York -- GrimDark LitRPG: Book 2 The Dream, page 17
“So you expect me to take on thirty thousand or more demons with the tanks and three squads of Lanterns. Even knowing we need to just be a distraction, bait to pull the entire host off York long enough for the Boar to get everyone out, it still has the earmarks of a suicide run. The facts are even if the plan works, and we get them out, we need to protect that convoy all the way back up north. What’s to stop that demonic horde from chasing us the whole way while outnumbering us at least 3 or 4 to 1? And we will have at least half, if not more of the Boar’s train full of civilians with little to no combat ability.”
The silence hammered the room, the only sound that of bottles being raised to lips, the stoic looks cast between the three old friends then chiseled back to the Hound. The Old Wolf finally answered his son.
“You’re right son. It’s a shit job but still one that needs doing. We have to accomplish it without my Brother knowing Ratty and I are still keeping this side of the green. We will need that ace for the end game. We could throw a lot more bodies at it if we chose to. There’s no denying that truth as we are aware you have probably guessed, we have a shit ton of guests hidden away but they are also a wild joker we need to keep in our boots. We have given you everything we can get away with doing without tipping our entire hand.”
The Hound grit his teeth. There was still too many secrets these old men were holding to the chest, too many things that could bite him and his in the ass. It came down to whether he actually trusted them. That was a hard sell on the best of days regardless of the history he had with them all or maybe, because of it. His scarred face was a direct result of his idiocy but also cause of his own Father, and the games he played, not letting his own child know he still lived. His Pops had always held the pissing contest with his Brother as something on a higher tier then the relationship between them. That was a hard truth that had taken him many years to come to terms with. It used to piss him off heavily as a kid which is why the Rat had spent more time filling that fatherly role then his own had.
He wanted to growl. The situation they were putting him was a no win shit tasting piece of fuckery. He couldn’t figure an angle that would see them through or at least see them through without losing half the convoy they needed to protect. Did he or did he not trust these men sitting across from him? That was the coin toss to this, nothing less and nothing more. It didn’t change the number of enemy nor make the task they had shoveled in a pit and told him to go fetch, any less ridiculous, but the answer would tell him whether the cost was worth the doing. Trust was a threat to the throat in the world of today or really all the yesterdays and probably every tomorrow, a hard edge to add a bloody smile with eyes wide open. When every where you turn sat other’s bullshit games, and everyone, had skin on the stage, and each palooka said they were the one who had your six, yet at the first splash of blood on the field, they were the first to take you in the back when you had eyes to the front. A coin toss, that was the fulcrum. Who and who not to throw your bushel of life in with, and hope on a string, they wouldn’t leave you planted for the vultures.
A pound of flesh would be the least you could sacrifice on the bet, the worse, all the people you held to your chest, and had promised, said or unsaid, you would keep an eye out for. Everyone that had ever known him would put a shit ton on red, that he would always take the gamble to win the road, fuck the blood or corpses, left in the dirt. And more times then he cared to admit, they would be right. This time though, there would be a caveat. He would bend the rules and do his best to spit polish the shine. His scar of a voice made the cage and lured the bear. He had learned lessons on the hard lash.
“I will get this shit done Pops but at a cost. I want Mr. Magi-Tech here to give me the edge I need to see it through. I want every experimental fuckery he’s got shoveled into the Beast. I want the toys to not only get us out but keep them diddling themselves in our dust while we shimmy north. Otherwise those people got a better chance turtle huddling behind York’s walls then they do out in the open with me playing pied piper.”
The Wolf smiled as if his boy did what he thought he would do, which irritated the Hound to no end, then his smile shaded with a feral glint that said he expected no less from his boy. Even the Rat had a gleam to his face. The Technocrat was the one that spoke though. He touched his pad a few times then swiped something up and slid it across the table.
“We had already surmised the request and the work has already been done. On the template before you you will find all the additions I have made to your Battle Wagon in the last day. Hopefully you will find it satisfactory. The accompanying Battle Squads Murder and the Arctic Wolves have also been given a few items in addition to the upgraded battle wagon the Wolves command. Unfortunately, as usual, Murder has proven intractable to them utilizing a true Lantern Battle Wagon. Their love and loyalty to their War Buggy, though illogical, is irrefutable and immovable no matter the rational reasoning to do so.”
The Hound took the data pad as his scarred lips sauntered to an ever widening grin as his eyes took in what he was looking at. Hmm, with these level-ups, they just might be able to pull it off. Unbidden, his thoughts turned, for a breath, a moment, to the winter eyes of his newly minted Second and her shitty attitude. His grin bloomed to a full smile. He should probably make it official before they hit the dust. Two days, two days to come up with a strategy to see them on the bingo side of an old man’s ledger.
***
Lorelei lay propped on her bunk, pillow behind her head, still sweaty from the training Blue had put her and Devi through. She had to admit it was becoming easier then in the beginning. She actually looked forward to it. The training center created with Magi-Tech was a wonder of innovation. The 3D semi-solid holograms were insanely realistic and could seriously hurt you if you fucked the pooch. T’Shani giggled at the word. They had finally gotten the story out of the bald black man and her and her Brother were in stitches for half the day. They could just imagine Blue screaming ‘You killed my pooches!’ as he slaughtered demon after demon, so much so that they almost had a heart attack when they saw him again. Her thoughts drifted back to the two demons once again. T’Shani still couldn’t figure out what the connection they had felt was about or it’s origins, another mystery to add to the endless pile that was life under the Dictatorship that was the Dream. Add to that that Xautil had said Blue had killed the other one, Bota and Blue had confirmed it. That had all of them confused. Obviously Bota was very much alive, and at first, his phrasing had slipped under the radar with everything else going on at the time, and he had said it as a throw a way statement but on the trip back to Lobo’s Cove it had ridden the back of her mind like some tick that wouldn’t stop suckling meaning. She let it go as she was just too excited about the day and attempting to understand how someone could reverse a short porch drop to the Long Night was too hard of an ask.
Her giddiness was a fever painting smiles that wouldn’t leave. It happened during training. Her pride was on the edge of bubbling up once again recalling it. She could feel her Soul Sister’s warm smile inside with the image replayed for the thousandth time.
When they had left for the day and Devi and she had started to walk away Blue had called out ‘Good job.’ followed by a direct shout out to her that had her turning hard before the words had even stopped echoing. ‘Same time tomorrow Second. and make sure your Brother stays out of Tank’s panties until after the mission’s done.’ The last part had her Brother almost face planting in embarrassment and stuttering defensive rambling that he had no plans to do anything like it but the first part had slipped a spine in her back porch. She could chalk it up to Blue just fucking with her but she didn’t think so or at least not all of it was fucking with her. He called her Second. She had gone from one half of homeless twins running for their lives, to now, Second in command of the War Hounds. Her, the woman who had spent her life with fear drowning her into the coward’s backwash over and over again, terror a beast she could only conquer in spurts, when her anger took reigns. The rest of the time, the majority of the time, she was a cowering hot mess, relying on her Brother to keep her safe.
She felt the first tremors as the thought train led her to the deep dark, limbs finding shivers in memory. T’Shani immediately threw whispers to her soul. ‘You are not that any longer Sister, if you ever were. Know thyself, know the truth.’ She took a deep breath, let calm find it’s roost and the tremors and horror slipping back to the leash. ‘Your are worthy Lorelei. Trust me as I trust you.’ Her Soul Sister’s words, warmth and unconditional love settled to bones and sent her tired eyes to soft sleep and a rest she knew, at least for tonight, would hold against the dark inside. In two days they would leave to save York and she was determined to do so as the best Second the Lanterns had ever seen.
CHAPTER 30
GLORY BE TO SHAI’TON
Lineage. It is talked about much in the infernal society. In truth it refers to how close one’s blood runs to one of the Infernal Lords., how close or far away the birth of the infernal to the prime source. In political nuance it is vast, opportunities or lack there of based on the facts of such, a strict hierarchy of reverence or dismissal. In practical terms of power in and of itself, only the first four layers actually provide tangible benefits. The first layer, actual direct descendants to one of the Infernal Lords, is non existent to all practical purpose. All of them were annihilated within a few generations of their birth, allowing them to breed to beget powerful infernals to be used as tools but then perpetually sent to the Long Night as their potential for power was a direct threat to the Lords themselves. It was a contracted commitment between the Lords that no first generation would be allowed to live past their third decade, and in fact, it has been a few centuries since any have even been brought to existence.
The gifts bestowed to those within the first four layers are varied based on the Infernal Lord that is their progenitor, and held close to the vest as far as general knowledge. A few that are known is the ease with which they gain Stages is exponentially faster then their lesser brethren and the limit to the power is much less then those below.
***
Shai’ton stood before the gates of New Hades ready to depart, ready to ride his crest of victory over the Viper to finish it by cracking York. Surrounding him were numerous upper Staged wrath infernals, fully armed, ready to escort him to his future. Since he had sent back his original entourage, several of the most powerful wrath infernals of the city volunteered. Ne’Gra and the lust concubines he referred to as his lovelies stood before him, and Ne’Gra bowed, a small sing of respect, mostly given to the Lord Commander of the Infernal Host as they both knew, a seething dislike on the edge of loathing crawled between the two, and sooner or later, it would be either the Pits or another arena altogether where they would test who was the stronger. Such was the way of the Infernal society. The Glutton Lord of New Hades’s voice was as gutter bound as the rest of his massive girth.
“Good to have you for a visit Lord Commander, hopefully it will be a while before we see you again. Good luck on your endeavor to take York. We will all rejoice upon your victory.”
Shai’ton grunted and did his best to keep a growl in his throat. The City Lord just politically told him to fuck off. One of these days he looked forward to putting Ne’Gra into the dirt. He motioned to his entourage and they all took to the air as the light rain drizzled from the gray sky.
***
They landed in the siege camp several days later. Shai’ton saw another assault commencing on the walls as he arrived. It was hard to make out details a few miles out with the rain now a heavy pour plastering visibility down to a meager distance but with his high Attributes he could still make out the vague shapes as the infernals climbed to kill, and the bright flashes of the plasma cannons on top of the foreboding defensive structure. He took his eyes off York as a group of pride infernals approached him to escort him and his people to the command tent. His thoughts fuddled attempting to remember which moron he had left in charge this time. Part of the political back biting that was the Infernal Host had him revolving the Commander here through the different tribes every few months.
A part of him, a very dangerous fuck everything part, wished Hell’s Daughter was here. Regardless of how dangerous she was, he had enjoyed the few days they had at New Hades. She had left without a word as she was wont to do to who knows where. For a quick moment before she had left he had a ridiculous vision of them together, side by side, crushing York to the roaring screams of a victorious infernal army.
It was delusional at best and self destructive at worst. He entered the tent and saw a Sloth Lord behind the command table as usual per the tribes, surrounded by more sloth lackeys. Shai’ton grunted. If he could ever get these idiots to work together, and all of them, to utilize Magi-Tech, they could rule the universe. The Sloth Lord, he couldn’t recall the name, bowed low as did his lackeys. Shai’ton’s personal entourage, the others, left outside the tent, pushed in and corraled the sycophants out, leaving only the Sloth Lord, looking more and more like he wanted to make a run for it. The fool barely qualified as a Lord, at least ten or twelve generations from the source and only in the beginnings of Amethyst or Officer in strength. Sometimes his twin souls as one, led him to confusion, mixed memories pushing his brain into two definitions, two directions, two spit tails of emotion and left him, for a moment, frozen. One day it might lead him to the Long Night. Not today though. His steel eyes pivoted to the cowering sloth lord, its visage of a frail old man, wrinkles, aged spots, coated in a mix of leather and chain armor. A battle spear and shield lay behind him. No Magi-Tech touched him. This one was a full merged infernal/human hybrid, more then likely with a Gifted, so limited in ascension, and yet still, not a perfect merger if he actively avoided utilizing superior weaponry. Shai’ton’s voice spurred the useless shit to what he should already be doing.
“Report status of siege and do so quickly before I find you too useless to keep breathing.”
The Sloth Lord, still couldn’t remember the name, stood a bit taller and his words crept out in aged vines.
“We have done what you asked of us Lord Commander. Kept the assaults up, increasing the tempo each day. Today this is already our fourth such attack. Clear signs in the deterioration of their defensive prowess. Each assault in the last few days has led to loss of more of their defenders. Their Lord Commander and his battle squad have now taken to appearing in each assault. Fatigue must now be on the tip of an edge. We calculate an all out push by all our forces with almost a 90% chance at breaking through and overrunning the wall and any resistance they can muster against us.”
Shai’ton nodded. Less then he hoped but enough. He knew the Iron Boar was formidable so understood the multiplier he brought to the field. His hunger grew at the thought of taking his head. In a perfect world he would of rather faced the man in his prime, and not the more then likely, heavily fatigued and morally striven version he would face but such was life under the Dream. He gave the command he had been waiting years to give.
“Ready the entire army. We take York today.”
It felt good, to give that order, like a mountain of weight lifted off bowed shoulders. This would be the day his rise would be cemented…...The sounds of explosions rocketed across the camp, the heavy reverb of heavy caliber turrets echoing into flesh, the primal screams of infernals being ushered into the Long Night, lifted to sky and loam. He flew out of the command tent, everything falling to shit, his entourage leaping ahead, wings unfurled, heavy auto-rifles spread to the air, all eyes, including Shai’ton’s, attempting to take in what the fuck was happening, and as their wings brought them above the eye line of the tents, he sees it. Two Lantern Battle Wagons and some kind of weaponized buggy are shriving large holes in his army, and as his mouth opens wide, he recognizes the symbology on the lead vehicle, the snarling silver hound. He shouts orders as the War Hound’s Battle Wagon spews a solid line of small silver spheres from both sides of it’s angry vomit of death. The spheres fly in a murderous arc into the sky landing at least several hundred feet from where they were launched as all the Lanterns spin their vehicles back out of the incursion they had riven, that in itself, giving Shai’ton a bad bad feeling.
He spun and thrust his wings as far away from the landing of those silver spheres as he could. He gets a hundred feet in the air when not an explosion but an implosion, a gravitational maelstrom of endless appetite creases and cracks reality, in his own mind and perception, possibly even shakes the Dream from its endless stupor, the lights in the heavens violently shaking, mixing, writhing in agitation as the rain climbed in a heavy thrashing pour and the clouds darkened in a breath. He found himself pushed through the air, his scaled flesh blackening from just the outer edges of the violent energy emerging from whatever the fuck those silver spheres held. He spun around with a tilt of wings, daring to face that which sought his end. All he sees is mushrooming bursts of geometric energy digging giant palm prints into the earth, pits thirty feet deep, circling out and overlapping where they meet the expression of another. There were no corpses, just ash, endless piles of ash where used to be flesh, where used to be at least a few thousand infernals ready to bring him his trophy. Besides the burns, he had moved outside the death knell of distance. Only one of his entourage had survived and escaped. Shai’ton screamed at him, his anger climbing the rise to fury, to the vision of his conquest crumbling too quickly and in too many directions all at once.
“Call to all, bring every infernal in the field to crushing these Lanterns and their last ditch effort to save York. We can not allow them free reign to do what they just did. Get fliers into the air and harass them, keep them from launching those whatever they are and escaping the results. It should keep the war weapons in the cradle.”
His crispy burned subordinate nodded with a grimace of pain and flew to do the Lord Commander’s bidding. York would still be his, still be his trophy and his triumph but first he would once and for all end the legend of the War Hounds and their supposed immortal leader. The Hound had finally bitten off something that would choke him. Shai’ton would be his end, then York would be the prize. To this, he vowed to the Infernal Lords themselves and to the Eternal Satan himself. This would be his day, no other’s. Shai’ton let loose a primal scream as he chased on the thermals, his mace and pulse rifle in each hand. He would tally a multitude into the Long Night, and count their howling souls as a symphony to his rise.
