John Ringo: Princess of Wands

“I’ve been in this business for thirty years!” Krake shouted, his mouth practically frothing. “And the man writes tripe ! What’s the justice in that ? I’ve worked so hard . And he comes out of nowhere and sells a gazillion copies of complete crap! What’s wrong with my books? What’s wrong with people these days that they want unending series that never go anywhere ? Nineteen pages on a harvest ? Two hundred pages of every single step of every single character detailed? Are people insane? ”

“So you’re going to kill all these people for better sales,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I’d thought better of you, David.”

“Try being near the end of your career, you upstart bastard.” He reached out again and then paused, puzzled.

Duncan could feel… something. It was like a hand fumbling around in his chest. He stumbled forward, reaching for his knife, as the feeling grew.

“What are you?” Krake asked, puzzled.

“A warrior of God you son-of-a-bitch,” Duncan replied, drawing his knife and clicking it open. “Not some demon’s plaything. And I never liked your books! Saint Michael, Patron of Paratroopers protect us!”

Suddenly the knife flew out of his hands to clatter on the floor as Krake reached behind his back and drew out a pistol.

“Some warrior,” Krake said, smugly.

The last thing Duncan saw was the muzzle flash.

Krake finished scribing the runes on the floor and stepped back.

“Remolus, come to me,” he chanted. “Here is the power, here are the souls, be manifest upon this earth! R’gom h’bameen sul! ”

He reached into Candice’s chest, ripping her living heart out and holding it up as the blood cascaded down his arm.

“The way is opened, the door is opened, the walls are breached, Remolus, come to me! R’gom R’mula! H’bamen sul! ”

He could feel the stupid FBI bitch. She was nearby but too far away to stop the rite. She’d apparently never been taught how to cloak, and her power shown brightly. But not enough power; he was filled to the brim with the power of the souls he had stolen for Remolus.

“Remolus, come to me!” he shouted, just as the arrow entered his back.

He stumbled forward onto the runes, dropping to his knees and turning as another arrow thudded into him. Kay Goldberg, flanked by the FBI agent, was standing in the door of the restaurant. Kay was just fitting another arrow into a bow. She had a distant look on her face and he realized that he could barely feel her. But he reached out his hand and drew upon his power.

“This is for Benjamin,” the former Shin Bet agent said as she drove the third arrow into his face.

Barbara ran out of the Dealers’ Room and down the hall to the restaurant. She had felt the power and a brief battle, the deaths and the building rite like the prickle before a thunderstorm. But something had interfered.

As she turned the corner to the restaurant, though, there was a hoarse bellow that sounded as if a billion wasps had all cried out in anger.

Kay stepped back in horror as the body on the ground began to writhe and change. The skin on the writer’s face cracked and split along the line of the arrow, the bones showing through for a moment then being covered with something more like leather than skin. The body swelled, the legs bending and crackling as a mist rose that seemed to be steam swelling from within the body. The arrows blackened as if from an enormous heat, then burst into flames.

When the mist cleared, what was standing in the runes was not human.

She lifted the bow but before she could fire, it cracked in her hands.

“Thank you for opening the way for me,” Remolus said, in a voice like buzzing wasps.

Kay and Greg were sprawled in the entrance to the restaurant as Barb turned the corner. She didn’t have to even check to see if they were dead. Live people had heads attached to their bodies.

She skidded to a halt, though, when a wave of disorientation hit her. The “restaurant” was gone. The room seemed to shift and her sight zoomed in and out, searching for reality, as the walls faded into the distance. The floor had turned to dark stone flagging and the stone walls seemed to drip blood as distant voices cried out in pain and anger. There was a semicircular open area in the middle with a walkway raised above it about a meter on the back wall. The walkway had a stone railing that reached to about chest height, the balusters of the railing made from deformed statues that her mind recoiled from identifying.

She wasn’t sure if she was in another reality or if it was some vision of the past, or, horribly, perhaps the future. Faintly, she could see through the overlaid reality the windows of the restaurant with the snow still outside. But when she reached out to the wall beside her, dark stone with worn carvings her eyes, again, refused to recognize, she could feel its solidity. It was warm and buzzing as if from a distant engine. But in the midst of all this unreality, there was one solid form.

A huge demon was on his knees on the floor, scribbling runes onto the flaggings by the simple expedient of ripping bits off of the nearest bodies and wiping them on with dripping blood. The demon had to be at least fifteen feet tall, humaniform, with skin that looked thick and tough as leather. His legs were odd, they seemed to have an extra knee, and his head was surmounted by several horns. His toes and fingers were tipped with black talons that dripped blood from his harvest. At least a dozen fen were dead and the rest seemed paralyzed.

Barb darted forward as the demon stood and turned to her.

“Fight me,” the demon said, his voice a buzz. “Try to draw my power and I will suck your soul to the husk! Bring to me the power of your White God, witch of the Risen One!”

“I don’t think so,” Barb said, reaching behind her back. She slowly drew the Murasaki blade and took up a butterfly stance. “There’s more than one way to skin a demon.”

“Mortal blades cannot damage me,” the demon said, his face splitting in a grin that revealed triangular sharklike teeth and long tusks.

Barb closed her eyes for just a moment and felt for the soul of the sword. Then she opened her channel and poured it into the steel. When she opened her eyes again, the sword was glowing white.

“What about now?” she asked, springing forward and slicing in a fast X motion.

The blows should have cut the demon in half but his heavy skin was like iron. They did, however, slice down his chest, leaving a broad green X on his leathery skin. The demon’s ichor glowed faintly in the odd red light.

The demon bellowed and backed up, picking up one of the bodies on the floor and hurling it at her.

“The way is open!” the demon bellowed in anger. “You are in my lands, bitch! And I will use your soul to bring forth the Mother of All.”

Barb rolled away from the projectile, the gamer hitting the far wall and slumping to the ground bonelessly, then ran forward to close with the demon.

Remolus leapt into the air and over the wall at the back, landing on the railing, then leapt again through the air to the far side of the room, smashing through the apparently solid wall and disappearing.

Barb followed, tripping over sprawled fen as they began to awake from their paralyzed stupor.

“Out of my way, damnit!” Barb said, kicking one of them in the head, then jumping up to the railing. It was a hell of a jump and, unlike the demon, she had to clamber up onto the walkway. The walkway, however, was also packed with fen. She ended up running down the railing, balancing like a tight-rope walker to avoid the gathered fen. As she reached the far end of the divider the screams started and got louder as Remolus reappeared through the hole he’d smashed in the wall. He was carrying a two-handed sword, a claymore, wielding it one-handed. The blade glowed black.