World War IV: Empires (6 page)

“Then do what needs to be done. Bring down the supplies.” While the engineers set to their work and research, Jason continued to walk down the floor, passing under the shadows of the wings of the planes, veering between huge armored carriages fifty times the size of any horse, all with guns he’d never seen.

“So they were right.”

Jason turned to see Fuller standing behind him, his palm pressed against one of the thick-armored hulls of the metal carriages. “Who was right?”

Fuller gestured around him. “These structures, these steel beasts—a general who equips his men with these weapons could rule the world, conquer and crush any opponent that stands in his way. War is hell. And if this is the pinnacle of war… then we truly did open up the gates of hell.”

The expedition to the Black Rocks camp was no more than a three-day journey, so when they arrived in the wasteland clan’s territory on the third day and Dean found no trace of the tribe, a mixture of fear and panic struck him.

All that remained of the camp was ash and caved-in mounds of dirt where huts once rose from the earth. Farther north, smoke was seen on the horizon, and Dean led his men through the abandoned camp, his eyes keen for anyone who may have lingered behind.

The reasons for Chief Irons’s broken commitment eluded Dean, though he tried to make sense of it. The farther they rode, the more doubts clouded his mind. Even when he found the clans, he still wasn’t sure what he would tell them, how he would react. He didn’t have enough men to war with them, although if the tribes were on high alert, he might not have a choice.

The closer they moved toward the smoke, the thicker the columns became, and with the scent of fire and ash that the wind brought also came chants of song and war. Dean ordered his men to slow their pace, and before they moved too close, they were greeted by a group of riders sent to intercept their course.

All of the clansmen were armed, and Dean found himself relieved that it was the Black Rocks, and Chief Irons himself had ridden out. His face was painted for war and his clothes dirtied and bloodied from battle. “Chief, it is good to see you alive.”

“Governor Mars, I thought you to be dead. My scouts have told me your capital burns.” Irons’s horse whinnied and stomped its hooves, agitated by the fact that they had to remain still.

Dean wanted to choose his words carefully, but the lack of time and the length of their journey had eroded what patience was left in him. “Then I suppose you know that you and your men never saw the massacre of my people. You swore to me you would fight, Irons.”

Chief Irons growled and bared his teeth, the primal response welling up from the very depths of his soul. “The Scarvers made that pact as well, Governor. And they also swore peace with the Black Rocks, but on the eve of your battle they came in the night, burning and tearing apart my village and my people. I had no choice but to war with them. And we war with them still.”

Of all the clans, the Scarvers had been the most reluctant for any peace, but after the Wasteland Clan Wars the simple fact that they were so outnumbered threatened their existence. It was either peace or annihilation. Now, it seemed Chief Fullock had chosen the latter. “Where are the Scarvers now?”

“Retreated,” Irons said, spitting at the ground. “They turned back to their lands. Tomorrow I will lead my riders and kill them all.” The young chief had bloodlust in his eyes, war the only known cure.

“And what of the other clans?” Dean asked.

“The Scarvers have been pillaging and burning what they want. I have spoken to the other chiefs, and they will ride with me into battle. This ends tomorrow.” Irons spoke with a finality that Dean had not heard before.

“But at what cost?” Dean asked. While the prospect of wiping out the Scarvers was promising, Dean needed the rest of the clans in one piece to fight Rodion. Every life was valuable. “We have to think beyond Chief Fullock and his clan. The army that took my capital could turn farther southeast any day, marching over your lands. Wasting time and resources on this is foolish.”

“He killed my people!” Irons roared, his horse lifting itself on its hind legs then crashing into the dirt, smacking its hooves on the earth. “I will not let that go unpunished!”

Dean spurred his horse, brushing his stallion against Irons’s, bringing him nose to nose with the young chief. “Your need for revenge will kill your people, threaten everything we’re trying to build.” He leaned in close and made sure the young man knew Dean was not coming from any place of fear or cowardice. “You have to be stronger than your thirst for death. With Rodion ready to march at any moment, that thirst will be quenched soon enough.”

A calm soothed Irons’s expression as Dean’s words settled in the young chief’s mind. He shifted in the saddle and motioned for Dean to speak in private. The two men galloped away from their men, the fire and smoke from the Black Rocks’ war traditions still raging on the horizon. “What do you propose I do, Dean? I cannot allow the Scarvers to go unpunished, and my men will never fight alongside them again. The only course of action that I can see is to kill them, once and for all.”

“The Scarvers are only as strong as their leader. Chief Fullock is a madman; you and I have known it from the start.” Dean shook his head.
Deals with the devil for the sake of peace.
“I know your honor is at stake, but I am the one who brokered the peace between the clans, and it was I who called for aid. The burdensome shame in this treachery is mine.”

“What do you propose, Governor?”

There was only one option for Dean to take that would preserve both his soldiers and the rest of the clans. He knew Fullock would agree to it; he had despised Dean from the moment the two met. The Scarver chief would jump at the chance to rip his head off. “Tomorrow I will challenge Fullock to single combat.”

Irons simply nodded and looked back to his people, chanting their songs of battle and praying to their gods for victory. “Chief Fullock is a fierce warrior. He has never been defeated in single combat. It will not be an easy fight, Governor.” He looked back, lines of worry on his face. “But then again, your family has never chosen the easy route.”

Both leaders returned to their men, and Dean politely declined the offer to stay in the Black Rock camp. He didn’t want to become distracted by the traditions of the clan. He needed his own time to prepare. His way.

Like most nights before battle, Dean found himself restless. But instead of fighting it, he chose to gallop east, past the Black Rock camp. Once he was miles away from the chants and chatter, he dismounted and gazed at the night sky.

The stars were plentiful, and he recalled the memories of his childhood when he and his brothers would camp outside, the cool night air forcing them close to the fire. He, along with all of his brothers, was always restless growing up. Everyone always had to be moving. It was a restlessness that plagued them even as grown men. But those times when they would camp, in the dead of the night, with the fire raging in front of them, there was a calming stillness among them all.

Every eye watched the flames wavering and popping against the wood, turning it from life to ash. There was always something mesmerizing about those fires they created paired with the talks of glory and girls he shared with his brothers, Lance’s raucous laughter, Fred’s playful touch when they wrestled. With all the death that surrounded them in war, at their hearts they were men of life, so much so that Dean took for granted that façade of immortality. Now, all that was left of Lance and Fred was in those memories. Both of them had returned to the earth like the falling ash of the logs in the fires they built all those nights with their deft hands.

Dean stayed by himself until the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, casting the sky into a grey haze. He dressed for battle, forgoing the pistol and rifle, only keeping his sword in his belt. He mounted then joined his men, all of whom were already awake. With the sky lightening to a blue, they rode north to engage the Scarvers, with Irons and his men in pursuit.

It was nearly three hours before they finally came unto the edges of the Scarver camp, where two scouts quickly returned to their people to warn the chief of their arrival, and it wasn’t long until Chief Fullock rode out with his men to meet them on the battlefield.

The Scarver clan was the smallest of the wasteland clans, but their warriors were fierce. The Scarvers had always boasted that one of their fighters was worth ten of any other men. The force behind Chief Fullock was at least two thousand strong.

Dean spurred his horse and rode out to meet with Fullock by himself. He watched the chief depart from the pack of warriors and ride out alone, and the entire way across the battlefield, there was only one face that crossed his mind. He just hoped that he’d get to see it again.

On his mount, Fullock looked a giant to the small creature underneath the saddle. His shoulders were as wide as a door, and his fists clutched the thin reins, making them look like pieces of thread in his massive hands. “You ride with the Black Rocks, Governor?” The words left his mouth with distaste. “It will take more than you and those cravens to defeat my men.”

“There will be no battle of armies today, Chief.” Dean kept his stallion calm compared to the restless beast under Fullock. “You have broken two treaties with me. You know the price of those betrayals.”

Fullock smiled, exposing his yellowed teeth, many of which had been filed down to resemble fangs. “You wish to fight me, Governor?”

“Your trial will be by combat. Choose your blade.” Dean dismounted then smacked his horse on its hindquarters and sent it galloping back toward his men.

When Fullock dismounted, the ground shook. The chief stood at least half a foot taller than Dean, with an added fifty pounds of muscle. Each movement Fullock took accentuated the pulsating muscle along his shoulders, legs, and chest. He unsheathed the massive double-sided battle-axe and twirled it in his hands effortlessly. “I will soak the earth with your blood, Governor.”

Dean kept his defensive stance, gliding to the left in a half circle around Fullock, who stood leisurely. He’d seen Fullock on the battlefield before, and even with a force of six men trying to bring him down, the giant would not fall. It appeared that no amount of lead inflicted into his flesh would kill him; if Dean meant to win, then he would have to take the chief’s head.

Fullock exploded forward, swinging his battle-axe down, and Dean pivoted left, the edge of Fullock’s blade grazing the threads on Dean’s sleeve. The Scarver chief yanked the blade from the dirt with his right hand then tossed it lazily to his left. “You scurry like a rat, Governor.” Fullock swung horizontally, and Dean ducked then thrust his own blade forward, which Fullock knocked away with the armored shielding over his arm.

Swinging at the giant was like trying to hack down a tree with a hunting knife, but Dean kept his footing, circling the warrior, using his speed to his advantage. The blade was light in Dean’s grip, his wrists, arms, and shoulders loose and fluid. His eyes watched Fullock’s feet and shoulders, anticipating the next move. The axe whooshed through the air as Fullock chopped downward, which Dean blocked. Fullock brushed the deflection off then quickly swung again, moving the heavy-ended axe effortlessly.

The clang of steel rang through the empty field, both armies silent as they watched their leaders duel. The longer they fought, Dean realized that the chief would not tire. On Fullock’s next swing, Dean caught the axe with his blade then forced it to the dirt, and he jumped and landed both feet into Fullock’s stomach, knocking the behemoth backward and wrenching the axe from his hand.

Dean scrambled to his feet, his hand reaching for his sword, which had fallen, before Fullock could return the favor. When Dean’s sandy palm was on the hilt of the blade, Fullock barreled into him, tackling him to the dirt.

Fullock’s weight and strength pinned Dean on his back, and the chief’s giant hands clutched around Dean’s throat, squeezing the life out of him. The pressure in Dean’s head felt like his skull would burst at any moment, spilling his brain out of his eyes and nose.

Dean squirmed his legs from the dirt to Fullock’s stomach, then his chest, seeking leverage to push the giant off of him. Dean drove through the heels of his feet, and he felt the pulse of Fullock’s heart against his foot. The muscles in his legs burned, and his knees and hips cracked and popped from the chief’s weight.

The pressure in Dean’s head reached a crescendo, and he felt his face grow hot. With one final burst of strength, he shoved Fullock off him and rolled backward, stumbling to his feet and gasping for air. Spit hung from his mouth, and his blurred vision wandered for his sword. He shut his eyes hard, only for a second, trying to stop the ground from spinning beneath him. When he opened them again, Fullock was two steps away, axe in hand above his head, ready to swing.

Dean sprinted to his right, avoiding the death blow. Fullock gave chase, swinging wildly at his defenseless prey. Dean backpedaled, his heart hammering in his chest. Each swing brought the blade’s edge closer and closer to ending the fight, ending the war, ending his life.

Sunlight reflected off a surface to Dean’s left in the dirt, and he quickly lunged in the same direction. Soil flew from the earth as Dean lifted the sword, blocking a swing from Fullock just before it connected with the side of his neck.

Fullock’s blows grew angrier and faster, forcing Dean backward with each steel-shattering hit. The vibrations from Fullock’s attacks rattled Dean’s bones, and each earthquake that ran through his body seemed to split him apart a little further, piece by piece.

Dean hurried backward, trying to offer himself a rest before Fullock’s next attack, but the chief stopped, his massive chest heaving up and down, his right hand white knuckled from the grip on the battle-axe.

“You are a strong warrior, Governor.” Fullock panted heavily between each breath, sweat dripping down his face and neck. “I have faced no greater opponent. My gods will honor you when you are dead.”

Dean pushed his right foot back slowly, bending at the knee, coiled for attack. “Your gods will not have that honor today.” He lunged forward, forcing the chief to take the defensive. The tip of his steel edged close to the chief’s armorless stomach. Dean kept within an arms reach, forcing Fullock to awkwardly handle the battle-axe in close range. Dean’s arms and shoulders burned and his hands ached, his concentration waning with every second that passed.