Banshee (11 page)

Dragons

“I wondered where God was. We all did. Even people who had long since given up on God in any expression found themselves looking at what was coming up out of the ground and wondering if there was anyone to intercede. First, you had the usual crazies who said that the dragons were demons, then arch-demons, and then of course those idiots who saw the biggest dragons rising. To their stupidly suspicious minds, bigger meant more evil. Eventually, there were . . . I guess you’d call it a cult, they wanted to measure all the dragons and whoever was the biggest was the devil, or some such nonsense. The problem was that in times of upheaval, the dumbest ideas were given oxygen due to desperation. It was only a matter of time before these exceptionally stupid people tried to attack a dragon. When it happened, it didn’t go as they planned, not one bit.

Seneca was, and still is, one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life. He rose in the Adirondack Mountains, seventy-five meters of golden bronze, with midnight blue flanks and actual
muscles
; he was like nothing we’d ever seen before that June morning. I was a second-year reporter at a station in Syracuse, and I’d been sent to do a throwaway interview at the Jordanville monastery. I was told to wear pants—no skirts for women—be respectful, and chat with the monks about the art of baking bread. I admit, I was pissed to be shuffled off like a kid, and I
hated
being told what to wear, but then my cameraman pulled into the place and it was incredibly peaceful. I didn’t know what to expect; I thought monks were fossilized men who chose to ignore the world, but the people I saw were young. They were vigorous, and going about running what was a cross between a church and a farm, but prettier. We shot some standups in front of excellent backdrops, and then a massive shadow crossed the sun, and Seneca back winged without fanfare onto the lawns of the monastery.

My cameraman got it all. No fuss, no noise, just an enormous dragon landing to be greeted by a dozen monks, all smiling and laughing as he dipped his head and began to ask of their day, how their prayers were, and if they had opinions about the latest batches of cheese they were making. It was a total mind melt. I stood at a short distance and listened for over an hour while they launched into detailed question and answer about the nature of someone known as St. John of Shanghai and San Francisco. I realized I was seeing an exercise in theology conducted by intellectuals; it was beyond anything I’d ever imagined. Bread and smoked fish were brought out, and the afternoon passed with the kind of beautiful peace that would soon be impossible once the invasion started. I thought it was the best day of my life, and I’m not religious at all. It was just . . . it was elegant, you know?

The sun was beginning to set when the first shots rang out. The news spread about Seneca being on the ground, and a war party from god knows where managed to arrive on foot, all heavily armed and convinced that the dragon who had been discussing the finer points of theology was, in fact, Satan. Seneca looked over his shoulder at the approaching rabble, leapt to the air, and casually knocked every one of his assailants unconscious with a single sweep of his tail. That was it; no standoff, no great battle, just fifteen seconds of this magnificent creature disarming those men like children. When they awoke, the monks had gathered and Seneca sat on his haunches peering down at them with—it wasn’t forgiveness, which surprised me. It was disgust. One of the monks, a middle-aged man named Piotr, brought the men ice for their lumps, but other than that, the would-be attackers were offered nothing. After a cold stare, Seneca’s voice rumbled down. Our camera was rolling for all of it.

The dragon asked mildly, “Why do you think I am here?”

It clearly wasn’t what those men expected, because they stammered for a moment before one of them, a blowhard named Arthur Lombardozzi, found his tongue. “You’re evil and you must be stopped!” Arthur, a career salesman, was trying hard to sell himself on what he saw as a spiritual calling, and failing with each passing second that Seneca’s implacable gaze fell upon him. “You admit to being a dragon, and . . . well, dragons are evil. It says so—”

“In the Bible? In song and story?” Seneca laughed a deep, grating noise that ended with a cavernous sigh. “Arthur, you are correct. I
am
a beast. Look at me.” A long claw gestured at the wings that were folded neatly on the dragon’s back. “Only an idiot would deny the physical nature of my existence. Let us bring in an expert opinion at this time, in order to move this narrative along. There is much to be done, Arthur, and when you behave like superstitious villagers, you’re part of the problem rather than the solution. Those rifles you carry are modern torches and nothing more. I would prove to you my intent so that you may turn them in the direction they will most be needed. Brother Piotr, do you think I am Satan?”

The burly monk looked up thoughtfully while stroking a rather impressive beard. “I do not. There is a clear delineation between dragon and demon, despite what modernism has wrought upon our collective understanding of such things. I confess, though, that I am most curious as to your purpose, Seneca. You are remarkably well-suited to many things, none of which bode well for humanity if I am glimpsing the future through your presence,” Piotr finished with a shrug. He was remarkably sanguine for a man standing in the shade of a reptile longer than most buildings, but in truth, they had been engaged in passionate theological discourse for some time.

Seneca raised a didactic claw. “Aha. And there, Arthur, is the heart of the matter. The good monk sees not only my presence, but thinks to ask why my arrival has occurred at all. This is the mark of a thoughtful person; something which you and your rabble have tragically overlooked. For that reason, I find myself in the awkward position of being forced to eat you.”

Arthur Lombardozzi was not an athlete. He had never been an athlete, nor could sheer terror cause him to move his ponderous bulk at anything more than a majestic tumble as he and his compatriots fell over themselves in an effort to flee. They tripped, crashed, staggered and eventually fell to their knees after less than 100 yards, gasping for their breath and sounding more or less like asthmatic hippos. Seneca was, by that time, flat on his back in silent paroxysm of laughter, each whooshing gale sending him into new heights of humor as he was joined by the normally modest monks. The entire party, me included, was doubled over at the brilliance of the joke. After several moments, Seneca found his wind and managed to deliver the draconic version of an apology through fits and starts. Brother Piotr had soiled his clothing from lying in the grass and laughing without reserve. I developed a serious headache from laughing, and I admit seeing those fools crashing around like stampeding herd beasts was the highlight of my day.

The sly expression returned to Seneca’s face and he called out. “Arthur. Gentlemen. Please, there will be no carnivorous activity here, unless you’ve more of that excellent fish?” The dragon turned hopefully to the monks, who were still wiping their eyes.

With a measured look at the enormous dragon, a voice called out from the back of the group, “Yes, although we may have to . . . resupply.”

Seneca waved a claw. “That won’t be necessary, good monks. I shall fish in one of the lakes nearby; I’m told that the walleye concentrate in the cool deeps at this time of year. I think a bracing dive is in order.”

I imagined the sight of that incredible creature herding fish in a chilly Adirondack lake. The simple possibility was wondrous. Just then, a noticeably sheepish cadre of men led by the former aggressor, Arthur, came to a hesitant halt some twenty yards away. Seneca turned to them and let them stand in awkward silence. For a dragon, his sense of timing was excellent.

Seneca began slowly, “You seem quite willing to do violence in the defense of exactly
what
?” His eyes pinned the flushed men.

None uttered a word.

I spoke up. “They’re afraid. They want to fight because they don’t understand you.”

Seneca took notice of me, and I admit that, for an instant, I quailed. Then he drew his lips back from those magnificent fangs in what I recognized as a smile. It was terrifying.

“I too am afraid,” said the dragon.

Nothing made a sound, save the insects of high summer.

“You—you are?” Arthur said, his voice tinged with real fear.

Seneca rumbled again with resignation, “I am. I have come to fight. I have come to fulfill my purpose, and sadly, it is war. A war such as this place has never seen, friends, and I fully expect to die during one of what will be endless battles.”

Brother Piotr reached out and placed a kind hand on the golden muzzle of the dragon. Tears tracked his cheeks as he held his cross in one hand and the salvation of humanity in the other. “Who will we be fighting?” There was no hesitation in the monk’s tone. He fully intended to join the war, and his brothers nodded along with his sentiment.

Seneca’s eyes narrowed into slits that danced with the light of anger. “We fight the legions. We fight the damned. And we will kill them even as they rush screaming into our arms.”

A monk asked, “Where will they come from, good dragon?”

Seneca smiled again, and jammed a scythe-like claw into the grass. “Down.”

—Melanie Fitzhugh, News Channel Six.

—
Bulwark Archival Materials, Access Date 96 A.R.

Trinity Outpost, August 22, 2074 A.D.

“It’ll start soon.” Moss Eilert glared out into the harsh waters of the inland sea as they turned from blue to red, and then shattered into the dull metallic hues of twilight. The transition would take less than an hour as the last glow of the Texas day was muscled aside by the growing gloom. Looming silhouettes of dragon and man ringed the two-mile front that ran north to south, although the eruption of demonic creatures rarely spanned more than several hundred yards. The Commodore was careful but not foolish; his deployment of forces was perfectly tailored to the threat. Dragons would sweep inward from either flank, maximizing their speed and strength as they smashed into the unprotected sides of the beasts that would run wildly up the beach. There were limited but highly effective gunnery squads placed in three angles of attack, with the center being the farthest from the beach. In effect, the Commodore recreated Hannibal’s victory over the Romans at Cannae each and every month as he drew the howling animals of hell into a trap that preyed upon the very aggression that made them dangerous.

Orontes stood next to the Commodore in quiet observation. The arrayed forces thrummed with restrained confidence, but there was no panic, no shouting, or distress. Orontes found that interesting given that these people, despite being tough and disciplined, were not in fact professional soldiers. They called themselves the Admiralty, but in effect, they were gifted, organized citizens, who were augmented with the most lethal beings to ever fly or walk on the earth. Real armies and, for that matter, navies, had ceased to exist in the bloody years following the first attacks. The world’s military were the point of the spear, and they collectively paid a high price until their command structure, communications, and equipment failed long before their valor evaporated.

None of that mattered just then in growing darkness. Orontes heard the dragons take experimental flaps of their great wings as they loosened muscles in preparation for battle. Fires were lit with a whooshing roar, and light, patchy but warm, bloomed into existence across the ringed defenses of Trinity’s beaches. The riflemen leaned against their tripods and shooting braces, and exhaled to rid their bodies of any burgeoning nerves, and then one by one, each and every dragon loosed a guttural roar that shook the air and sent the few remaining birds in the area to wing.

Silence fell, and the hot, salted breeze died to nothing. Riders shifted slightly in their saddles, casting a symphony of creaking leather up and down the arrayed defensive line, and then they too stilled. Moss looked into the near total darkness at the sand that stretched away to the water. The bonfires crackled and light sputtered across the beach, only to fade into nothing at the farthest reaches of the low, lapping waves.

The ocean exploded. A chorded, keening howl tearing from dozens of creatures bloomed out from the churning waters, as a ragged line of demons burst forth from the shallows, hell bent for the walls of Trinity.

The Commodore’s voice cracked with practiced ease. “Aimed fire.” Just because the military of the United States was gone, did not mean that the knowledge of discipline and tactics had died alongside them. The line of rifles crackled in near unison at the first wave of attackers, and it was clear to Orontes that these were seasoned fighters. The rifle reports settled quickly into a disciplined metronome, and that was when
what
was attacking came into the light.

In one pool of firelight, a deep green, leathery creature that spanned the bridge between reptile and canine plowed into the sand with a flopping spray, its heart torn out by a well-placed round from one of the rifles. Orontes looked at the twitching corpse with great interest, noting the long legs, black talons on all four feet, and the impossibly wide jaws studded with long needle teeth. Small ears were pressed flat against a long skull, and a purpling tongue lolled to one side. The beast methodically kicked a trench into the sand of the beach with its powerful legs, until a full-body shudder announced that the demon was dead. Baying for blood, the last of the initial wave dissolved under withering fire from the wall. The rifles quieted, and then stopped.

In the aftermath, Moss Eilert barked out in his command voice, “Recover and report. Injuries?” It was a rhetorical question. None of the scaly hounds had made it above the tideline, as expected.

The first thing Orontes noted was the murmuring between riders and dragons, and the general lack of tumult. The fighters were salty, and their calm demeanor was the product of years of combat. The beach returned to its earlier state of relative peace, but for the ammoniac reek of dead demons. Not one of the animals even twitched, and the seductive calm filled the senses of everyone watching.

Then the dragons stirred.

Their riders braced as each dragon bunched the corded muscles in their haunches and leapt forward, causing a maelstrom of sand and moist air that pounded downward, fanning the fires higher in seconds.

Rae called to the left wing of riders in a clear alto, directing them to sweep outward in anticipation of receiving the enemy. “Prepare to service targets!” Rae’s voice rang out with confidence from among the dragonriders.

Nobody hurried. There was no panic, only the calm process of a seasoned team repeating an action that, while dangerous, was as natural to them as breathing. Rifles clicked, squeakers ran along the wall with pouches and water and, in a seamless maneuver, the dragons split into a well-formed bracket that staggered enough so each beast had a clear path from the flank.

“They will attack without fear of collision?” Orontes noted.

Moss nodded. “An unimpeded assault path, staggered incrementally by time and distance. It’s actually a simple grid; we just implement the shape of the defenses, if you will, in four dimensions. The dragons think in three, we humans think in two, but can add the element of time. When used together, we get what you are about to see.”

The Commodore smiled coldly and turned back to the beach in anticipation of the next incursion.

Orontes heard a tearing, like that of bark as it is peeled from a new felled log. It was a moist, violent sound that carried across the darkened water to echo wildly from the stone exterior of the outer wall. He cut his eyes left to right, straining to see what could be making such an unearthly noise, and then the dragons bellowed yet again as they began their dives.

A near perfect crescent of sinuous, flashing serpents burst out of the shallows, their yawning mouths open and hurling coughing challenges ashore.
Not serpents
, thought Orontes,
sea monsters. Creatures of lore.
The horde slithered ashore in a rippling mass, each creature nearly as long as a dragon, but thin, swift, and silky in their motions. They snapped at each other, and their enormous dark pupils fixated on the defenders of the wall. They were man eaters, and there were dozens of them slithering forward at high speed. For 100 feet of serpent, their speed was staggering, but they could not outrun the dragons.

The Commodore shouted a single command, “Hold fire. First sweep, Explorers!” Eilert’s voice boomed as he called down a quartet of dragons who had risen together and were known as
The Four Explorers
. Nicolet, Bartolome, LaSalle, and Meri were all medium in length, and ranged in color from deep blue to cream with blue accents. They were as physically alike as any dragons known, and they fought as a unit. With a scream, Meri and Nicolet emerged from the blackness to rake the serpents right to left as, an instant later, Bartolome and LaSalle savaged the invaders from the right. It was a complicated attack executed to perfection, and several of the 100-foot serpents had been ripped cleanly in half. As the dragons lifted to complete their pass, each rider fired a shotgun at the targets that were in the twilight of the fires, driving the monsters to the center.

Orontes was unprepared for the assault. The efficiency was mechanical, and wholly without any mercy. As soon as the first dragons cleared, Eilert was calling again, his clear baritone ringing out specific names and angles. Over the next few moments, Orontes watched in studied awe at the dance that was conducted by the dragons and fighters of Trinity.

“Dauntless! Dreadnought! Low right!” the Commodore roared. He was loud but calm, raising his voice not from a lack of control, but only in order to be heard over the cacophony of the second wave of demons. Their death calls and hisses reduced most communication to lamp signals and waved commands, and yet the defense remained well organized, save occasional faults in positioning. When the last dozen serpents approached the wall, a lone rider cried down from the penumbra of the watch fires.

“Final pass! Banshee and Spellbound! Hold fire!” Saavin shouted. Her powerful alto punched through the gloom and all rifles were placed barrel down in a safe position.

Orontes squinted into the dark and detected a flicker. Byrna, standing to his left, chuckled low in a conspiratorial tone.

“Should I be watching for something special?” Orontes asked.

The Commodore pointed. “Keep your eyes open. This won’t take long.”

There were apparently two kinds of dragons; those that were fast, and those that were Banshee. Saavin’s beast streaked from the black like a cold iron meteor, his eyes glowing gold in the heat of battle. In a fractional second, Banshee decapitated each and every one of the serpents that had reared up to surmount the walls. Their blood shot up and out in an ebon fountain, as their tails continued driving forward, ignoring the fact that they were all leaderless. With rich thumps, the heads, some still hissing, landed at the end of their lazy arcs and rolled to a stop before Spellbound had emerged from the night. Rae’s laughter carried in the salt air, and Orontes swore he heard Spellbound emit a petulant complaint about Banshee stealing all the glory. The Commodore heard it too, because he cupped his hands and shouted assurances that, with the next wave, there would be war enough for all.

“What do you think, Orontes? Can our fine riders and their dragons defeat the giant demons that took your city?” Byrna asked. Her tone was frankly inquiring and free from arrogance.

Before he could answer, Moss Eilert waved for silence. “Third wave now visible. Prepare to receive. Rifles, on interim. Both wings, staggered assault.”

“Where? Can you see them?” Orontes asked.

A young girl working as a squeaker handed Byrna a drink and asked, “Aren’t you listening, sir? Can’t you hear them?”

Orontes seemed to strain at the wall’s edge, turning his head to and fro like a deer on high alert. There was a noise, something tantalizing; a hum that morphed into splashing, then . . . silence. The quiet was as out of place as Orontes, high on a concrete wall overlooking a silent strand. Nothing in the scene
belonged
. There was an alien sea crawling with demons attacking a holdout of scavengers who were defended by dragons. The carnival of violence was only outshone by the majesty of the dragons, which went aloft once more in one massed leap. The noise of enormous wings drowned out whatever it was Orontes was supposed to hear, so the squeaker motioned that he should bend down to listen.

Orontes leaned over to hear the boy, who awarded him with a conspiratorial grin. “What should I have heard, young man?” He kept his tone light as the boy darted a glance toward the hovering dragons.

“I’m only eight, but I been here all my life. I seen all the baddies when they come up and out, so I know my stuff, you know?” the kid said.

“What’s your name?” Orontes asked, impressed with the squeaker’s worldly bearing.

The dragons began to bellow again, and the boy drew in a massive breath to shout. “Kip. My name is Kip,” the squeaker piped in his young voice. The last booming rush of draconic aggression faded as Kip continued, “You were supposed to hear the Yer . . . yerps. It’s a hard word to say, sorry, mister.”

“What do they look like?” Orontes asked. His curious question filled the pregnant void before the attack. “Quickly, Kip.”

The boy grimaced from an unpleasant memory. “They’re big, and they’re low. They clack like wind chimes, and they got them big claws like a scorpion, but they can swim. The dragons hate ‘em ‘cause they’re poison, but they still crunch ‘em up.”

“Eurypterids?” Orontes asked. He was a student of ancient creatures. The sea scorpions of long ago were enormous, predatory, and hard to kill. It was no wonder that the dragons regarded them as detestable. One lone rider cried out the alarm as the invasion began again with a mechanical clatter. The scorpions came forward with a chittering hiss, and Orontes looked on in wonder. He simply had to know how a boy could anticipate an attack with such accuracy, and based on the merest whisper of a sound. It was eerie.