Banshee (31 page)

Panic flared in Colvin’s mind as shouts began to drift up to him from outside. With a quick look outside, he saw the dragons had rallied. They were attacking as one, trying to drag the worm back down the hill with sheer force. Watley’s eyes settled on the heroic form of French Heavener, who was kneeling in a shooter’s position with his back to the platform, and the decision was made. Colvin raised his rifle, aimed it at the pack on French’s broad back, and fired.

There’s something to be said for the art of shooting. A truly great rifle may seem plain to the uninitiated, but functionality and flash are rarely connected. Watley’s glamorous rifle failed him as the round went wide and right. It didn’t miss French entirely; it struck a glancing blow in the backpack and threw him forward in a tumble.

Saavin saw the event from a height and dove her dragon to reach French, who lay unmoving. His pack was torn open and spangles of glass winked in the firelight as Saavin dismounted in a roll. The battle intensified as the worm gained some advantage by hurling itself in tight circles, slamming the grounded dragons about in a dizzying roil of violence.

“French. French. I’m here,” Saavin said.

He lay on his back, his face nearly ghost white and seared with an internal heat. “Can’t breathe,” he muttered. His eyes flickered in a spastic dance.

“Let me sit you up,” Saavin said. Banshee’s muzzle was a foot away, his eye fixated on the man who his rider had come to respect and possibly love.

A storm of light erupted when she moved French to a sitting position, and hundreds of golden motes surged up and out, vanishing down Banshee’s throat in a frenzy. The dragon gasped, drawing the invaders deeper within him, and reared up in fear at the violation of his body.

“The flask!” Saavin cried. “It shattered!”

French cracked his eyes and coughed. The relief was nearly instant, and he sagged against Saavin in exhaustion as his body began to shed the lethal buildup of heat and power.

Saavin whirled to face her dragon, who regarded her with a quizzical expression. “Banshee?” There was a world in that question.

The dragon grumbled, a deep, glottal noise of satisfaction. He shook his head like a dog, a comical gesture if not for the approaching demon brawling with the other dragons. Fires had burst into being across the field, and the first purpling of dawn was cresting the mouth of the cave.

Banshee rose to his haunches, expanded his chest, and roared a challenge so visceral that every man, woman, and child in New Madrid cringed as if the voice of heaven commanded them.

“Leave the worm.” The order was clear and succinct. Draconic curiosity interrupted the fight as even the demon paused at the undeniable power of Banshee’s shout. The dragons fell back.

Saavin looked up at her dragon as French gained a knee. “You are complete?” She understood.

“I am,” said the dragon, and he gathered himself to attack. A soft glow suffused ridges along Banshee’s neck and chest. The demon leaked ichor from dozens of wounds and, for the first time since its arrival, it hesitated. “You are right to fear me,” Banshee announced. “I have defeated your kind before, as I will now.”

The worm knew fear. It leapt forward in a pulpy surge of desperation as Banshee’s jaws opened and the
Godbolt
burst into existence. A cone of sorcerous black fire ripped from the dragon’s throat with the sound of a dying world, coursing over the pallid skin of the worm with a cleansing heat that blew the demon apart into its most basic components. Banshee played the weapon across the trunk and tail of the monster until nothing was left save a fragment of the bony mouth plate. Drawing in another breath, he directed a tightened explosion of the
Godbolt
at the offending evidence of hell and, in seconds, the worm was no more. Silence descended on New Madrid. Every soul looked to Banshee with naked awe on their faces, dragon and man alike. Only Saavin reached out to him, her hand resting lightly on his jaw.

“You have a new talent, friend.” Her laughter was rich and warm. French joined her, leaning on the dragon for support.

“It would appear that my arrival here was no accident. I am recovering . . . memories.” Banshee looked into the cave with curiosity. “There is a city in there, and I think I failed the people of it, long ago.”

“But you didn’t fail this time,” French said with finality. “You’ll never fail again. We’re going to win this war, Banshee. I know it.”

Saavin laughed as exhaustion swept her control away like the dust of the vanquished worm. “We are, aren’t we?”

French nodded. “Yes, and we’re going to rebuild. But first, we need to fill in a hole.”

Every mobile person stood before the cave. The afternoon was breezy and warm, and the demons had begun the disgusting process of breaking down under the touch of sunlight. French handed the detonator to Saavin, who bowed graciously. Two charges were placed at weak points near the opening; a quick survey of town opinion confirmed that even if buildings collapsed, they would never again allow anything to emerge from the bowels of hell. Without a word, Saavin depressed the trigger and the world flashed white.

C-5 was molecular, and it brought power untold into the darkness of the cave. French had set the charges far enough in that any blowback would be minimal, although there was a real chance of earthquakes, given the power of the explosive. The cracking boom overwhelmed everyone present and, for a queasy moment, it seemed they had failed in collapsing the tunnel to hell.

It only seemed that way. The rumbling cataclysm threw dust and debris outward in a jet, and it was some moments before the scope of the destruction could be seen. Once the persistent wind cleared the air, dragons began to use their superior eyesight as they all pronounced that hell was closed for business. The resulting cheers were weak but genuine; it would be some time before the people of New Madrid could feel any real joy about the costly victory. There were too many dead, and too much pain left over to do that.
But soon
, thought many who watched. As people began to filter away, Saavin leaned against French for support, and something more.

She looked up at him, open appraisal on her face.
Was he ready? Was she?
Without a word, he took her hand, gently. She leaned further into him, deciding that it was time, but on their own terms. She squeezed his huge hand, feeling the whorls and ridges that told the story of his life. He kissed her hair, and they turned to Banshee, then looked at the remains of the cave.

“First, we rebuild New Madrid,” French said. The hot wind rushed past them in its eternal hurry. The sun pulsed, bathing them with possibilities.

She smiled, and they both paused, listening.

It was nearly nightfall before Colvin Watley could muster the courage to try the trap door again. He raged against the metal until the ring snapped off in his hand, leaving him sweating and bereft of any hope for a safe descent.

“It’s locked.” The voice drifted up to him, and he peered cautiously over the edge to look down.

Honor Dolarhyde stood below, smiling up at him. “I put a lock on the exterior. I figured you for a coward, no matter what else.” She sniffed, and added, “Didn’t think you had the stones to shoot French. That was a surprise.” Her scarred face wrinkled with mirth.

Watley ran a hand through his hair as he tried to compose himself. He needed her, despite her accurate assessment of his low value. Charm would offend her, so he tried for honesty. Or what approximated for honesty with him, at any rate. He tamped down the anger that an ugly, second-rate woman would have seen through him so easily.

“I didn’t think I could. I won’t be able to stay in New Madrid. They’ll kill me,” he admitted.

Honor nodded thoughtfully. “That’s about right.”

Watley looked out at the last rays of the sun fleeing westward. “If you help me get down, I’ll leave.”

“I know,” she answered serenely. Her calm was maddening. “I’ll help you. And you won’t even have to go alone.”

“I won’t?” Genuine interest took root in his belly.

Honor pointed over the ridge. “Walk that way. He’s waiting for you.”

The rope she’d thrown him had split his hands, and he was bleeding freely, but he was alive. She’d pulled a gun on him the second he stepped over the side, handing him a bottle of water and pointing with her chin. Watley could barely see in the gloom until Honor set flame to a torch and passed it to his outstretched hand. “Go.” She waved the pistol, and he obeyed.

The walk was long, and a chill fell upon him as the evening air grew cool, but before the torch died low he saw a figure seated on a stone, hunched over a small campfire. The person wore a robe, pulled down against the chill.

As he approached, Watley called out, “Friend?”

He stood unmoving, paralyzed with indecision. Honor had taken his rifle. He was helpless.

“Good of you to join me.” Orontes pulled back the spattered robe, a smile of unhinged evil on his face. “You’re second. Our earlier guest, I am sad to say, has expired.”

Across from Orontes, Wesley Yarnell’s remains still smoked lightly. Things had been done to him, and his body seemed partially naked and small. A smell of chemicals drifted to Watley’s nose, and he prepare to bolt.

“I wouldn’t do that, Colvin.” Orontes leaned back without taking his eyes from the dancing flames. “There are too many uncertainties in the darkness.” He seemed affable, even friendly, despite the crazed look of hate on his features.

Watley asked, “Who are you?”

There was a long silence, then Orontes gestured at a space next to him. “Sit. I will not bite. You have my word.” He laughed at his own wit, then waited for Watley to settle. When he turned to regard the big man, his eyes were fired from within with a perfect zeal. This was a man infected with the truth of something terrible, and he wanted to share.

Colvin kept silent, watching the robed figure with horrified interest

“I am a liaison. A . . . trade official, of sorts. I arrange for transactions, you might say,” Orontes quipped.

Watley felt the ice of total fear, and asked in a whisper, “Are you the devil?”

The answering roar of laughter rolled out into the night as Orontes dissolved into coughing gales before regaining control. He wiped his eyes with a bloody finger, still chuckling. “Oh, that is—I never knew you to be so archaic, Colvin. Here I deemed you a simple cutthroat. You’re a man of depth and superstition. That’s good.” He paused to choose his words. “I am not the devil, nor am I
any
devil. As I said, I’m merely a man who facilitates things in order to maintain my lifestyle. An opportunist, if you will. We actually have a great deal in common, don’t you think?”

Watley knew that was dangerously close to the truth, and swallowed nervously. “You bring the demons? Did you kill Asheville?”

“That was a beautiful day,” Orontes enthused. He slapped hands to thighs and added, “I select targets for the legions of hell and, in turn, I am rewarded. I have certain proclivities that are quite difficult to enjoy in private, so I am given ample opportunity—and space, mind you—to explore my needs.” He looked meaningfully at Wesley Yarnell’s remains.

“Are you going to—I’ll fight you, Orontes. I’m not going out like
that,
” he spat while rising to his feet. He might be a liar, but his sense of self-preservation was strong.

“Oh, I counted on that. You’re a remarkable survivor, Colvin,” Orontes said with a salute. His robe rippled with the motion, and it sounded like the sigh of a lover. “You may run, if you wish.”