R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

Mitchell regained his balance in a second and easily pulled free of Thompson’s grasp. He was about to retaliate violently, Billy, Del, and Brady poised to intercede, when Thompson suddenly stopped fighting.

“But maybe that’s it!” Thompson proclaimed excitedly as he spun away from the captain, seemingly unconcerned about his defenseless posture. As with his tantrum on the becalmed raft earlier that morning, his abrupt mood swing halted the others in confusion. Mitchell backed off and waited curiously for Thompson’s next move.

“Don’t you see?” Thompson asked, looking around from man to man. “We don’t belong here. I wanted to escape on the raft, but that’s no good. Nowhere to go. Don’t you see? We don’t belong anywhere anymore. This isn’t our world-” He looked Mitchell straight in the eye. “Corbin found the only way out!”

Doc Brady moved to calm him, but Mitchell did it his own way, connecting on Thompson’s jaw with a wide arcing left hook that lifted the seaman clear over the edge of the raft and dropped his limp body inside. Del began to protest, wanting to mention the castle in hopes that it might lend credibility to Thompson’s story, but the resounding boom-boom of a drum stopped him short.

The startled men turned and, in the fading daylight, saw their impending doom.

Fifty yards away, rank upon rank of creatures lined the beach, most standing, but some riding saddled lizards. Those mounted brandished long spears, and the others had crude but wicked swords and black shields. In front of the files stood a standard bearer, his unfurled yellow banner emblazoned with the red foot of a bird of prey, blood dripping from its talons.

“What was that word you used, Reinheiser? Goblin?” Billy said with obvious contempt for the physicist. “Good word.”

“That Thompson must have a huge mind to keep this army bottled up in it,” Del remarked.

“Cool it,” Mitchell said in a low, steady voice. Unlike the uncontrollable elements of the storm, Mitchell understood the crisis before them and knew that it was within his realm of influence. “We’re not dead yet, not with these.” He patted his M-16.

Boom! Boom! the drums tolled as a huge goblin strutted in front of the standard bearer. It presented Corbin’s smashed rifle to the men, then bared its teeth, threw the weapon down and spat on it.

Holding his hand up behind him to keep his crew calm, Mitchell walked out a few steps.

“Do you understand pain?” he threatened, pointing his rifle at the creature. He was amazed to learn that the beast was capable of answering.

“We know pain,” it croaked. “Men taught us pain long ago.” Abruptly its voice rose in proclamation. “We give pain back to men!” Wild-eyed, it turned to its army and bellowed a command. “Give death to men!”

The drums thundered to life and the ranks began chanting the liturgy of their race. “Men die! Men die!”

Sensing that the attack was imminent, the men moved several yards apart and formed a line, Billy and Mitchell on opposite ends with the two remaining rifles. With all that was happening in front of them, they didn’t notice that Thompson had climbed out of the raft and had found a large rock. He crept up behind Billy Shank and, as a drum resounded, brought the rock down on Billy’s head. Without a moan, Billy dropped to the ground.

Thompson had a rifle.

Suddenly the drums went silent, their last note hanging in the air like a death summons. The leader turned slowly back to Mitchell and flashed him an evil smile. It raised its arm and commanded, “Marguluk!”

Two creatures emerged from the throng, pallbearers to Ray Corbin, his “casket” a pole supported horizontally on their shoulders, his shredded, mutilated corpse tied twisted to it, left wrist and right ankle.

Del spun away in horror and fought back the bile in his throat. Likewise, Brady and Reinheiser averted their eyes. But Mitchell reacted differently, more than ready for a fight. “Bastards!” he roared. “Murdering bastards!” and he fired a burst at the bearers. They dropped, as did several creatures behind them, riddled with the leaden extensions of Mitchell’s fury.

The beast leader howled in rage.

Mitchell imitated the cocky grin it had flashed earlier and blew it away.

Awed and terrified, the creatures verged on panic. Many of them fled, especially those in the farthest ranks; others ducked quivering behind their shields; some even bowed to Mitchell.

“Look at them!” Mitchell shouted, his anger turning to ecstasy under the aphrodisiac of instant power. “Look at them run and hide!” He fired a volley into the air and scores of creatures cowered.

“Do you realize what this means?” Mitchell laughed and turned to the men, a sated look in his eyes. “We’re gods!” he proclaimed. “We’ll own them!”

“I don’t think so,” came Thompson’s voice, steady now, off to the side. Mitchell, eyes wide with surprise, turned to the seaman and looked down the barrel of an M-16.

“We have no right to kill them,” Thompson declared. “This is their world, not ours.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Shut up!” Thompson snapped, and Mitchell froze at the sheer violence of the outburst, expecting Thompson to fire. Suddenly, though, Thompson seemed calm again. “Don’t you see?” he pleaded, begging for some confirmation. “We’re the ones who don’t belong here. We’ve got to escape. Like Corbin.” His head drooped in despair, and Mitchell, seeing an opening, inched the barrel of his gun toward him. Thompson was alert, though, and he snapped his glance back on the captain.

Mitchell swung about desperately, clearly recognizing his death in Thompson’s feverish eyes.

But Thompson’s rifle roared first and Mitchell felt fiery explosions as bullets invaded his body.

Doc Brady lunged at the mad seaman but stopped abruptly when Thompson wheeled around, the rifle still ready.

Del noticed Billy, his head opened and blood flowing freely. He wanted to go to his injured friend, but fright and confusion held him in place. He turned to Reinheiser and noted the man’s eyes darting about, Reinheiser obviously searching desperately for an out. And when Reinheiser met his gaze, Del realized that the selfish wretch was hoping that he or Brady would distract Thompson so he could make his break.

“Thompson, please,” Brady said, struggling futilely to appear calm. In the background the creatures regrouped, also trying to make sense of Thompson’s crazy actions. “For God’s sake, man!”

The three were still in a line, Del frozen on one end, Reinheiser in the middle and leaning away, and Brady on the closest end, bending toward Thompson, reaching out with pleading hands for the rifle.

“Why was I picked for this?” Thompson mumbled, tears streaking the sand on his face. He looked at Brady, still several feet away. “Why am I the only one who understands?” With a sigh of helplessness, as if he had no other choice, he clenched the rifle determinedly, and the others, like Mitchell, knew.

Reinheiser broke for the raft, Brady dove for the barrel of the rifle, Del never moved.

But it didn’t matter.

Thompson, sobbing openly but certain of his duty, made one thundering sweep with the death dealer.

And they, all three, felt the fiery explosions.

VOID. THE PUREST emptiness. Consciousness remained, but it was a stagnant thing, devoid of external stimuli and of cogent thought. Existence, and nothing more.

Time passed… irrelevant.

Del opened his eyes. Or perhaps they had been open all along and his mind just now caught up with them. Instinctively he clutched at his midsection. Too late, he knew, the bullets had already ripped through his belly.