear Bearer.”

“Why did you not take the box when you were in the room?”

“Clovis should not be under estimated. As well, my concern at that time was the creature from Midian that was seeking the box, not Clovis.”

“What of this ‘box’?”

Hrodman looked up into the grey sky and then over at Longinus. “I don’t know much. All of the previous owners of the box have been inhabitants of the shadow realm. Built by a creature known as the Tinker, the box has the ability to change people, to bend them to the will of the holder. It is small, barely longer than your feet and as wide as your hands. There are intricate carvings that are used to open it, and there are only a few that have been able to decipher its puzzle. In Midian, Tinker had used the power of the box to increase the loyalty of others toward him, thereby increasing his followers.

“Tinker is also the creator the Lamina. The coins, of which one is inside the box, are of particular importance.

“The beings on the other side can only see us as a fata morgana -.”

“An illusion.” Longinus confirmed.

“Yes. It is difficult for the watchers from the others side to become present in Reality. It requires an incredible amount of strength. Most creatures could not cross. The Tinker forged small round disks of metal from the middle realm that resemble coins. They have a certain ability to grant easier passage into our world.

“How did Clovis come in possession of The Box and a Lamina?”

Hrodman sighed again. “In the Battle of Tolbaic, west of here, Clovis was being attacked by the Alamenni. The attack seemed strange, really seemed a useless waste of men and energy. Hyoi found that a Conculos from Cocytus named Fargoth was using the coin to talk to the Alamenni, to influence them to attack the area around Rhine-Westphalia. No one is yet sure what value this area had for Fargoth. It seems even his superiors still don’t know.

“Hyoi and my impetuous friend Bashi chose to stop the interference by ending the battle here eliminating the leader of the Alamenni-“

“Gibuld?”

“No, Gibuild passed and several lesser men attempted to contain and lead the Alamenni. All of them greedy foolish barbarians, seeking power. Fargoth tried to take advantage of it. If I had been aware, the repercussions would have been much more extreme.

“After Bashi put an arrow through the head of the barbarian leader, Clovis saw him and jumped through the opening left by Bashi as he returned to their realm.

“According to Bashi, Fargoth confronted Clovis, which was a mistake. Clovis eliminated a coven of Cocyti warriors and then ripped The Box from Fargoth as he cut his head off.”

“Has Clovis tried to use The Box or coin?”

“No. At least it doesn’t appear so. We are here for two reasons. To find out if he has used either, and to return The Box to Midian. If the coin is still with The Box, I plan to make Tinker eat it myself.

”We go now.”

They walked across the street and through the gates of the courtyard as the soldiers started to dissipate. Clovis was bare chested with no clothing but leather pants, Arma Vita Vivet, the shield breaker, swinging gently from his waist.

Clovis held a wooden sword in one hand behind him, crouched in a fighting stance.

“Lo, he approaches. The miserable monk. Huh, huh, huh.” Clovis let out a laugh as he swung a wooden sword and it cracked against Clotaire’s wooden shield.

“I had told Clotilde that you weren’t real until last night. You will not get what you came for.” He handed the sword to Clotaire and turned to face the approaching men. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

Hrodman turned his hood to face Clovis’ son. “Clotaire, would you leave us please?”

As if he hadn’t been standing upright already, Clovis seemed to grow to twice his size. He walked forward and met Hrodman toe to toe. Face to Face. Although the same height, Clovis’ width and build seemed to dwarf Hrodman in size.

Clovis growled, “Do not…ever…be so arrogant…to assume that you can command an heir to the Merovingian throne.”

Longinus backed away a step and placed a hand on the sword at his hip. Hrodman did not move. He calmly replied “Do not ever be so arrogant, misguided, or foolish to think that you can look Hrodman in the eye, much less inform him of his place.”

Clovis didn’t move, he simply pointed with his right arm to the exit. Clotaire placed his wooden weapons onto a rack at the edge of the practice area, turned and ran through the gate, shutting it behind him.

Clovis pointed with his left hand to the gate that the two visitors had entered through, and a soldier exited the courtyard and shut it behind him.

All three men stood motionless for a moment.

Clovis slid his left hand down along his side and around the handle of Arma Vita Vivet.

Hrodman crossed his arms and reached through folds in his robe. “Quite a barbaric weapon you carry.”

Longinus stepped back, away from the imminent pending explosion of metal on metal. “Clovis, if we can just explain…”

“Words are for the weak. Action speaks where words fail,” Clovis growled.

And then it began.

Arma swung up in a blur.

In one motion, Hrodman bent backward as the mace passed short of his chin, his arms drew two short swords from his robe up and crossed them in a blocking move as Clovis reversed his swing to bring it back down onto Hrodman. The mace met the blades and sent a ringing sound echoing through the courtyard.

The two gazed into each other eyes, weapons locked above their heads. “Impressive speed.” Clovis smiled. “This may be more of a challenge than I thought.”

Hrodman’s arms tensed like steel bands to hold his swords against the mace as Clovis strained to push Arma down. Niether could release pressure, knowing that giving meant allowing the other the freedom to press an attack.

Longinus slowly pulled his sword from its sheath.

Clovis shifted his eyes to Longinus sword and smiled. “Sad monk, it seems your friend is thinking of joining us.”

Longinus finished revealing the blade, extending the tip to point directly at Clovis’ midsection. Light seemed to dance along the length of the blades, swirling through Runes engraved in the steel. “I do not fear you, Clovis, I only fear the loss of a life.”

Clovis yanked Arma back behind him and leaned back as the two swords crossed in front of his face and away to the side. Continuing the motion, he spun in a circle and swung the mace across at waist level.

The broad sword in Longinus’ hands rang with the sound of a large bell and spun from his grip, landing several paces away.

Clovis immediately reversed his swing back and around toward the two blades being thrust toward his midsection.

With a yell and every bit of energy he could muster, he followed through with his swing.

Hrodman realized his timing was late, and his attempt to catch Clovis when his back was turned would fail. He pulled back from his stab to find Arma moving full speed to intersect them.

Hrodman tightened his grip on both swords and twisted in time to save them. The strength of the swing of the mace would have broken them as well as his hands and wrists. Both swords jerked his wrists to the side and forced him to release the swords to fall with a clang on the grass.

Clovis finished his swing and paused in a crouch, facing Hrodman, but looking at Longinus to make sure that he was still far enough away not to pose a threat.

Hrodman bent at his knees, dark eyes piercing straight into Clovis’ stare. Clovis stepped back from Hrodman and stood up straight. “By all that is holy, your eyes are not the eyes of a mere mortal. They carry the pain and anger of generations. What has sent you here?”

Hrodman offered no response. Clovis shifted his gaze to look at Longinus. “You, as well, bear a sadness and determination unknown to man.

“Although I fear you both, and the eternity that wells within your stare, I cannot allow you to pass from this place. You have challenged me, and thereby the entire Merovingian Dynasty.”

“Attempt what you must, but I came for the box that you took from the unholy creature. I cannot leave it alone, for it bears a dark strength that you do not comprehend. I will banter no longer.”

A sadness passed between the three men, with understanding that a resolution seemed impossible

The crowd that watched from the top of the fortress wall would never be able to describe the flurry of action that erupted below them in the courtyard.

Longinus backed away and knelt on one knee. Clovis flinched his arm forward, sending the full power of his massive arm and chest into the mace. Hrodman bent backwards and sideways into a roll that placed him directly above the two discarded swords. Completing his role, he rose back to his feet, slightly crouched, ready for the next attack.

Recognition began to dawn on Hrodman. His swords would never be a match for Clovis’ mace and the speed and strength that wielded it. He stepped forward watching Clovis begin the swing of Arma, and thrust both short swords at Clovis hoping that Clovis would be caught off balance by the straight forward attack.

The mace shifted direction to deflect the swords, exposing the back of his wrist to Hrodman.

Hrodman released the swords and reached forward with his left hand to grabbed the wrist. He reached forward with his right hand and peeled back at the fingers that held the mace. He poured every bit of strength into his arms and hands. The mace fell to the ground.

Clovis reversed his now empty grip and latched onto Hrodman’s arm, then swung his arm with all of the force that he could collect, spinning Hrodman into the air and through the racks that held the sparring weapons.

Hrodman stood slowly, holding two short staffs in his hands, and began to move them in a consistent pattern in front of him, creeping toward Clovis.

Clovis began to bend to reach for the mace at his feet, and Hrodman sprang forward, slamming each of the sticks into Clovis’ empty hands.

Clovis yelled and jumped backwards, opening and closing his fists to test that they weren’t broken.

Hrodman advanced forward, keeping the sticks moving in a rhythmic pattern.

Clovis began bouncing backwards and forwards to the movement of the sticks, and at once shot both hands forward, intersecting the swinging pieces of wood with his palms.

Shifting the pattern without hesitation, Hrodman avoided the grasping hands and brought both rods the smash into Clovis’ massive upper arms.

Clovis let out a scream.

The beating didn’t stop. Without ever losing momentum, the rods struck Clovis’ body with a consistent rhythm. After a few seconds, every muscle in his body ached and begged not to move.

The sticks dropped down. One hooked under his left knee. The other pressed up against his throat. Hrodman slowly applied pressure, taking Clovis off balance, cutting off his breath, pinning him against the ground. Clovis twisted and used his arms to apply pressure, but the more force he used, the more pressure the weapons applied to his throat and legs.

As his vision began to blur at the edges, and breath coming with strained gasps, Clovis grabbed onto the sticks and began to slowly twist.

Hrodman’s face twisted in determination as his arms and wrists could not resist the force applied.

Clolvis pulled and twisted slowly, releasing the wooden weapons from their points of leverage.

Throwing his weight behind him, Clovis fell down backwards, pulling on the weapons and kicking up into Hrodman.

Hrodman flew once again into the air.

Longinus watched as the flight path of Hrodman carried him in slow motion through the air. Hrodman, now disarmed again, twisted to land perfectly on both feet, facing Clovis.

Clovis stepped forward, casting aside the pieces of wood. Both men taking heavy breaths, struck out continuously in hopes of making contact. Neither one did.

Swing.

Kick.

Jab.

Grab.

It continued while both men failed to make contact.

Clovis took a deep breath, almost stumbling forward, and swung his arm in a great arc.

Hrodman ducked and then kicked out with his right leg.

Clovis jumped over the sweep and landed with one leg, the other stomping down on where Hrodman had been crouched.

Hrodman saw the jump and knew the next move would be the crushing foot. He rolled on the ground, catching Clovis’ supporting leg between both of his and continued to roll, forcing Clovis to fall in the direction of the roll.

Clovis landed with a thud that knocked the air out of his lungs. Laying on the ground, he scanned the area for Hrodman, preparing for the next attack. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hrodman laying just out of reach, panting for air.

“Huh, huh, huh.” Clovis began to laugh. “You are the toughest bastard I have ever known.”

Laying on his back, gasping for air like a fish yanked from the ocean, Hrodman replied, “Likewise, Hrodman does not allow a battle to continue long enough to lose his wind.”

“Is that it, then?” and Clovis began to roll to his knees.

Longinus stepped forward between the two men and placed the tip of his sword gently against Clovis’ chest, pressing gently as Clovis lay back on his back. Then he looked down at them, face full of disgust. “Do the pair of you even know what you are fighting for? You cannot, because there is no reason.”

“Oh, there is. He’s meaning to take my box and the rattle inside it.”

“You mean you haven’t opened it, the box?” Longinus continued.

“No. It scares me. The box bears with it a dark that I do not know. I brought it back from the dream, but the feeling of that dream remains with the box.”

Hrodman sat up and looked at Clovis. “You massive, thick headed, gargoyle, grinning oaf. Why do you fight for something that you know not of?”

“Do not make me kill you when I finally catch my breath again, black monk. I still do not take kindly to insults, even if you are a fine warrior. Respect for your king is still demanded.”

“Oh, you are NOT my king, il mio coscia pugno, spesso ingegn, buone intenzioni maschio bestia.”

Clovis looked up at Longinus. “What did he just call me?”

“Uh, it’s in the speech of the Romans. Something to do with ham fisted and thick brained, but well meaning.”

Hrodman laid back down, still breathing through deep gasps.

Longinus sat next to Hrodman.

“Do you recognize this?” Clovis reached into the pouch as his waist and produced a round wooden disk half the size of his palm. There was a rough “G” carved on one side. He turned the wooden marker and showed an “I” scratched in the other side.

Hrodman tucked his hand into his belt and produced a similar round disk carved with the same letters. “Aye, it seems we have a common admirer. The little bastard. And it seems we are brothers in the same fight.”

Clovis, staring up into the sky, said, “You’re not taking The Box.”

Hrodman replied, “No, I don’t think that will be necessary. We are warriors fighting the same enemy. You are a man worthy to be reckoned with. But you should know, just as what happened this past evening, others will come looking for the objects. When they do, you and your family will be in danger.”

“You were the intruder last evening. Do not take me for a fool.”

“You are no fool. It was I that spoke to you in the night, but there was another in your room last night, seeking the box. You saw him, you were stalking him.”

“Tell me more, dark monk.”

“There are others, like the one from whom you acquired the box. They will find a way to retrieve what they believe belongs to them. I know nothing more. I have nothing more that can be shared.

“But I know one who does. Longinus, we have to find Bashi.”

“Bashi!” Clovis yelled, “He is one of the pixie warriors from my dream, I heard the other speak his name.”

“Yes, he is the very same, and it was no dream, dear king.”

With a grunt, Hrodman and Longinus stood and walked across the courtyard and to the gate.

Hrodman stopped and turned before leaving. “Guard yourself, Clovis, the battle has yet to be fought.”

The two warriors continued into the streets of Paris.

After Tolbaic

Aetas Ipsum, 64ae43or (c.497), Midian

“What happened to Fargoth?” asked a smooth voice from beneath a black hood.

Hyoi turned to face Azo and paused before answering. He tilted his head sideways and studied the way Azo’s black robe hung loosely from his body. How can he be so strong, with such a thin frame?

Hyoi had only interacted with Azo a few times in the past. Each one had led to conversations that neither of them felt comfortable with. They contained questions and conversations about battles, both past and ongoing, that could lead to the exchange of information deemed inappropriate. Hyoi turned to scan the deserted village and the hillsides for other Malacovi.

The village was at one time a fairly populated area, with a central cross roads, church, houses and stables, and a large graveyard. With the exception of the monuments and the abbey, the buildings were merely a fata morgana, a shadow or mirage.

The town was suffering from neglect. Roof tops were collapsing. Doorways leaned heavily to one side. Hyoi could see clearly through all of the buildings except for the sanctuary, the monastery and a large sepulcher standing in the center of the tombstones. This place would make a perfect location for an ambush.

Hyoi gave a deliberate sigh and replied, “Fargoth took the battle to Reality. He left Midian and was influencing the outcome by eliminating Franks as they battled the Alemanni.”

“It happens. He was willing to take the risk, and I am sure it was, filling, for him. More importantly why would you be concerned? You have never before cared about Tolbaic, the Gaul tribes, or the Franks for that matter. Why are you involved now?”

“In the end we were merely observers, although we were ready to interfere if Fargoth’s intentions to manipulate the pointless events in Reality were to have a detrimental effect on us in Midan.

“I am wondering, though, why does Tolbaic hold such value to the Malacovi that a Shade would be sent to guarantee the outcome?”

Azo avoided the question. “To your point about observation,” the smooth voice paused, considered for a moment how to proceed, “you are the only ‘observers’ that seem to have survived Tolbaic. Fargoth had at least a coven with him, and none are accounted for. I will assume that I would have to return to Pandæmonium to find them starting over again.”

“That would probably be a correct assumption, although we had nothing to do with their disappearance, not directly anyway.” Hyoi’s voice was calm and a little playful.

Azo pulled back his hood and scanned the sky, moving his hypnotic eyes to pan from the fading sun in the west to the deep blue dusk growing to the east. The air was clear, the cloudless sky seemed vast, and in the distance on the west edge of the horizon a fine mist rain could be seen against the disappearing orange glow. “I find it serein, knowing that rain is falling on the flip side of the veil, but we stay dry. You know that we are in a peaceful place. We can speak freely. The lack of clouds bear witness of our safety.”

“Yes. It is not my concern of retaliation or attack that prevents me from speaking. It is my need to protect everyone involved.”

“‘Involved’, interesting choice of words.

“So, let me ask you then. Fargoth was in possession of a Lamina. I am sure you know of this, since you know of his influence over Tolbaic.”

“Of course I am aware. It is why we were there. It is improbable that he could pass so freely across The Veil without the added assistance of a portal. Fargoth was not that strong.”

Azo hesitated to continue. He knew that speaking more would betray information that none of the Elysion like Hyoi had knowledge of.

Azo looked around, making a joke of looking directly behind where Hyoi was standing, exaggerating his movements, “And where is the beloved Bashi? Not in his usual place behind you?” The smile that crossed his lips revealed sharp teeth clenched together.

“Bashi is busy.”

“Busy with?”

“Finding someone.”

“Ahhh. There are only a few ‘someones’ that you would need to search for. When was Longinus last seen? Must be several hundred years now?”

“It isn’t Longinus that he is looking for.”

A serious frown crossed Azo’s face and his eye lids narrowed over his swirling pupils. “There is no need for Hrodman. We have not committed an offence that justifies his involvement.”

“I did not say his name, and certainly not regarding anything involving you.”

“He is a most unpleasant individual, indeed. Should I warn anyone of his participation?”

“No, I don’t believe that he will interact with any, of you.” Hyoi paused. “At least not unless you involved yourself where you have no business. What is it that you are looking for, Azo? Surely not Bashi. What information will you pry from me that I wish I had not shared?”

“Fargoth, was in possession of something, um, unapproved.”

“Unapproved? And who are you to determine if something is unapproved. Were you and Fargoth not equal Malacova?”

“Unapproved by Mander. He was not aware that Fargoth was going to use the,”

“Yes?”

Azo paused to collect his thoughts. “There is an object of great value. One of a kind. Fargoth was in possession of it. Are you aware of anything unusual that Fargoth might have been carrying?”

“Other than my knowledge that he was using a Lamina to interfere with Reality, I am not familiar with any other objects. Even more specifically, I never beheld the Lamina.”

“Hyoi, I will inquire of you one more time. It is imperative that we find Fargoth, or at least the object he was in possession of. If we do not, you realize that we will become active in our search, both in Midian and Reality.

“So I will ask you several questions in a different way, hoping to reveal some truth while maintaining your integrity. Did you encounter Fargoth?”

“Yes. Yes I did. Actually, he contended with me.”

Azo paused, his eyes searching for some sign of insincerity. Hyoi was not known for dishonesty, but more for merely hiding information that could be considered “sensitive”. “You said earlier that you had nothing to do with Fargoth’s disappearance.”

“That is correct.”

“Hyoi, do you know what happened to Fargoth and his twelve warriors?”

“Ahhh. Now we are covering some ground. Yes, I watched as Fargoth was, removed.”

“And his coven?”

“Yes.”

“Surely not Bashi.” Followed by a throaty chuckle.

“Ha, no, not Bashi, although you underestimate him.”

“Then who or what was it.”

“I only speak of this, because I hope to avoid further conflict; having you and your cohort rooting around for an object we are not in possession of can only result in terrible outcomes. Surely you do not want to involve Michael, and I have no desire to meet Mander face to face. A man crossed the Veil. He eliminated all thirteen of them, without my interference. The last to perish was Fargoth.”

“Again I will tell you, Hyoi, if you are involving Hrodman without provocation, this will end poorly.”

“I assure you that it was not Hrodman. Hrodman acts on his own, and it has been quite some time since he has crossed into Midian. I don’t think he likes it here.”

“When the battle occurred, did a wooden box present itself at any point?”

“Ah, yes. Now we have it. I was waiting for you to confirm what you wanted me to admit.”

Azo clenched his teeth again and shook his right hand down and away. Long talons extended from the nails on his fingers and hung below the sleeve of his robe.

Hyoi smiled confidently, gently resting his hands on the two blades that hung from his waist. “Easy, Azo. If you attack me, you will start an irreversible course of action. And you know that you are at a disadvantage.”

With a growl, “Tell me then. Did you see the Box?”

“Yes, briefly, I saw a box clutched in the hand of the human as he fell backward through the veil.”

“Will you tell me anymore?”

“No, I don’t believe that there is any more that I could share, that would leave us both on neutral ground.

”If it matters any, Fargoth was up to no good, and the outcome would have ended the same, whether by my hand or another’s.”

“Hyoi, one day, your sincerity will be the undoing of you. Until then, I must respect your candor.

“You know that it is only a matter of time before we find the man.” Without another word, Azo spun and walked away toward the town, leaving Hyoi alone on the hill top. I am sure, and I am also sure that you will regret the day you involve him in the drama of Midian.

Hyoi walked down toward the town, and entered the broken chapel. “How long have you been hiding there?”

Bashi crept around the corner and emerged from the nave. “I have been following Azo since he crossed the Rhine. By the way, the water is extremely high for this time of year.”

“Did you find him?”

“Yes, I found all three.”

“Three? You mean you found Clovis as well?”

“Of course. Why have Longinus and Hrodman spend time searching, when I can tell them where to look?”

“You engaged Longinus first?”

Bashi shrugged. “Yes, it is hard to get Hrodman to do anything, but he is much more amiable when Longinus is willing.”

“And how was Hrodman?”

“Grumpy as usual. He complained that we wanted him to interact with a decedent of Merovech, and then went on a rant about how Merovech was useless in the fight against Atilla, and that any son of his was likely to be just as much of a waste of his time. He kept griping to Longinus after I left.” Bashi walked out into the open air and stretched. “I really like it here.”

“Did you contact Clovis?”

“Now,” Bashi turned to look back at Hyoi, still standing in the doorway, and a sly grin crossed his face, “would I do something like that?”

Battle of Tolbaic

c.497 AD, AI65ae94or

Battle of Tolbaic; Zulpich, North Rhine-Westphalia

Clovis looked down the hillside and across the valley. A boy was running up the grassy slope toward him with reckless abandon. The lad reminded Clovis of himself when he was a page, serving the Merovingian king, his father, Childeric.

Life with Clovis’ father had been a constant assault on Clovis’ self-esteem. Childeric would ponder while stroking his long black beard, “Son, I was going to ask you to move that boulder, but you probably aren’t strong enough.” Or, “That goat escaped again and won’t come back on his own. I would get him but I don’t have time right now, and there is no one else to do it. I guess I will do it later.”

Like most boys, Clovis longed to please his father. Clovis left no challenge lay unanswered. As Clovis grew, the tasks his father chose became harder. By the time Clovis was fourteen, Childeric had a difficult time finding chores his son couldn’t finish with ease; but that didn’t keep the aging man from trying.

At the age of eighteen, Clovis stood two hands taller than any other man in their land. His shoulders were broad and strong like the flanks of bull, his arms rippled like a mountain range, and his legs were as strong as marble. He was unmatched in strength, speed, or intellect; all of it developed through repetition and determination.

All of Childeric’s challenges contained puzzles that demanded much of the youth, but the toughest was an errand that required Clovis travel into deep Germanic country to bring back a mysterious wild horse. Childeric wanted to use the stallion for breeding. The job forced Clovis to learn a new language, study the behavior of wild horses, negotiate with barbarians, and fend off highwaymen looking for plunder.

When Clovis matured into adulthood he began to understand why his father had insisted on education and strength. As king, Clovis was forced to daily prove he was more worthy of the crown than all the other warriors around him.

Loud crashes broke Clovis’ focus from the boy and brought an end to his reminiscing. He cringed as a boulder from a trebuchet landed and rolled through his army, indiscriminately crushing warriors in the field below.

Clovis stood alone atop of the hill, waiting for a change in the way this day was progressing. So far, things weren’t going well. Clovis shifted his feet and his leather armor creaked, his eyes rose to take in the sky.

Rays of sunlight carried a purple glow as they passed through the black and grey clouds and cast a surreal light on the field below.

The dust of battle filled the air. The sound of crashing metal, thundering hooves, screams, and shrieks pushed all natural noises aside.

Clovis winced at the clinking of poorly fitted armor. It grew louder as the young runner arrived at the top of the hill. He attempted to bow while still running to approach Clovis.

“The Alemanni have…” the boy wheezed with exhaustion.

“Slow down and breathe,” Clovis said firmly.

“Yes sir,” the boy gasped. “The Alemanni…have…the advantage, my King. We are being pushed back every minute that passes.”

“We’re you sent up here to tell me that?”

“Yes sir, my King.”

“And I assume your father sent you?”

“Yes sir, my King.”

“Look down there, boy” Clovis said as he gazed at the battle field. “What do you see?”

“I can see the entire battle, my King,” the boy said not looking up from the ground.

“Tell me. From down below, could you see me standing here?”

“Yes, my King. Very clearly, my King.”

Clovis gritted his teeth. “You tell my men down there that the next runner that they send up here to tell me something that I already know better be carrying that ugly Seubian banner and claiming victory or I will send the runner back in six different pieces.

“Uh, yes my King. Yes, sir.” A frightened look crossed the runners face.

Clovis smiled at the young man. He whispered as if telling a secret he didn’t want others to hear, “And don’t worry, I probably wouldn’t do that to a promising warrior like yourself.”

The young man’s eyes beamed with hope. “Yes, my King.”

“Now go!” Clovis ordered. The runner turned and sprinted back down into the fray.

Clovis could see his soldiers were being pushed back from the area around Tolbiac, but he also knew that if he could stop the Alemanni, the mash up of Seubian barbarians that called themselves “All Men”, he would stop the Seubians altogether.

A gust of wind blew his long braid across his back, brushing the thick dull top edge of Gladio Vita Vivet. The name meant sword breaker. A sword itself, it was uncommon in that it bore only one straight razor sharp edge that angled sharply at the very end to meet the spine of the blade at a point. The dull edge was as wide as a man’s thumb and only narrowed where it joined the sharpened edge at the tip.

The wind turned into a breeze, shifted direction, and brought with it the unmistakable scent of filth caked on unbathed bodies. Clovis’ men all bathed regularly. He demanded it.

He slid both hands into the gauntlets that hung from his waist. They were leather gloves inlaid with a crosshatch of silver strands that ran up to his elbow. Four silver shards, sharpened to exact fine edges with needle sharp points, were woven into the gauntlet above each knuckle and extended out past the ends of his fingers. When making a fist, his hand resembled an extended lion’s claw.

His right hand gauntlet was smooth with the exception of a raised section that ran along the top of his forearm. When he curled his fingers and pressed a leather pad on his palm, a blade extended out across the back of his hand and locked in place to the surprise of victims.

“You men have made a mistake,” Clovis said calmly to no one in particular, still looking down at the battle.

An unseen voice carried from the grove of trees behind Clovis. “We have you. You are outnumbered and the only place for you to flee is into battle, where we are advancing swiftly, and your men will soon meet their demise.”

“And how long have you practiced that poetic declaration?” Clovis said with a dismissive laugh.

No answer.

“Come then, let’s see you,” Clovis said spinning on his heal and striding toward the forest to meet the challengers.

Twenty men crept forward from the trees, forming a half circle around the giant King. Clovis could see the fear in their eyes. It was all he needed to confirm what he knew. They would all be dead in moments.

The men crept closer, but moved slower as they realized that they were close to striking distance.

Clovis smiled. There was no fear in his countenance. He made a dramatic gesture to pull his black braid to the front of his chest to clear the handle of the sword on his back.

He flexed his massive right arm to emphasize the Merovingian family crest that combined the fleur-de-lis with the outline of a bee.

He opened and closed his fists to stretch his fingers, preparing for what was to come.

The men’s expressions betrayed them. Clovis knew that seeing him in person they had realized all the rumors were true. One man stumbled and Clovis snorted, unimpressed.

The first attacker ran forward, placing himself directly in front of Clovis. With one hand the assailant held a double edge sword high above his head, with the other he grasped a shield to protect his left side.

The second and third attackers took the cue from their comrade. They charged from Clovis’ left. One carried a spear and shield, the other wielded a battle axe with both hands.

Well, that makes no sense. Why attack all from the same side.

He swung his left gauntlet back and gripped the mace hanging from his hip – Arma Vita Vivet, the shield breaker. He spun in a circle counter clockwise as the first sword came sweeping down, parting the air where Clovis had been standing. The sword drove into the dirt and created nothing but a breeze. Clovis, already spinning in anticipation of a standard attack, use the momentum to swing the shield breaker toward the oncoming enemy.

Arma Vita Vivet was hand crafted by Clovis. Like most standard maces, there was a ball on the end of a short stick. Unlike other maces, the ball was more of a teardrop shape beginning with a point. Running from the point to the back of the ball were six raised edges that served as wedges. When Arma contacted a shield, the wedge forced open a crack in the shield. Usually the shield broke completely in half, crushing the forearm of the man holding it. That was what Clovis hoped for.

He was pleasantly satisfied as the first attacker fell with the smashing sound of the mace splitting the shield, breaking his forearm, and shattering most of his rib cage, never to return to battle.

Attackers two and three presented more of a challenge. The clumsiness of a battle axe made the defense fairly simple, but it would not matter if the weapon made contact while he was dealing with the second swordsman.

Clovis dropped into a crouch as he finished the swing of Arma and hung the mace back on his hip. The advancing men pressed forward, opening their stances and beginning their attacking swings. Clovis could hear others advancing now, behind and to the right.

Well, I need to finish this quickly. This distraction is pulling me away from the battle below.

Instead of backing down into a defensive posture, he dropped into a crouch, looked up, and braced himself like a panther ready to pounce.

Decision made, he jumped forward toward the attackers. He could tell by the startled look on their faces that they were caught by surprise, both of them caught mid swing with completely exposed stomach and ribs.

He lifted both gauntlets. The left hand with metal claws pointing at the midsection of the axe swinging warrior advancing on his left side.

The right wrist bent his hand down, where fingers pressed the release for the hidden blade to extend.

Clovis stopped moving forward as he made contact with both men. The Gauntlets stopped when the blades were fully embedded within the sternums of both victims, one on either arm. He stood to full height, lifting each body up in the air and turned to face the rest of the Seubian soldiers.

Since he had been a child, Clovis had wanted to grow as his father intended: a mental, spiritual, and physical giant, a myth among mere men. Mentally, he was the first of his family to learn to read. The first to speak other languages. The first to study science and nature. He understood the world he lived in like no other king before him.

Spiritually, he’d searched to know what was really there. Unfortunately, no god had ever impressed him enough to take seriously. All were no more than glorified reflections of the clan that had created them. Clotilde, his wife, never stopped harassing him, begging him to accept the one true God of the Catholic Church, but Clovis would not concede. His decision to refrain from acknowledging God became more solid after their first child died shortly following his baptism as an infant.

Physically, Clovis had never stopped moving something bigger or throwing something farther. When his father wasn’t challenging him with some task to test his skill, he had a routine of standard exercises to pull and push and swing and jump. He found ways to lift his own weight, but soon enough he had grown too strong, and looked for other ways to grow. That had led to lifting boulders and throwing animals.

Now, holding the two warriors in the air, he looked at the remaining men. “Do you all wish this fate?” he screamed.

There was no response.

Very well.

Clovis dropped his hands and both bodies slid off of the gauntlets onto the ground at his feet. He reached both hands behind his neck where Gladio Vita Vivet rested between his shoulder blades and grasped the handle. The metal made no noise sliding from the leather sheath, but it seemed to glow, even in the gloom of the beaten and bruised sky.

In group, the next three men advanced. Clovis smiled. With Gladio, it didn’t matter what weapons the advancing men carried. Gladio had a way with metal. He never started with Gladio in battle, because he feared it and even more feared himself with it, and the damage that could be caused.

In a situation like this, with no one and nothing that he cared about within immediate proximity, there was no reason for restraint.

Clovis had forged Gladio after almost losing a challenge from a barbarian warrior on a journey through the Black Forest. The barbarian had wanted Clovis’ bear skin coat, and Clovis had no intention of handing it over.

The barbarian was strong, and swung a battle axe with more might than most. When Clovis held up his father’s old double edged sword to defend himself, it deflected the blow but cracked in half from the pressure of a direct strike.

Clovis had ended the fight quickly by jumping forward and twisting the barbarians head in a circle, but he wasn’t okay with the way his weapon had failed.

Upon his return home, he worked for three cycles of the moon to develop a weapon that would never be the weaker in a straight up duel. The result was Gladio.

Clovis allowed himself the momentary madness that came so easily to him and gave himself over to primal rage. With merciless swings of Sword Breaker, shields were cleaved in two.

The attackers came on but their hesitation was their undoing.

With each swing of a sword that was meant to harm Clovis, he parried the attack with Gladio and smiled through gritted teeth at each contact. The first swing would destroy the incoming weapon. Clovis would reverse the direction of the blade and swing back again, splitting open the armor of the enemy.

Standing in the midst of bodies Clovis stared down at the severed and crushed and broken men. He raised his head and glared down at the two surviving men. His chest heaved with giant, but controlled breaths. Gladio was still clutched in both hands. Blood dripped from the tip and formed a pool in the curve of a broken shield.

“Go now, and you live to tell of what you have seen.”

Neither moved.

Clovis twisted the sword in his hands so that the sharp edge was facing up and the thick spine of the blade toward the ground.

He pulled the sword back toward him with both arms and tensed the muscles in his arms. The point of the blade was lined up directly in line with the heart of the closest warrior.

The man didn’t run, he held up his shield. “I cannot run. I have sworn a duty to protect…”

With an expelled breath and the unwinding strength of pent up energy, Gladio shot forward in a straight line. The point pierced everything in its path. It carved a upside down “v” shaped hole in the shield, continued through the iron breastplate, and exited the armor that protected the back of the soldier.

I suppose I should have let him finish. Now I will never know what he thought he was protecting.

Clovis pulled the sword back through the holes. He arced the weapon in one sweeping motion, the sword came overhead and down. The last man standing watched without moving. His eyes grew wide under the rim of his helmet. He seemed ready, but hypnotized by the speed and merciless strength of the monster in front of him.

The blunt edge of the blade finished its descending arc and collided squarely with the top of the warrior’s helmet, driving the victim to the ground in a crumpled heap. The metal of the helmet caved in under the force of the blade and crimped, pinching the blade with bent metal, the remains of a skull still trapped inside.

Clovis pulled up and back to withdraw the sword, but it wouldn’t let loose. Several times he tried to free the sword, but with each tug the entire body of the collapsed man came up off the ground several feet.

Realizing the sword wasn’t free, he would relax and the body would fall back down to the ground.

Clovis stopped for a moment and looked around him, to make sure he was in no immediate danger, and then tried again to pull Gladio free to no avail.

He lifted his left foot and stepped down against the neck of the fallen, and pulled slowly as the sword began to separate itself from the metal with a grinding shriek.

I am glad no one else is here. This is embarrassing.

With one final pull, the sword separated from the helmet.

The adrenaline started to wane and the sounds of battle once again grew and demanded his attention.

He stood and slid the weapon back into the sheath on his back.

He turned and walked back to the edge of the hill. What he saw was what he feared. While his men for the most part didn’t seem to be wounded and dying, they had given too much ground. He was losing. Even if he were to run down and join the battle, it would not guarantee victory. He placed the gauntlets back on his hips, hanging each of them from circular hooks. He had designed them to allow the heavy gloves to separate from them when a hand was inserted and a downward pressure to the back was applied.

He sighed. The thought of losing pained his chest. It wasn’t only the personal disgrace that troubled him. With leadership came responsibility. The livelihood of his warriors families were the true motivator for victory. He searched the field looking for any solution. He scanned the horizon in hopes of noticing some weak point in his enemy’s line, but there was none. He played each scenario in his head. He ran through the maneuvers. There was no escape. The weight of defeat weighed on his shoulders.

What now oh great and mighty king. How will you accomplish this task? How will you overcome this challenge?

He watched as his left flank broke and the enemy attempted to swarm his ranks. His warriors fought ferociously, trying to correct their mistake, but it was only a matter of time. Clovis sat down in the dirt and watched everything fall apart in the field beneath him. There was no hope. There was nothing left.

Then a thought dawned.

Clotilde wants me to convert. Let’s see what her god has to say about working out a deal with me.

He moved to kneel and continued to bow his head as he seen his wife do.

Better to bow to a god than the other king on the battle field.

“O Jesus Christ, you…”

I can’t believe I am doing this…

“…Who, as Clotilde tells me, are the son of the living god.”

Is this truly my last hope? Look at what I am reduced to.

“You who give succor to those who are in danger, and victory to those accorded who hope in Thee.”

Ok, here it goes.

“I seek the glory of devotion with your assistance: If you give me victory over these enemies, and if I experience the miracles that the people committed to your name say they have had,”

Am I sure about this?

“Then I will believe in you, and I will be baptized in your name.”

There, I said it.

“Indeed, I invoked my gods, and, as I am experiencing, they failed to help me, which makes me believe that they are endowed with no powers, that they do not come to the aid of those who serve.”

I should have known better, I knew they wouldn’t help. This is stupid, but how can I lose?

“It’s to you I cry now, I want to believe in you if only I may be saved from my opponents.”

His head now was on the ground, his eyes were still closed.

The screams of his men erupted from the valley below.

In frustration he swore loudly into the dirt.

I knew it was all a lie. Even her god can’t help us.

He rose quickly to his feet.

I will not watch my men be devoured by the hoard. I will die by their side.

By the second step down the hill he realized that he couldn’t quite tell what was causing the commotion, but the surge of fighting was suddenly going in his favor. The orange banners with the yellow lion in the center were fleeing, and his men were pursuing.

As he gazed at the field, from the corner of his eye, Clovis noticed a shimmer in midair not more than two paces to the left. He spun his head, and the shimmering air was broken by the outline of a body disappearing through it.

Without thinking, he jumped head first into the blur and rolled as he fell to the ground to break his fall.

Pushing himself up onto his knees, he turned to look at the battle, and saw his men chasing the Almenanni, but his vision seemed blurred. They were almost imperceptible and fading more the longer he stared through the blurred air.

He looked around him and recognized the landscape, but nothing else was familiar.

The sky that had been the color of a terrible bruise was now a swirling mass of dark and angry clouds that seemed centered on the battle below and cast an eerie light across the scene.

The grass, trees, even the rocks, all seemed to shimmer with a greenish glow.

Slowly he stood and spun in a quick circle. The men he had just defeated were no longer at his feet. The last man defeated, with the crushed helmet, gone.

In their place were two men standing at the edge of the forest.

“What have you done?” the taller of the two said to the other. They hadn’t yet noticed Clovis.

“He asked for help, and we needed to change the tide of the battle, both here and there.”

“Bashi, you cannot mess with Reality. It bears unknown consequences.”

“The Malacovi do. So have you, and Michael and Gabriel.”

“Only when commanded, and you and I are not Michael or Gabriel.”

“It needed to be done.”

“Yes, but an axe through someone’s head was not the way.

“We can’t stay. When the Malacovi realize what has happened, they will pursue us. And just you and I cannot defend against them.”

“Hyoi, look.” Bashi said, looking at Clovis.

“How did he cross over?”

“I don’t know.”

“He can’t stay. Take him back.”

Facing him were the two warriors that had been speaking about him but not to him. Both men carried two long thin curved swords. They matched his height and were well built, but nowhere near his strength.

In the second that he observed them, he had sized them up. Warriors with no armor…strange. Clothes are loose, pants and tunic don’t restrict movement.

A dark, haunting voice from over his shoulder added to the conversation. “You have messed with the wrong Bellemus. That battle ground was pivotal, and we were not to interfere.”

Clovis spun again to view a an approaching crowd of dark soldiers.

The one that had spoken to the two warriors about interfering wore a long robe and had no weapons. The hood completely covered his face, long sleeves dropped well below his hands, and the hem of the robe brushed against the grass as he walked.

Behind him and walking to the top of the hill were a group of the nastiest looking warriors that Clovis had ever seen. His mind struggled to identify them.

Each wore poorly fitting armor and carried crude weapons such as clubs with spikes or long dull blades with hooks at the end. One held a two handed battle axe that was more than half the size of Clovis. They varied in height, from Clovis’ shoulder to five hands above Clovis’ head.

Twelve ugly ones, one spooky guy, and the two pixies behind me. This will be interesting.

Clovis glanced one looked back where the battle had been, but nothing was left there that would be familiar. Even the dark swirling cloud had dissipated and given way to an equally gloomy grey sky. In the valley, there was no sign that there had been a struggle.

He faced the ugly group now stopped at the top of the rise, and a thought occurred to him.

Is it a coincidence that this is all happening immediately after I talked to Clotilde’s God?

He turned his head enough to address the two men behind him. “Just answer me one question.”

Hyoi answered carefully, “Yes.”

“I asked for help. Were you that help?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“So be it.”

For the second time in less than five minutes, Clovis gave himself over to the darker part of him that was boundless strength under malicious intent.

Clovis’ gauntlets were weighing heavy on his hips, begging for him to slide his hands into them.

Gladio Vita Vivet rested on his back, vibrating with anticipation.

Arma Vita Vivet, seemed to call out for him to wrap his fingers around the handle and feel the satisfying crunch of shield and bone.

The flexible armor that covered his chest and formed his pants, inlaid with the bones men and animals stitched between layers of leather felt ready to absorb the pounding of enemy weapons. Knees bent.

Arms bowed.

His entire body tensed in a crouch.

He noticed as he moved that every action felt faster and easier and enjoyed the feeling as his muscles tensed for action.

As he slid his hands back into the familiar spiked gloves, Clovis wore a smile that seemed like he had lost all reason.

Arma in his left hand, Gladio in his right. A mass of creatures that needed reconciliation. They had evil intentions, and a power that they did not deserve. He could feel it. He couldn’t describe it, but he knew it was there, with the one in the dark cloak.

I am the great leveler. The equalizer. The source of justice and judgment for those human or supernatural, weak or strong, one or many. I will reconcile. This is where I belong.

He pounced, aiming for the hooded man in front, but his jump carried him over the creature, landing him in the midst of the eleven orc like ugly creatures, crushing one below his feet.

Pleasantly surprised by his extra strength and speed, Clovis didn’t hesitate to spin and swing, mace and sword smashing and cleaving beasts seemingly without effort.

I have never felt this strong or fast.

A snarling hunched back beast with two long teeth that jutted up from his lower jaw ran directly toward Clovis. With a flinch he swung Gladio in a perfect straight line. The sword slid between the helmet and breast plate and cleanly severed head from body, leaving a black liquid spewing out of both.

When he stopped to take a breath only one monster was left standing. It stepped backward in fear and tripped over a pile of broken armor with remains inside.

Clovis slowly hung the mace on his belt. He slid his sword carefully back into its leather casing.

The orc stood up again and started to back away. Clovis clenched the gauntlet in his right hand into a fist and leapt after the orc. One swing, and the orcs face shattered under the weight of the blow, and the beast collapsed on the ground and his feet.

In the quiet of the aftermath, the only sound was the sound of metal on wood. A rhythmic thud moving at an incredible speed.

Thunk, thud, ting, thud, swoosh, ting.

Clovis turned and saw the three remaining men engaged in battle. The hooded creature that had not shown any weapons had four long talons extending from each hand.

The two others were swinging their swords in a consistent defensive pattern. Every time the metal contacted the claws, it gave off a muffled sound that resembled an axe striking a tree.

“This is not the way to win!” the one called Hyoi was yelling.

“You cannot speak of winning! You have interfered,” hissed the hood as he made a wide arcing swipe with the claws in his right hand.

“Bashi, get Clovis back through The Veil!

“Fargoth, stop this now. I will not engage you.” Hyoi stepped aside to avoid the swinging arms.

“It is too late for that.” Sneered Fargoth.

Bashi ran toward Clovis and paused to take in the carnage that lay at his feet.

Clovis smiled an evil smile and said “this is just the half of it, I have just as many at my feet where I came from.”

“Clovis, we can’t stay. Come with me.” A blurred section of air shimmered open next to Clovis.

“No, that man in the hood possesses a power that he should not. I will not leave without bringing that power into balance.” Clovis sprang forward as he finished.

Fargoth didn’t see it coming. His robe was torn from his body by a leather hand with four long claws that left deep gashes in his back. The box that was tied to his waist by a rope sling was in the other gloved hand and pulled until the rope snapped. Then the same fist snapped backward, the single extended blade separating his head from his body and sending it spinning into the grass.

Without looking, Clovis jumped backwards far enough to carry him through the tear in the Veil, and he landed on his back looking up at a black and blue sky.

The sounds of war rushed into his ears so suddenly that he cringed.

The same runner came up the hill carrying the banner of the defeated and retreating army. “You said I had to bring this if we came back up, my King.”

“What has happened?”

The runner bent over, trying to catch his breath. “We were being pushed back…and…the commander of the…the…”

“Yes, yes, the savages, go on.”

“Yes, someone put a battle axe straight through his skull, helmet and all. They are all retreating… and we are in full pursuit.”

Clovis looked at the box. It was a small wooden rectangle barely the size of Clotilde’s hand when making a fist. The pattern on the surface of the box was intricate. By joining different species of wood, the changes in texture and color created runes that intersected. Turning it over and over, there was no apparent latch or trigger to pry it open.

He held it up to his ear and shook it, and heard a muffled rattle from within. He gripped it with both hand to find a seam or joint. The box gently vibrated.

“Majesty, did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, yes. Excellent news. Let us head back down into the valley and congratulate your father. Do you know how my sons fared?”

“Yes, majesty. Theuderic and Childebert are unscathed. Chlodomer was injured by a boulder from the trebuchet, but he is believed to be able to recover.”

“That is good.” A pause, and then he looked down at the messenger, “…and Clotaire?” Clovis hesitated to have favorites, but his youngest son at 16 years old seemed to hold a special place.

A grin crossed his face. Obviously the boy was fond of Clotaire as well.

“The trumpet sounded, the Gauls retreated, and we pursued. When we passed a catapult, Clotaire and several others were able to turn it and launch rocks at the fleeing hoard. It is believed that he killed at additional fifty men trying to flee.”

“Excellent! That’s my boy.”

In another place, Hyoi sighed as he stood before an imposing warrior wearing similar loose fitting pants and tunic, both shimmering royal blue. The warrior had one hand on the hilt of a sword that hung through a loop in a belt at his waist.

“Hyoi, I have never seen you with this expression on your face.”

“The news is…troubling.”

“I notice you did not say upsetting, concerning or bad.”

A slight smile crossed Hyoi’s face. “No, it isn’t any of those. Really, it is more of an interesting situation than anything.”

“Ok, continue.”

“Ok, Bashi accidentally pulled someone through The Veil.”

Michael glanced briefly at Bashi, grimaced and turned back to Hyoi. “That is not unprecedented. Did you take that someone back?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. He returned on his own.”

Michael looked at Bashi, and then back at Hyoi. “You have no more time, tell me what I need to know.”

“It was Clovis.”

“Clovis?! That is interesting. What happened?”

“Clovis…um…stumbled upon a group of Malacovi…and a mardock that had The Box…with a Lamina inside.”

“And?” Michael asked with a troubled tone.

“Clovis made fairly quick work of the grunts, and then disabled the shade Fargoth. It was he that was carrying the box.”

“Where was this?”

“Tolbaic.”

“Interesting that the shade had a coin and The Box at Tolbaic. What we thought was just a simple battle must have been more. They were trying to create a Bellemus, and they wanted to guarantee victory.”

“Yes sir.”

Bashi interrupted with a smirk. “He has both.”

“Who does?” Michael asked, addressing Hyoi without even a glance at Bashi.

Hyoi slowly answered, “Clovis does. Both of them. The Box. A Lamina. In Reality.”

There was an extended pause.

Bashi said, “Clovis made a promise to serve God.”

“Is Clovis serious about the promise he made to God?” Replied Michael, again focusing on Hyoi.

“He seems to be, although it is soon to tell.”

“Yes, this very interesting…we seem to have an unprecedented opportunity.” Michael pondered. “Thank you Hyoi. We need to secure Clovis for our cause. Maybe Longinus could help?”

“I’m not sure that Longinus could control Clovis, but I will find out.”

Hyoi bowed in respect and walked away.

Bashi looked at Hyoi and whispered, “Do you even know where to find Longinus? I haven’t seen or heard from him since he was contacted by Hrodman.”

“It has been a long time, but I am sure that he has not travelled far from Jerusalem since the crucifixion. We can involve Hrodman if necessary.”

Bashi grunted, “I really don’t like him. Michael hates him.”

“I know, but some things are necessary.”