Emergence (31 page)

‘USA. USA. USA.’

The thresh was at a loss to understand the meaning of the chant, but he did not like the way it seemed to embolden the cattle.

‘By what right do you claim the worth of challenge?’ asked one of the lieutenants without seeking the permission of Scaroth to speak. A fact that for the thresh was telling.

‘Dispute my right, then, if you have the talons for it,’ replied the Dave, as though he did not care whether the Grymm answered him. The lieutenants reared back as if struck. Scaroth seemed almost amused by their umbrage.

‘Yes, why don’t we test the worth of its challenge? And of your craft at arms, my Lieutenants Grymm? Before I would lower myself or befoul my blade with the ichor of this creature, I would first know that it is worth raising my sword arm against him.’

The BattleMaster turned back to the human and seemed almost in good humour.

‘You know your scroll lore, calfling,’ it said. ‘Our brother Urgon has taught you well. So you would know that I might test the virtue of your claim by right of proxy.’

The Dave lifted its shoulders as if this was no concern to it.

‘Whatever. An ass kicking delayed is still an ass kicking, and you got one coming, buddy.’

‘Indeed,’ said Urspite Scaroth Ur Hunn.

*

It was working, Dave thought as he saw black-clad SWATs and uniformed patrolmen insinuating themselves into the narrow spaces between the houses, pulling residents away, forcing them to go at gunpoint if necessary. The volume of fire from the marines and T-Qube’s crew had died away, too. They were hunkered down behind whatever cover they could find, about fifty yards behind the last of the daemon pack. The air still thudded and hummed with the rotor blades of a dozen choppers. He dared not look back over his shoulder to check on Heath’s progress toward the ambush spot. He needed to keep the Horde focused on him.

The ritual of challenge by right of worth seemed to be doing that.

Fuck knew where that had come from.

Perhaps this Scarface dude was right and he did owe Urgon a solid. He’d wondered back at the command vehicle how best to confront the orcs and instantly knew without having to search for the knowledge that a challenge offered to the BattleMaster in the proper form could not be brushed off. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Not so long as Dave proved his worth, and these monster Nazis in the char-grilled bone armour were about to do that for him.

The Grymm.

Sort of like the SS of the six clans.

Old Scarface certainly seemed happy enough to throw them under a bus, but from what Dave knew of relations between the Grymm and the other clans, that wasn’t surprising. These guys would be hurrying back to the palace first chance they had to badmouth the BattleMaster no matter how well the raid had gone.

And it hadn’t gone well at all, had it?

So Urspite Scaroth Ur Hunn would be scoping hard for some way to cover himself in glory. The chance to meet and defeat a human champion, perhaps one who could explain why the Horde had taken such a bloody snout here – that was a redemption shot worth taking. Especially if it meant seeing off a couple of Grymm as well.

Dave felt a slight hunger pang.

He waited for the crippling wave of pain and nausea that had taken him down earlier. The shame of that failure, his own failure, pushed Dave to find a way to redeem himself. If even just a little.

Lucille sent him reassuring vibes.

Be cool, Dave
,
he told himself.
Time to get this party started.

‘So, Scarface,’ he said directly to the BattleMaster. ‘This all you got? These two cockchafers? Because you know what they say about the Grymm, don’t you? The only real fighting they do is over which one of them gets to ass-kiss the Low Queen in the parts the other Grymm can’t reach. Maybe you want to throw in a couple of Hunn as well? Some real fighters. I got plenty of whup-ass to spare.’

The effect on Scaroth’s thrall was interesting. Many of the Hunn dominants snorted appreciatively at the insult done to the Grymm clan, but their amusement turned to dangerous offence when he offered to take on a couple of them, too.

Another hunger pang.

He casually fished a chocolate bar from one of the breast pockets of his shirt. Not making a big deal of it. He was just a casual chocolate-lovin’ motherfucker, was all. Lookin’ to kick him some ass and maybe eat him some Hershey Bars while he was waiting.

The hunger pangs dialled back a little as he chewed and swallowed.

A disagreement flared into an argument among what he took to be the leadership group of the raiding party: Scaroth, the Grymm, a couple of Hunn dominants, and a smaller critter.

A baby Threshrend, he thought idly. Thinky little fuckers.

The daemon inferiorae tried to offer its two cents worth, but a Hunn kicked it away. It yelped and slunk back to the rear ranks of the company. The daemons, he was glad to see, were tightly bunched now, many of them jockeying for a clear view of the challenge.

Dave took the opportunity to uncap an energy gel.

He drained that one as casually as could be, trying to look bored, all the while looking around, checking on progress. They played a lot of poker on the rig. Not everyone could get on the Xbox at the same time, after all. And though he wasn’t the coolest hand at the card table, he liked to think he had more game than these ass biters.

‘So,’ he said, deciding to push things along, ‘what happened to you guys? You used to be cool. And now a dude throws down a challenge and you gotta get into a full circle jerk to figure out who’s gonna get their asses kicked by him. Scaroth, man. That’s lame.’

‘Enough,’ Scaroth snarled, sheathing FoeSunder. With a flick of his wrists, he motioned forward two of the largest Hunn. They grinned hungrily at Dave, moving left and right, dagger- and shield-wise, to outflank him. The Grymm meanwhile drew their own blades and began to advance on him as the daemon war band took up their own chant.

‘Hunn ur Horde. Hunn ur Horde. HUNN UR HOR–’

Dave Hooper didn’t let them finish. He tossed aside the gel pack and hopped down from the rear tray of the totalled pick-up. As soon as his boots touched the ground, he stomped on the accelerator.

Again he was thrown by expecting the world to become a blur, when of course he was the blur within it. The Horde, the anxious human onlookers, the long swaying stalks of grass in the wasteland across the street, the outlines of the helicopters circling above them – all these things grew not just clearer to him but more vital, as though they somehow pressed themselves into the fabric of reality with much greater force.

He didn’t bother with theatrics for the Hunn, jagging shield- and dagger-wise, using the axe head of the maul for the first time to decapitate the two dominants before turning on the Lieutenants Grymm in the blink of an eye. He swung Marty’s heavy-hitting sledge down low, breaking the knees of his first target, sweeping the slow-moving feet out from beneath it. The momentum of the swing carried him across to the other unholy warrior, whose skull he split with the axe head before spinning in place to finish off the first lieutenant, who was busy crashing to the ground.

He had time to eat another chocolate bar before the carcass thudded down on the tarmac, but as soon as it did, Dave brought the hammer down on its head with such force that the explosion of bone shards, broken teeth, and brain flecks painted everyone within three strides.

He decelerated back toward the truck as the first racking gut cramp hit him.

He was hungry. He’d burned through all of his stored energy, and now his white-hot metabolism was eating him from within. Taking a pull from the CamelBak Chief Allen had rigged up flooded Dave’s system with Gatorade. The cramps subsided again while he threw in a couple of CLIF bars, chocolate-chip cookie-dough flavoured, to power the internal turbine that was throttled up to full capacity.

‘Damn if kickin’ so much ass don’t give a man a powerful appetite.’

He kept a cheesy grin plastered on his face, but it was hard. Sweat began to bead his forehead.

‘So, worthy enough for you?’ he asked the BattleMaster, who stood with jaws agape and dawning horror filling its black sharklike eyes.

‘We can just leave it at that if you want,’ Dave said, all but grimacing with the need to bend himself double around the terrible pains shooting though his guts. ‘Dead Grymm won’t tell no tales. How about we call it done and you just fuck off back where you came from?’

Urspite Scaroth Ur Hunn let go with an animal roar of enraged hatred just as Dave got his second wind. The BattleMaster strode toward him, each foot tread punching a two-inch depression into the road surface. With slow, casual relish, Scaroth unsheathed FoeSunder from his silver-trimmed scabbard, twirling the great blade. Glints of dark iron flickered in the night, giving Dave a glimpse of the spike that extended from the pommel. It was all too easy to imagine that nasty fucking thing driving through the top of his skull.

‘Trifle with the Horde?’ Scaroth growled. ‘Think that treacherous Urgon has taught you everything? You have the strength of a score of your kind because you took all that Urgon had.’

Dave could see flashes of Urgon’s life. Long hours of training, rites of initiation, battles and campaigns fought with rival clans. The sacrifice and ritual required before each battle to sustain one’s strength. He could sense how Urgon might deal with Scaroth if he relaxed and let the knowledge flow to him.

‘Hear that, Urgon? You Dave’s bitch now.’ Dave shifted his grip on Lucille. Tried not to hold her too stiffly. ‘Make me a sandwich for ol’ Scaroth here.’

He could have sworn the splitting maul purred in his hands.

‘Just as you stole all that Brother Urgon had,’ Scaroth said, ‘I will take all that you have. But I will take it with honour. By killing you here.’

Scaroth brought FoeSunder up and flowed into a killing stance. The point of the blade glinted high above Dave’s head before rushing down with terrible speed.

Dave dropped to his right knee with Lucille above his head, blocking the first blow, half expecting Scaroth’s blade to slice straight through the wooden handle. But the enchanted hardwood held, the blow landing with a giant clang. Holding the Hunn’s blade, he pushed up with his right hand, using the maul’s head to drive the blade off to his left. Coiled tightly, Dave’s legs launched him into Scaroth’s midsection, knocking the BattleMaster off his feet. Hooper rolled over the snapping fangs and hot froth to land on his feet a couple of yards away.

They circled each other one step at a time, shield-wise. Helicopters, hammering overhead, focused their searchlights on the action, driving the remnants of the Horde away from the two combatants.

‘I will feast on you this day,’ Scaroth said, lunging toward Dave. ‘The little champion’s blood will make a fine aperitif before I feed on your nestlings.’

‘They have aperitifs in Monsterland? Man, you guys have changed. It used to be all about the skulls full of bloodwine.’

Dave parried down with Lucille, a great clash of sparks bursting where the two weapons made contact. He whipped back and swung in an upward arc from the parry for Scaroth’s wrists, but the BattleMaster merely caught the splitting maul and with a twist of his wrists sent it flying through the air.

Shit
, Dave thought, scrabbling across the ground.

‘A charmed weapon?’ Scaroth asked. ‘Is that all you have, Champion? Pathetic.’

Scaroth kicked Dave, launching him skidding across the street. When he stood up, Scaroth was already there with a backhand that knocked him down. The BattleMaster raised his foot to crush Dave’s skull.

Hooper rolled across broken glass, avoiding the foot stomp that punched up a cloud of pulverised asphalt. His lungs burned, and his mouth was full of cotton-thick spit that made it hard to breathe. Every muscle ached from the exertion of defending himself. With his last reserves, Dave backed up to the shattered truck, where the tailgate hung by a single hinge. He grabbed the F-150’s tailgate and tore it off.

Scaroth kicked the improvised shield dead centre as Dave brought it down to protect himself. It folded like tinfoil around the Hunn’s foot, launching Dave across the street and through the front porch of a vacated home. He heard old dry wooden slats crack and explode, tasted dust, and felt broken bones knitting back together. His strength ebbed away ever more rapidly, and he wondered if he could even get back on his feet, when Chief Allen emerged from cover to kneel beside him. Scaroth approached slowly and surely, carrying his great war cleaver as though it weighed nothing.

‘Dave, let Igor take the shot,’ Allen said. ‘You are getting murdered out there, buddy.’

Dave rolled to his feet, sucking down most of the remaining Gatorade in one long draw. ‘Zach, I gotta do this.’

‘Why?’

‘Reasons.’

They made eye contact not as civilian and soldier but as men, allies in a common cause. Chief Petty Officer Zach Allen drew his Gerber Mark II fighting knife. He handed it to Dave.

‘Take this at least.’

‘Thanks. A Snickers would have been better, but
. . .
no matter what happens,’ Dave said, taking the knife, ‘if I kill Scaroth, you have to let the rest go. It’s a deal. They’ll honour it. That’s why I have to kill him, not Igor.’

‘I’ll let Heath know,’ Allen said. ‘And Dave?’

‘Yeah?’

Allen extended his hand. ‘Good luck, man. Fight dirty.’

Dave took the blade. ‘It’s all I got. And beers later. Lots of beers.’

Scaroth casually swung FoeSunder through the picket fence, atomising it, and stepped over the wreckage. ‘Champion? Why do you hide from me? Do you wish dishonour to your realm? Come and let us finish this bargain of ours. Perhaps if you die well, I will spare a few of your kind from this realm. Her Majesty could keep them as pets.’

Dave got to his feet and stepped onto the front porch. In the distance, he could see Lucille lying in the middle of the street, calling dolefully to him. He wondered if he could just wish her into his hand. Like Thor’s hammer.

Tried.

Failed.