Banshee (28 page)

Dragons

“I killed the last demon in the Great Lakes. I did it with my claws because it was so repugnant, I could not fathom allowing any of that creature to sully my palate. I’ve spent the better part of two decades collecting—some would say stealing, an ugly term, that—wines from around the remnants of the United States and Canada. I do
so
love the giant vineyards of Western Pennsylvania; their concept of a yearly crop warms my draconic heart.

“To be sure, I’ve been accused of having pedestrian tastes. That mongrel Nicolet tried to lecture me about the distinction between Germanic whites and the sweeter, more accessible, vintages of Austria. To think I wasted an afternoon arguing with a barbarian who had the remains of a
nurse shark
in his teeth. I’d sooner eat a roll of that dreadful shag carpet that they send me to Georgia for on occasion, but there’s no reasoning with a dragon that’s read stacks of ancient wine collector magazines. It does no good to argue with the proletariat once they’ve seen the good life.

“Ahh, but back to the demon of Lake Erie. As you may have suspected, he wasn’t the first beast to attack Cleveland. That honor would go to a band known as Flirty Sanchez, whose mistaken admission into the rock and roll hall of fame touched off a three day orgy of debauchery and rioting some years earlier. As repulsive as their music—and I use that term in the loosest sense possible—might have been, at least they didn’t eat an entire ferry filled with geriatric Canadians. That honor went to Lord Scalubrus, after which the giant, scaled cougar descended beneath the waves and hid like a coward. That is, he hid until I found him.

“I was winging north to collect a particularly good shipment of Canadian whiskey—yes, I like variety—when I noticed flotsam emerging in a pattern near the shore of Long Point. I saw the most extraordinary sights. Long lost ships were hurled onto the shore with complete disregard for their integrity or worth—I’m a student of history, you know, and I simply cannot abide that type of wanton hostility toward objects in the marine archaeological record. I traced the debris inland to a place once known as Port Dover, and found what I suspected; the loathsome Lord Scalabrus had risen once again in all his scaly, pestilent glory. What a vulgar beast. I’ve always resented his choice of names; I find it rather vainglorious that he should be so chuffed as to title himself with that of the nobility. He was busily stuffing screaming pigs into his repulsive mouth when I first circled. The herdsmen, whom I later met and shared a fine cask of raw spirits with, were at a distance, in full flight. Their lifelong work curating such a magnificent herd of pork was gone down the gullet of that most-unworthy demon. I admit to a heated rage that was wholly unbecoming, and flew away to look for something
special
to make my displeasure known.

“I found the propeller from the wreck of the
Pascal Pratt
laying nearly exposed due to the destructive track of Lord Scalabrus. The demon was noticeably longer than my own eighty meters; he was heavily built and armored, and his scales glistened with the residue of hell. He was also completely unaware of my dive as I screamed earthward at full velocity from the halo of the sun, braining him with the propeller as I passed. What a sweet shot that was, I say! I opened his neck up to the bone and whirled back for another pass. At that point, my tendency to rely on blunt force attempted to surmount any hint of subtlety in my attack, but I decided that a quick death was too good for that cowardly beast. In short, I took my time. I strafed him without mercy until his black ichor stained the water of that proud lake and his corrupt heart beat no more. My
fin de siècle
severed his ridiculous ears, which hang in the Maritime Cathedral serving the steamships of Eastern Erie.

“I have fought in the very worst of the demonic wars, although I missed the gallant bloodshed of New Madrid, but I am proud to say that, on the day I cut Lord Scalbrus to pieces, I earned each sweet draught of wine from that moment forward.” —The Dragon Livingstone

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Bulwark Archival Materials, Access Date 96 A.R.

New Madrid, Sept 20, 2074

French began positioning the militia an hour before dusk. It’s a fact of human physiology that being on the knife’s edge for too long creates mistakes. Those were something that New Madrid could ill afford, so people eased into their positions with the exception of the Patty-Macs. Their routine was so casual, they made all other activities seem martial by comparison. He’d arrayed them in two distinct zones as fire support for the less-gifted marksmen. The addition of one family member could bolster the kill rate of an entire platoon based on their accuracy; where others went for the body, the Paddy-Macs went for the head.

“We’ll listen for your signal, then fall to the flanks,” Arvin Paddy-Mac said. He indicated scuffed areas slightly past the shooting platforms with a nod, then pointed toward the unguarded center. “I’ll pull us back in stages during the last of the scalehounds. I don’t want us all in transition during the lull. That okay by you, French?”

“Excellent. I trust your judgment, and I don’t want any of you breathing hard from moving. Start your egress whenever you see fit, and respond when set. You’ve got eyes on Watley?” French asked. His suspicion was tangible.

“Mine. If he twitches before I think we’re secure, I’ll fill that glorified duck shed with rounds,” Arvin growled.

With a slap on his bony shoulder, French left the veteran marksman to his preparations. Speeches weren’t his style, so he went to each squad for a quiet word or clarification of duties. Their special accommodations were in order, and Watley would be watched. The sense of still before battle trickled up French’s spine.

A lean gunsmith walked up, surveying the early layout with an approving nod. “Canae, eh?” Asked Roger LeClaire. He was a student of military history and the best gunsmith residing in New Madrid.

French smiled broadly in response.

“We want our
guests
to feel comfortable heading toward the town. I’ve got my best shooters elevated on each flank, and then a company’s strength of rifles arrayed along the weak side of the entrance. We
want
the biggest demons away from the cave as soon as possible, and I’m willing to sacrifice our outer buildings if I have to.” French pointed to the scarred earth that knurled away. “The scalehounds will sprint as shock troops, but we’re going to save a few for an idea I’ve got.”

Roger looked upward at the clear, dragon-free skies. He’d been working furiously until the last minute, and missed the bulk of planning. A natural sniper and master technician, his need for guidance was minimal. He swept the skies again with his eyes. “And what about the dragons? Where do they play into Hannibal’s victory over the Romans?”

“Hannibal never fought demons, but he faced the Roman legions, and that’s close enough,” French said without conviction. Even he didn’t believe there to be a human equal to what would soon emerge from the darkness.

“Who will spring the trap? You’ll lead them into the middle, but we won’t be capable of flanking the monsters until they’re nearly amidst us.” Roger’s concerns were legitimate, but French merely pointed at himself.

“I
am
the trap. The dragons will be fully engaged, and we’ll drive them one at a time into the charges. I’ve got five explosives and three demons. I like our chances.”

“What about friendly fire?” Roger glanced at the box-like structure where Colvin Watley and his men were arranged. The heavy shooting room was ten feet off the ground on posts. It had been hoisted with block and tackle, pegged into place, and had a three-foot band of open air around the entire structure. Despite his misgivings, French grudgingly admitted that it was an improvement over the glorified deer stands that the Patty-Macs were so fond of using.

“I’m not worried about it.” French’s expression was unreadable, and Roger merely grunted. They shook hands as the sun dropped lower.

Delandra caught French’s eye and began to walk down the incline toward him. She wore a cotton shirt with the outline of Texas on it, jeans, and her hair was under a surgical cap. A stunning tooled leather holster at her hip carried a .45; the belt holding it to her jeans was a series of yellow roses chased with black filigree. She saw his admiring gaze and tapped the gun lovingly.

“No girl is complete without her accessories.” She laughed, then came to a halt with a critical survey of the cave. “We’re ready. You do your best to keep them whole, and my people will do our best to keep them alive.” She smiled warmly and examined him before asking, “Don’t you accessorize? It’s all the rage.”

French pointed at the whisperskin pack on his shoulders, then hefted his rifle. “I keep much nicer
accessories
hidden until the party. But when that time arrives . . .” French winked. Delandra was privy to his plans, if only to prepare her for what might feel like an earthquake when he used the C-5. The flask of unknown lights had been kept a secret, known only to him and Saavin. Whatever the Godbolt might be, it didn’t need to be common knowledge.

Delandra had proven to be a workhorse of rare skill. Over the past days, she’d driven the medical and construction staff to exhaustion, missing no detail and demanding perfection in the smallest things. It was easier to correct problems now than during the chaos of battle, and she asked nothing of her people she wasn’t willing to do herself. The clinic still smelled of new lumber, but it was ready. Delandra’s demands for assistance had been honored twice over. The people of New Madrid knew a good thing when they saw it, and Delandra was most certainly good. Saavin strolled up at that moment, radiating calm. He heard Saavin approach in near silence. The woman regarded him with the ease of an equal, her eyes level and clear.
A natural warrior, that one
, he thought.

French observed Delandra and Saavin, who were exchanging greetings. He let his gaze linger over the two women; so different, but built around the same inner core. There was steel in both women, and more than a little fighting ability to boot. He hoped the battle left Delandra’s weapon holstered and hands free. They needed her as a doctor and, if it came down to their sole physician using her gun instead of her skills as a healer, then New Madrid was almost certainly lost.

“You’re a gift to us. Take care of my people.” He smiled at the blonde doctor with something close to sadness.

“They’re my people, too.” Delandra patted his arm and smiled at Saavin before ascending to the rear area with quick, efficient steps. She’d need every ounce of her strength to survive the night and save lives.

“I’m heading up.” Saavin’s voice was mere feet away, and French shook his head lightly to clear it. The entire scene was almost peaceful, and pleasant chatter, nervous laughs, and smiles flashed in his direction as they walked together toward the open meadow where Banshee was resting with the other dragons. Their chorus of snorts and grumbles were a bass counterpoint to the cries of gathering nighthawks. The small raptors weren’t too proud to feast on carrion, and they wheeled overhead with obvious excitement. Day or night, there were always scavengers who sensed a bounty was at hand.

Facing her, he realized how critical it was that they win. The light wind ruffled her hair, and with the sun setting golds and reds dancing through it. She directed a guileless grin at him before touching his shoulder. He was very warm, and her fingers felt light, almost like birds landing to tell him secrets of things to come.

“You know who to watch, and you know the goals. I can’t tell you how to fly, but—”

French looked at her with blue eyes radiating naked hope for a future they didn’t know.

“If it looks like we’re going down, meet the train. Save as many as you can, and get away from the opening. It’s coming down one way or another. We’ll let the sun and earth kill those big bastards if we can’t do it.”

For a long moment, she said nothing, then touched his cheek again with that same delicacy that was so unlike her warrior’s heart. “We will win.”

“Service targets.” French’s clear voice rang over the darkening skies as the first of the scalehounds burst forth right on schedule. They were a more robust version than the graceful whip-like frames of the others before them, but in coloration and temper, identical. The Paddy-Macs began to methodically drop hound after hound, but only on the left flank. Their aggregated fire thinned the ranks, until the successive groups of demons bursting forth were compelled to turn into the wide, soft loam of the newly-dug trench. After several scalehounds vanished into the gloom of the ditch, French called for all shooters to fire at will. The resulting cannonade was only unified by the sheer number of people discharging weapons. In the gleam of the enormous watchfires, the faces of militia stood out as pale orbs masked with concentration and fear. Scalehounds were shock troops; their organization was nonexistent, and speed was their primary weapon for penetrating the defenses of New Madrid, or any other human settlement. A pack of nine hounds broke free and scaled the defilade of the right flank, their demonic baying ratcheting to a gleeful pitch as they sprinted into the midst of the militia. Two thin screams pierced the night air as torches flared into life.

“Be ‘ware! Among us!” shouted a voice before ending in a violent grunt.

“Hand weapons only! No crossfire! They’re too fast—” The second victim, a woman, had time only to yell before falling prey herself.

French hoped a squad commander was in motion, because he couldn’t get there with shooters in time to stop the scalehounds from encircling an entire platoon or more. Once free of their dark cocoon, scalehounds were the only demon known to pinwheel in circular attacks that maximized the chaos they delivered. That tendency made it nearly impossible to intercede on the part of whatever platoon was nearest; it became a highly-localized fight that depended on one group of men and women to aim carefully and keep cool. In the face of a slashing attack by glistening green hell hounds, that was a tall order in the daytime. At night, in the changing lights of a hundred fires, it became a bloodbath.

“One down!” came a victorious cry, followed by the sharp report of a pistol. “Two down.” Whoever was shooting was one cool customer. It sounded like Amy Delacroix’s oldest son Warren. He was a gifted killer, and appeared to be proving it tonight. Baying continued as the militia rallied. The scalehounds’ natural enthusiasm was their undoing; by surging past the initial defenses, they’d been encircled with tough people who wanted nothing more than their own set of whisperskin armor. In moments, it was over.

“Casualties?” French bellowed from his rocky outpost. He’d taken up watch over the flank just past Colvin Watley’s blind, and his voice carried well over the chaos.

“Three . . . no, four”—he paused —“one dead.” The woman’s voice was clinical. She was a longtime resident, French would wager, even if he didn’t recognize her from that single, grim announcement.

“Drink up. Ready yourselves now!” French shouted again. This time his command was carried back to the reserve rifles on roofs of the town’s edge. Cries of assent drifted back to him, just as a leathery rustling met his ears.
What are these?
he wondered, then felt a downdraft from the wings of a dragon. They were punctual to the second. A scent began to waft over the bare ground of the cave opening, and French’s hindbrain screamed
lion
.

They were no ordinary cats. The first six monsters to break from the darkness were well over 1000 pounds of muscle and fang. Dun coats rendered them nearly invisible in the blackness, save the ember glow of their eyes. These were creatures from hell and, once they accelerated into the firelight, their anatomy became clear. Stubby wings folded back from the hulking shoulders, and the segmented tails of scorpions danced overhead in a clacking display of demonic biology that caused more than one shout from the seasoned fighters.