Scenes from an Unholy War (17 page)

chapter 9

I

—

T
he glow of the sun had been lacquered over with darkness. The warmth of summer was frosted over by the chill of winter. Day was being overrun by night.

The creatures of the night were there as well. When they’d closed to within five hundred yards, the village began their attack. Old-fashioned, large-bore beam cannons and antitank guns spat fire. They were followed by catapults. Using Monk dynamics and the principles of Tandes-B engineering, the catapults hurled stones that struck with the same destructive power as their own weight in high explosives. Craters formed in the ground around the bizarre approaching vehicle, and ballooning fireballs tossed thick clods of dirt into the air. Crimson beams made the ground boil as they came closer and closer, finally striking the vehicle. On seeing how its wooden sides reflected their beams, the villagers were terrified. It didn’t seem that some sort of protective treatment had been applied to the wood; rather, the boards had been assembled in a way that repelled all attacks.

Advancing toward the main gates unhindered, the vehicle halted ten yards away and extended a stairlike plank. Six black figures whipped up a wind of the same hue as they charged across it to the top of the walls. The villagers waiting there greeted them with gunfire, but the bullet holes closed instantaneously. It was like shooting into clay.

Swords gleaming, the mercenaries went on the attack. The shadowy figures seemed to be waiting for the mercenaries’ blades to take off their heads and pierce their hearts. Picking up the heads and pressing them back against the gaping wounds, figures grinned wickedly. Like an enchanted blade, a chop from the side of their hands split the mercenaries’ bodies open, going through the shields and longswords they raised in defense as if they were paper.

Some of the shadowy figures were also armed. Their automatic weapons and the villagers’ rifles spat fire simultaneously, sending both sides flying, but the shadowy figures alone got up again.

“These ain’t ordinary fakes!” one of the mercenaries cried. That pretty much summed it up.

Sweeping away the resistance on top of the walls in the blink of an eye, the shadowy figures forced their way into the village. On the road up the hill to the town hall, the mercenaries had lined up twenty-millimeter autocannons. Not seeming in any particular rush, three of the figures came toward them, where they encountered the concentrated fire of enormous slugs that could blow a body to pieces with one shot. Ridiculously large casings rained down on the road, clinking as they struck each other. The rounds gouged perfectly circular holes through the chests and faces of the figures, bursting out the other side. Any villagers behind them who’d forgotten to hit the deck were torn to ribbons by stray shots.

“So, will this line falter like a candle in the wind, too?” the mayor mused, pursing his lips as he surveyed the situation from the window of the conference room. His tone was composed.

Sheryl and Odama were with him, and they exchanged glances. Though each clutched a small handgun, their faces were as pale as corpses. Their teeth chattered. Odama didn’t even have a nose.

Turning toward the door, the mayor said, “The group at the autocannons has been slain, too. Their throats were torn open and they were drained of their blood. Can you manage all by yourself?”

“This situation,” Lyra told him, a grin rising to her lips, “I wouldn’t even call it dangerous. Well, I’m heading out on the offensive.”

“But they’re not like pseudo Nobles! They come back to life even after being run through the heart—or losing their heads.”

“Then I’ll just have to take both away.” And with that cryptic remark, Lyra vanished through the doorway.

—

The trio of invaders accepted the blessings of the night through every inch of their bodies. Energy filled all parts of them, searing each individual cell, and it was never exhausted. They needed to release the energy. This new form of life was blessed, too, in that regard. A ceaseless hunger and craving guided their every action, becoming their raison d’être. All three figures grabbed gunners from the twenty-millimeter autocannons, bit into their throats, and began to guzzle the blood that spilled from them.

Before becoming this way, the bandits had always pictured Nobles coming to a woman in her bedroom or out in the woods and gently sipping the blood, little by little, from her wan throat. Two little holes over the blue veins in her pale flesh would let drops of blood stain her nightgown—but this was nothing like that. A vampire chomped through flesh, tearing open the veins. Slaking the thirst with the massive quantities of lifeblood that gushed forth was the best part of being a vampire. The blood was impossibly sweet and so thick it actually aroused them. And as they drove their fangs time and again into their twitching victims, they grew drunk with the pleasure of slaughter.

At the top of the hill, they could see the town hall, medical center, and community center all clustered together.

“Kill!” one of them declared.

“Drain them dry!” the second one cried, his body quivering.

“Hey,” said the third, pointing to a lithe figure standing at the summit of the hill and looking down at them. Saliva spilled from his mouth as he sensed the purity of the energy that burned in her athletic form, as well as the sweetness and viscosity it would lend the blood flowing through her.

There was no need for words. They dashed for that fresh meat and blood with a speed no track-and-field competitor could match.

Lyra swung both arms out in graceful arcs. This action sent the heads of all three men flying. They didn’t even have time to hold them down. The heads went sailing into the square in front of the town hall, where they were impaled on the village flagpole like a shish kebab.

Lyra had told the mayor she was going to take them away.

“Don’t throw in the towel just yet. You’ve been bitten by the real thing, haven’t you?”

The decapitated men responded quite vehemently to Lyra’s remarks. Noisily spraying blood everywhere, they continued to charge toward the warrior woman. A
twang
ripped through the air. The three chests were slashed diagonally, and they reeled, torsos hanging down their backs. Flesh tore and bone was severed. And amidst this butchery that was almost too much to watch, three bloody lumps shot up into the air with red trailing behind them. At that instant, the trio stopped running and tumbled forward. They were just three feet shy of Lyra.

The warrior woman used both hands to catch the three hearts. Two in her right hand, one in her left. With lifeblood still dripping from them, Lyra pressed them gently against her cheek. “They’re still beating. Proof of life? No, even your lives are a sham!”

The three hearts were thrown into the air. On hitting the ground, each split into four pieces.

“Pick ’em up!” someone shouted in the distance. “Hurry and pick ’em up. And then we’ll live again!”

Lyra clucked her tongue. There was no need to turn and look. The shouts came from a head impaled on the flagpole. Something started to move down at her feet—a decapitated torso. The upper half flopped over the back of the body, the fingers dug into the earth, and slowly it inched forward. Such a tenacious will to live—or rather, to slaughter and drink blood.

“Die, you fucking monster!” Lyra spat, putting her right hand into her pocket. By the time she grabbed the ring on the little silver capsule she pulled out, the ghastly corpse had reached its heart. With fumbling hands it chose from among the chunks of flesh, forcing the pieces in where its heart belonged. The second she saw the four pieces fuse back together, Lyra hurled the capsule. Ten-thousand-degree flames were more than any victim of the Nobility could stand. They consumed the three bodies and their hearts.

Turning, Lyra looked at the severed heads on the pole. Their eyes bulged as if mortified, their expressions were scowls, but suddenly their eyes rolled back in their heads, their muscles went slack, and they transformed into swiftly decaying blobs of flesh that slid down the pole.

“This’ll work,” Lyra said, licking some of the blood the hearts had left on her fingers. It wasn’t sweet, and the aftertaste was repulsive. Stopping immediately, the warrior took the road down the hill to join the battle, where she belonged.

—

II

—

She arrived at the main gates. The only way to describe the horrible scene was that it was literally a sea of blood. The corpses of countless villagers and mercenaries littered the ground. Some were headless. Missing arms. Upper body gone. Nothing from the waist down.

“Survivors: zero,” Lyra said, letting out a faint sigh.

Someone called her name. Right beside the main gates, a young villager lay face down.

“Pete!” she said, running over and grabbing him. She rested his head on her knee. A large chunk had been torn out of his side, exposing his ribs and organs. He was terribly cold to the touch. “Why didn’t you hide with the others?” she asked bluntly.

“How could I . . . with you out here fighting . . .”

For the first time, Lyra hated herself. “Who did this to you?”

“The ones that . . . headed for the town hall.”

“In that case, I’ve fixed them for you.”

“Really? I just knew it . . . You’re awesome . . .”

“You’ll be better in no time. Just hang on. Once you’re healed, it’s back to training!”

“I know . . . Next time . . . it’s my turn . . . to save the village.”

“That’s right. Where’d the other ones go?”

“Toward the school . . . So hurry up . . . and go . . . I’ll be . . . fine.”

“Can you hold on?”

“I’m okay . . . Don’t bother . . . with the doctor.”

Lyra nodded. She shed no tears. She wasn’t even all that sad. Her chest tightened up a little bit—that was all.

Gently setting the boy down on his side, Lyra got up. A whistle brought her cyborg horse galloping from the top of the hill. Mounting it, she wheeled the steed around. But even as she rode off, she didn’t turn to look at the boy.

—

Once she went through the gates to the school, tension shot through every inch of the warrior. The enemy was already at the center of the field. Watch fires burned in front of the main entrance to the school building, and mercenaries, the Youth Brigade, and teachers were all there with weapons at the ready.

There were three of the enemy. Not advancing, they simply stared at the defensive line. It was an insidious threat, their way of saying,
We can kill the lot of you whenever we like
.

Flames shot out. One of the villagers had let loose with a flamethrower. The man in the center of the trio carried an oak staff, and the flames struck his chest. He absorbed them, causing the fire to vanish unexpectedly. The villager took aim at his face. Just before the flames made contact, the man snapped his mouth open wide. It was an enormous maw. And the flames were sucked right into it.

Getting down off her horse, Lyra raced over. Choosing one strand each from the masses of thread she had in either hand, she sent them flying at the man in the center. They wound around his body, and then she pulled for all she was worth. She felt the contact. The man should’ve been quartered and decapitated. But nothing happened.

The man turned around slowly. The instant the glowing red eyes in that black face fixed their stare on her, Lyra halted.
This isn’t right
, she thought. What stood there was unlike the pseudo Nobles and true Nobility she’d fought before—a being far greater. And what was far greater about him? His evil. And, oddly enough, his sanctity. Lyra was aware that what stood before her was someone who genuinely deserved to be feared.

Reaching out his right hand, the man made a fist. Though she realized it clutched the threads, Lyra couldn’t do anything to stop him. The balls of thread she held vanished, and sharp pains cut into her skin. The threads! She’d been snared in her own threads! An immense power sent her body sailing into the air. Arcing wide, Lyra was slammed against the ground in front of the main entrance to the school. More than the impact, it was the sense of her own flesh splitting that drew a cry of pain from her. She couldn’t move a muscle. The threads even had her fingers immobilized.

“Impressive, most impressive!” the man said, his words brimming with very real praise. “Your trick with these strings—I don’t know where it comes from, but anyone other than me—even a Noble—would undoubtedly be slain by it.”

Even a Noble? What is this guy, then?
Lyra thought in despair.

“I have been chosen,” the man proclaimed loudly. His words were filled with a joy that couldn’t help but move all who heard them—even the people at the entrance to the school. “I am the chosen one. I was given life directly from the Great One. And in it, there was power. Look! Look well. Can you see what that means?”

The man raised the oak staff high with his right hand. Light filled the place. The darkness, the night, had been ripped open. Like vengeful fangs, the light of day focused on the trio of shadowy figures. To either side of the man, his two companions screamed and writhed.

“What are you
doing
?”

“The darkness! Where’d the
darkness
go?”

They ran toward the school as if seeking shelter, but then fell to the ground, overwhelmed. The impact and gravity alone were enough to make the skin of their hands and faces crumble like bits of dried clay. That’s what happened even to Nobles. Vampires couldn’t live in the light of day. However, this man stood majestically in God’s holy light.

“Look! See what I am. The Great One granted me this power. No one knows the real world. Humans don’t know the night, and Nobles don’t know the day. The Great One and I alone understand the world as it truly is. Would you like to know? If so, I shall teach you. Become like me!”

His voice traveled to every corner of their world, guided by the light. It reached the ears of the people at the school’s entrance. It came to the women, children, and elderly gathered in the auditorium. It was heard by people stationed all over the village.