The soldier turned to run, and Ash caught him from behind. The soldier screamed helplessly. Ash broke the man’s neck with one quick twist, and let him fall. He stepped over the body, and was among the remaining soldiers before they could turn to run. He threw them about the street as though they were dolls, and the soldiers screamed as they died. Ash didn’t care. All he had to do was look at the burning man, and he didn’t care at all. Eventually he ran out of soldiers, and stood among the bodies, looking calmly about him. He wasn’t even breathing hard. And then the bullet tore his shoulder apart.
His arm flailed uselessly as he turned unsteadily to see more soldiers spilling into the far end of the street. They saw the dead soldiers and opened fire with their automatic weapons. The repeated impacts sent Ash staggering backwards, shaking and shuddering as the bullets tore at him. He lost half his head and one hand, but still he wouldn’t fall. The bullets hit him again and again, chipping away at him, whittling him down. He tried to get to the soldiers, but the sheer pressure of the gunfire kept him back. And then one of the soldiers produced a rocket launcher. Ash looked back at the car, and tried to shout something to Rhea. She couldn’t hear him above the roar of the guns, but she knew what he was saying.
Stay in the car. Whatever happens, stay in the car.
He turned to face the gunfire again, and managed one step, then another, moving against the hammering bullets like breasting a tide. And then the rocket hit him, and he disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire. The soldiers stopped shooting. When the smoke cleared, Ash was lying still on the ground. His head and shoulders had been torn away from his body, and one arm lay detached in the gutter, hand held out in supplication.
Rhea got out of the car and ran over to Ash. She stood over him, unable to scream or cry or do anything but stare down at him. Ash’s mouth moved slightly. Rhea started crying in great sobbing gulps, and fought the soldiers fiercely when they came to drag her away. Her last glimpse of Ash was of the soldiers gathering up his body and throwing the pieces into the flames of the burning house.
—
Peter Caulder slipped away from his fellow Warriors when no one was looking, and disappeared into the shadows of a back alley. He walked a way without thinking of where he was going, and then he stopped and sank down on a doorstep, and hugged his knees to his chest. He could still hear the screams of the man Colonel Ferris was interrogating. Caulder shook his head slowly back and forth, a young man with old eyes and someone else’s blood on his sleeves. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t. This was supposed to be a glorious Crusade, to punish the sinners who had stolen a powerful relic of the Lord and selfishly kept it for themselves. He’d been told the town was overrun with demons and unnatural creatures, and that some fighting might be necessary. That was why they’d trained so hard, with all kinds of weapons. He’d never thought he’d be expected to turn his gun on civilians. On unarmed men and women. On innocents.
He’d believed in the Warriors with all his heart and all his soul. He’d needed something to believe in back then, the way a drowning man needs a lifebelt, and the Warriors had fitted the bill perfectly. He’d lost his job to the recession, and then his apartment, when he couldn’t pay the rent any more. He lost everything else in the months that followed, and when the Warriors found him he’d been living on the streets and eating out of dumpsters for three weeks. They took him in and gave him a purpose. Gave him back his pride and promised him a cause to fight for. A chance to be a hero, fighting against the darkness. He’d promised to honour and defend the Warriors with his life and he’d meant it back then, but since the invasion of Shadows Fall he’d seen nothing but death and destruction, and it sickened him.
He’d seen men and women shot for talking back or just being in the way. Seen their houses torched, and men dragged away bloodied and broken for further questioning. He hadn’t seen anything that even looked like a demon. These people didn’t deserve such treatment, even if they were sinners. The soldiers were getting out of hand, shooting at anything that moved. What was supposed to have been a search and find mission with the minimum necessary violence had deteriorated into a bloodbath, and no one was doing anything to stop it. If anything, the officers were encouraging their men to greater and bloodier excesses. Anything was permitted, because the enemy were sinners. Murder, torture, rape. The power and the fighting had gone to the soldiers’ heads, and God save him, he’d felt it too. He’d torched buildings, even when he knew there had to be people still inside, and shot running men and women in the back when they wouldn’t stop. It had even been fun, until he made the mistake of getting close enough to see their faces. Then they stopped being sinners and started being people, and everything changed for him.
Thank God he hadn’t shot any children. Some had, but he hadn’t.
He had to get away and think. Just stop everything, and think things through. So he slipped away from his company when they started knocking their latest prisoner about. Just a little casual brutality, to soften him up before the interrogation. Before the pain and the blood. He’d wanted to rescue the prisoner, or at least save him from the beating, but he had no doubt his fellow soldiers in the Lord would turn on him if he tried to cheat them of their fun. Punishing the sinners had given them a taste for blood, and they didn’t care where they found it any more. So he’d slipped away to be on his own, even though it was strictly against orders. He didn’t dare be away for long. If they thought he was trying to get away from them, they’d shoot him as a deserter. There were a lot of things the Warriors would shoot you for. Questioning orders was another. Warrior officers took their instructions from the Imperial Leader, who got them from God, so questioning of orders was blasphemy. Caulder had believed in the Leader. He believed in William Royce with all his heart and soul. Royce had saved him when there was nothing left of him worth saving. It wasn’t that he’d stopped believing; he’d still die for William Royce. He just didn’t think he could kill for him any more.
He heard quiet footsteps approaching, and looked up sharply. A short, stocky figure had entered the alleyway and was heading straight for him. Caulder grabbed his rifle and rose quickly to his feet. His training had the gun aimed and on target before he even realized what he was doing. He hesitated, and then the breath went out of him as the small figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light. It was a four-foot-tall teddy bear with golden honey fur, wearing a bright red tunic and trousers, and a long blue scarf. His eyes were dark and knowing, and full of all the compassion and forgiveness in the world. Caulder lowered his rifle.
“But… I know you,” he said quietly. “You’re Bruin Bear. I used to read your adventures all the time when I was a kid. What are you doing here?”
“People stopped believing in me,” said the Bear. “This is the place where dreams end up, and toys come to grow old. What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. The Leader said this place was full of sinners and demons…”
“There are no demons here, and not that many sinners. Only people like me. All the creatures from books that were banned because people didn’t believe in fantasy any more. Nothing is ever really lost, not while there are places like this. We’re all here, looking for a little peace at the end of our lives.”
“Royce said you’d kill me.”
“You’re the one with the rifle.”
Caulder threw the gun away from him, stepped forward hesitantly, and then sank to his knees to embrace the Bear. He buried his face in the thick golden fur, and sobbed for the loss of his childhood and his faith. The Bear hugged him back with short, strong arms, understanding everything, forgiving everything, and for the first time in a long time Peter Caulder felt at peace. After all, if you couldn’t trust Bruin Bear, who could you trust?
New footsteps entered the alleyway, and the two of them broke apart. Caulder looked automatically for the rifle he’d thrown away, but it was well out of reach. The Bear stood his ground and looked mildly at the n
ewcomer as he entered the light. Caulder’s heart missed a beat as he saw who it was; a tall, gaunt man with surgeon’s hands and an officer’s uniform. Apparently Colonel Ferris had finished interrogating his prisoner. Caulder moved to stand between the Bear and the Colonel, suddenly afraid Ferris would just shoot the Bear on sight as a demon. Ferris smiled coldly.
“You disappoint me, Caulder. I expected better of you. Allowing yourself to be fooled by a pleasant exterior, after all the warnings you were given. You can’t trust anything here, boy. Now stand aside and let me deal with the vermin.”
“You can’t shoot him,” said Caulder shakily. “You can’t. He’s Bruin Bear. He was my hero when I was a child. He was every child’s hero. I won’t let you hurt him.”
“Stand aside,” said Ferris. “There’s no room for weakness in the Warriors. We do the Lord’s work, and it’s not for us to question it. That thing behind you is an abomination. It’s everything we swore to sweep from this town with fire and steel. It’s not too late, Caulder. You can still return to the bosom of the Lord. But if you stay where you are, I’ll shoot through you to get the demon. Move, boy.”
Caulder tried to say no, but he was so scared he couldn’t get the word out, so he just shook his head numbly. Colonel Ferris raised his pistol and shot Caulder at point blank range. Caulder cried out, and flung up his arms as though to protect himself. The roar of the gun was still echoing in the narrow alleyway when he realized he was unhurt, and slowly lowered his arms. He looked down at himself, but there was no sign of any blood or bullet hole. The Colonel looked at him stupidly, his arm still extended, smoke still rising from the barrel of his gun. There was no way he could have missed at such short range. Another step forward and the gun would have touched Caulder’s chest. Ferris realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. He straightened his arm and pulled the trigger again and again. Caulder flinched at the noise, but didn’t step away. And when the echoes died down again, Caulder was still standing there unharmed. Bruin Bear stepped out from behind him, and smiled at Ferris.
“You’re in my world now, Colonel, and in my world bad things don’t happen to good people. Please be good enough to surrender. You really don’t have any choice.”
Ferris snarled at him, threw aside his gun and snatched from the top of his boot a sanctified silver dagger. He started towards the Bear, his face ugly with rage and fear. He managed two steps, and then the Sea Goat stepped out of the shadows behind him and hit him very professionally over the head with a long and heavy club. Ferris swayed on his feet, dropped the dagger, but didn’t go down. The Sea Goat hit him again, putting some effort into it, and Ferris crashed to the ground and lay still. The Goat kicked him somewhere painful, just to be sure Ferris really was unconscious, and then lowered his club and grinned cheerfully at Caulder.
“You can always spot an officer. They’re so thick you have to hit them twice before they notice anything’s happened. Hello, son; welcome to the bleeding Resistance. Bring your own gun and ammunition, and you can forget about hazard pay.” He glared at the unconscious Colonel, and then looked hopefully at Bruin Bear. “Any chance I’ll get to kill this one? We’ve already got half a dozen sodding officers as prisoners.”
“We don’t kill,” said the Bear firmly. “We’re the good guys.”
The Sea Goat turned and butted his head against the nearest wall several times. Caulder watched interestedly. “Does that help?”
“Not as much as it used to,” admitted the Goat. “All right; let’s get the hell out of here before Sleeping Beauty’s friends come looking for him.”
He picked up Ferris, draped him casually over one shoulder, and set off down the alley. Caulder and Bruin Bear went after him.
“You said something about the Resistance,” said Caulder. “Who exactly are the Resistance?”
“Anyone too dumb to know they’re beaten,” said the Goat. “Mostly animals at the moment, but we don’t discriminate. Basically, we kick Warrior ass, break up their schemes, embarrass the hell out of them and generally act up cranky.”
“But we don’t kill,” said the Bear.
“Why not?” said Caulder.
“Because we don’t like what it does to us,” said the Goat quietly.
And so Peter Caulder went with Bruin Bear and the Sea Goat to join the Resistance, where he found many childhood friends and the beginnings of a new cause to believe in.
—
The Faerie and the Warriors battled themselves to a standstill all across the town, and finally ended up facing each other from opposite sides of Glencannon Square. It wasn’t much of a Square, as Squares go, with two rows of shaggy trees and a statue of a man on a horse that looked like it could use a good clean. The Faerie had the superior weaponry, but the Warriors had the numbers. All around them, on every side, lay nothing but destruction. Every building was a ruin, blackened and burnt out as often as not. All the street lights had been smashed, and the approaching streets had all been sealed and barricaded. The dead and the dying were everywhere, left to lie where they had fallen. Both sides had taken massive losses, and were prepared to take more, but for the moment they hesitated. Their strength and their spirit remained unbroken, but they were both beginning to realize that victory could only be won at a terrible price. It would mean using weapons and tactics that would quite probably destroy the whole town; everyone and everything in it. Both sides were considering it, but for the moment, they hesitated.
It was still night. The full moon shone brightly overhead, painting the scene black and white and blue. There were still no stars, or any sign the night would pass soon. Neither side had offered any kind of peace talks. There was no point. It wasn’t as if they had any common ground to argue over, never mind agree on, and surrender was not an option. The Warriors’ beliefs were built upon the rock of self-sacrifice, and the Faerie had a long tradition of fighting to the death over the smallest of insults. It was only a small step for both sides to plunge into a battle they knew they couldn’t win, as long as they could be sure the other side would lose too. And only a small quiet voice murmured in their hearts that it wasn’t too late to withdraw with honour, and fight another day.
The Warriors had automatic weapons, tanks and napalm and smart weapons. The Faerie had high energy lasers, plasma beam weapons, magic swords and enchanted devices. And they both had many deaths to avenge. Every now and again one side would stir restlessly and the other would react, but so far it had come to nothing. No one wanted to commit themselves prematurely, but neither could afford to be the last one off the blocks. A growing tremor built among both armies as they reacted to each other, neither backing down. Men stirred, weapons were readied, and everyone prepared themselves for one last charge into the valley of death. And in that moment, when all seemed finally lost, a single voice was heard, singing in the night.
The Warriors and the Faerie stopped and looked about them, and out of the shadows came Sean Morrison, singing like an angel. Behind him walked a once-famous guitarist, adding his music to the song. And behind him, every singer and musician and rock-and-roller who’d ever died too young or been forgotten and ended up in Shadows Fall. The singer shot by his own fan, and the guitarist who overdosed. All the high-flying angels who crashed under the weight of booze and drugs and fame. All the rising stars who died too soon, or the faded stars who made the mistake of outliving their own legend. Everyone who died in plane or car crashes, or drowned in their own swimming pool before they had a chance to find out who they really were. They all came to Shadows Fall when the fans finally stopped believing in them, and found peace at last in a town where legends were two a penny. Now they all came together for one last concert, one last song, one last spit in the eye of fate.
The music grew and grew as more joined in, the music shifting and changing like a living thing. Sometimes rock and sometimes folk, punk and acid and bubblegum all come together in a triumphant whole that was so much greater than the sum of its parts. It filled the night,
pushing back the dark, an army of song. And at their head, his voice soaring effortlessly above them all, Sean Morrison, whose name wasn’t Sean, who died too soon while he still had songs left to sing.
The music washed over the Warriors and the Faerie, and they stopped to listen. The music touched something in them all, something small but stubborn that had somehow survived all the hate and horror of the killing, and here and there among the soldiers and the elves, some responded. A little touch of awe and wonder and joy, just when the night seemed at its darkest. Soldiers threw aside their guns and elves dropped their swords, and in ones and twos they walked out across the Square to greet each other. Another day they might meet and fight, and another day they might die, but for the moment they drew back from the brink, and the air was suddenly so much sweeter. They gathered in the centre of the Square, more and more of them, spurred on by the song and those who sang it. It was a quiet celebration, with no shouting or rejoicing; only a simple satisfaction that the war was over, and they’d come through it alive.
But not everyone heard the song. For some it was just noise, a distraction from what really mattered. The Warrior officers tried to control their men with shouted orders and threats, and when that didn’t work they ordered those men still loyal to them to open fire on the traitors. They did so, and the night was suddenly full of the roar of gunfire. The Faerie responded with their uncanny weapons, strange energies blazing against the dark. But the music rose above it all, strong and stirring and potent, and the weapons on both sides were helpless against it. The song protected those who heard it. Morrison and the others sang and played as though their hearts would burst, filling the night with all the lost strength and broken-off potential of their short lives. They sang the songs they might have sung if death had not cut them short, like wild flowers in a regimented garden. They sang and played and the music hammered in the blood of all who heard it.