Morris, Pennsylvania

December 21st, 2012

You know those days when everything that could possibly go wrong, does? If I had known that it was going to snow on the way to the grocery store, and that I’d be hunted through said snow by a demon, ambushed by Ringwraiths, and then rescued by literal knights in shining armor, I’d have come out with the full squad. Oh well. My name is William MacGordon, and I am among the last of the Guardian Order. Here’s how it all fell through.

 About mid-afternoon, I found out the hard way that we had run out of the two most vital resources for keeping the squad operating: electrical tape, to maintain the wire connections in the Tesla-blades, and 2% reduced fat milk, to maintain the morale and psychological stability of the squad. Well, maybe it’s not that drastic, but hey, milk is a better relaxant than alcohol, particularly when you don’t want your senses to be inhibited in the midst of an all-out brawl with a Class-3 demon. I’m getting ahead of myself there. So there I was, trudging down a deserted road, trying to follow a Google maps print-out to the local grocery store, while the first few snowflakes drifted down, twisting and dancing in the chill winter breeze. The sun had disappeared behind a dark, formless shroud of snow clouds, which were quickly swallowing up the horizon.

Beneath the brim of my hat, my eyes glanced everywhere: up the road winding into the horizon, to the side, in the gnarled, frost-dusted bushes, then up ahead to the intersection in the road- searching for any and all signs of movement. All around me, however, everything was still and silent- not even a bird singing, or squirrels skittering through the stiffened underbrush. All I could hear was frozen grass crunching beneath my feet, my own steady breathing, and the relentless, whispering wind. To a normal person (how lucky they are for their ignorance), it was simply a nastily-cold winter approaching. To me, however, it all added up to one single fact: I was being hunted.

I kept moving, trying to appear ignorant of anything but the next few directions in the map, but as I walked, I carefully reached down until my thumb brushed against the pitted, rough head of the steel cross tucked into my belt. If it was going to be a scrap with a critter, it would come in handy. As I padded forward around the corner, a prickly chill of adrenaline mixed with anticipation trickled down my spine. If anything was going to happen, it would be quick, and out of the blue. My eyes searched through my surroundings, until finally, I noticed something queer: there, on the low, stone wall parallel to the road ahead of me, sat a little girl, dressed in her Sunday finest: a neat black skirt, a short-sleeved white blouse, polished leather shoes with silver buckles, and a crisp red hair-ribbon in her glossy black hair to finish the look. This could have been unremarkable, were it not for the fact that she was wearing a knee-length skirt in below-freezing weather without appearing to be cold, and that her eyes were solid black, with no whites at all.

The demon-child’s gaze turned and locked onto me, her face cold and emotionless, before a savage grin crept across her face. She slipped off of the wall and danced towards me, seeming to simply be reveling amidst the swirling snowflakes, which were coming down faster and harder, until I stepped forward and slipped the cross out from my belt, extending it forward like a protective shield.

“Come no further, dearie,” I rumbled, my face a mask of placidity. “Ye know who I am. Stand aside, please.” The demon-child recoiled at the sight of the cross and stumbled backwards, her face a mask of pain and frustration before she regained control of herself, and limped forward, one step at a time.

“You have a price on your head, MacGordon,” she purred in a deep, masculine voice that was at odds with her cute, innocent appearance. “The Master will reward us well for your capture.” The effect of its voice used to be unsettling, but I simply smirked and settled back on my heels.

“I say this but one more time. Stand aside, or be sent back to yer master,” I snarled, lifting my cross higher. The demon-child snapped and hissed in frustration, and then shed its human guise. “So be it,” I whispered to myself.

Now, let me tell you, a demon in its natural form is so far from a comical red man with goat horns and a pitchfork that it’s not funny. It crouched down low on the cement, its lean, lithe body aflame. The only distinct facial features were its white-hot glowing eyes, malevolent and filled with hatred. Its wings were furled up on its back, rumpled and tattered like an old fan. Even from here, its breath was like foul sulfur, steaming in the cold evening air.

I circled around it, trying to lead it off the road, but it simply held its ground, staring at me with those ember-like eyes, unblinking. Suddenly, with a crack like a whip, its wings snapped open, and the demon leaped forward, its iron claws outstretched. I tumbled aside, but as it flashed over me its claws raked into my shoulder, nearly making me drop the cross. I howled in pain, and blindly threw my cross at the demon as it tried to circle around for another pass. I must have been lucky, for I heard an ear-shattering screech and a loud thud, as the demon was grounded by the cross. I got to my feet shakily and walked over to find it pinned to the ground.

I reached down, my shoulder screaming in agony, and placed my hand on the cross, feeling every dent and pit, as I looked down into its eyes.

“You know what comes next, mate,” I said calmly, as though I were simply stating the weather. The demon burbled incoherently, and tried to squirm out from under the cross weighing it down, but to no avail. I sighed. This was not exactly how I expected to spend a Saturday evening. Connor could have taken it down easier, in the old days, and with less bloodshed. I shook off that thought, and drew my focus back to the job in front of me.

“In the name of Jesus Christ, my Lord, I command you, demon, to be gone!” When the last syllable left my tongue, the demon screeched in agony, before vaporizing into a cloud of thick black smoke and seeping back into the ground, letting the cross clatter to the pavement. I picked up the cross, got to my feet carefully, and dusted myself off, a pained smile on my face. I peeled back my bloodied coat, and checked the scratches. They were cleanly cut, and rather shallow, but still painful nonetheless. Not life-threatening, but not something I could ignore either.

 I scavenged around in my coat pockets, and fished out a spool of sterilized bandage, and a small bottle of disinfectant. The disinfectant stung like blazes when I rubbed it into the gashes, but I neatly bandaged as best as I could, and popped a pain-killer for good measure. Ahead of me, far off, the distant glow of the supermarket glimmered hopefully through the thickening snowflakes. I could almost taste the cool, luxuriant milk trickling down my throat. Hopefully nobody had seen or heard the fight, but hey, it was Pennsylvania. Folks here had seen stranger things.

The remaining walk to the grocery store was fairly brisk and uneventful. Every now and then I’d look back to see an unnaturally tall, hooded figure gliding between the trees, a few yards back but keeping pace with me, but aside from that, nothing. No ambushes, no more creepy little girls dancing in the snow. By the time I reached the light-flooded parking lot, whatever it was that was following me had vanished, and the snow was falling harder than ever. The store’s lights beamed out amidst the twirling torrent of snowflakes, which seemed to dance in the light like moths.

Around me, a few inches of snow had already accumulated in the densely packed parking lot. The front windows were plastered with sun-faded posters of bargain prices gone by. Within the store itself, I could see the clerks busily pushing hordes of customers through the check-out lines, barely getting one customer through before the next torrent of AA batteries, toilet paper, and other must-haves for facing the dreaded snow came rolling down the track. Honestly, a little bit of snow, and the civvies freak out. On that thought, I shuffled forward out of the snow, and into the blissfully warm shelter of the grocery store.

As the automatic sliding door hissed shut behind me, the first thing that I noticed was the overwhelming noise. Dozens of voices all chattering at once, overlapping with the screeching of poorly-manufactured carts. I closed my eyes and let the waves of sound wash over me, until I could pick out individual voices, individual sounds, when-

“G’d’evn’n, Sruh.” I froze, and tried to rearrange what was just said into a tangible sentence, before I gave up and opened my eyes. There, towering over the customer service desk like a scarecrow dressed by a color-blind but well-meaning grandmother, was another clerk. He was skinny as a mop, and his electric blue uniform hung off him loosely, like it was made for a man a few sizes larger. His glassy green eyes stared dully at me from beneath a shroud of messy brown hair.

“I’m sorry, what was that, mate?” The clerk’s face flushed, and he tried again.

“Good evening, Sir!” he barked. A wry smile crossed my face. The lad was trying to appear impressive and official, but was failing by feet and yards. I tipped my hat respectfully and removed it.

“Aye, it is indeed a very good evening. I hear it might ice over later, though.” With that, I slid past the desk and into the chaos of the grocery store. All around me, fellow customers seemed to be in a race with each other to see who could strip the shelves fastest in preparation for the snowstorm. A shriveled Hispanic grandmother crouched protectively over her cart filled with rice sacks and canned black beans. I could spot a disorderly line of bedraggled parents standing at the pharmacy desk, probably for cold medications. As I passed through the fresh produce section, the sharp, tantalizing scent of fresh and exotic herbs hovered in the air.

Suddenly, I felt my coat-pocket vibrating against my thigh, sounding like a disgruntled kitten on steroids. I pulled it out, and flipped it open. A single phrase blinked persistently on the screen.

1 Unread Message

I shrugged, and clicked it open. It was probably just a reminder to pick up something else while I’m here. I didn’t recognize the number.

Heads up. Be alert.

Fallen things are shifting.

God be with you.

- Solus Deo Gloria

I reread the message several times, and each time came up with armfuls of incomprehension. I finally shrugged, and slipped the cell back into my pocket. It was probably just spam.

I slipped my way through the maze of aisles, dodging clusters of customers, until I stood before the row of milk coolers. Surprisingly, in spite of the chaos in the rest of the store, the cooler area was deserted- not a soul nearby. I was about to pull one of the doors open, and had my hand on its handle, when an iron grip clamped down on my wounded shoulder and squeezed. Now, don’t get me wrong, I can take pain, but after getting my shoulder sliced open, it was sensitive enough as is. I collapsed to the ground, hissing in pain, with a death-grip on the freezer door, and looked up at my attacker.

His greasy, ash-blonde hair was slicked back, glistening under the lights hovering overhead like watchful angels. His face was pale and hollow, as though he were a botched attempt at a shrunken head. His tattered black uniform clung to his lean frame, and pinned to his left breast was an upside-down Celtic star, with a waxing and waning crescent moon on either side- the symbol of Miles Blair, and the Shadow Brotherhood. All in all, he looked like a reanimated corpse, and with that badge, that fate would soon come true. The emblem gleamed mockingly above me, daring me to make a move. I glared up into his smug, silver eyes as he casually reached into his coat, and pulled out a jagged, slender blade.

“Honestly lad, spare a dead man’s curiosity, and tell me. Do you wear the Brotherhood’s mark for decoration? Being a stylish thug, perhaps?” I asked, trying to rein back the unstable mix of fear and uncontrolled anger bubbling away.

“He’s back, mister MacGordon. He promises power and control, and he wants vengeance for Stormhaven,” he whispered, as he pinned me down with a booted foot, and pressed down on my wounded shoulder. All rational thought flushed from my mind, as I howled in agony. Seriously, nobody’s hearing this? He crouched low over me, and rested the razor edge of the blade on my throat, twitching gently with the steady beating of my arterial pulse. “Any last words? Such as ‘oh, please, don’t kill me!’, or ‘I beg of you, don’t do this!’” he simpered, a manic glint in his eyes. In spite of the circumstances, I smiled up at him.

“Take a seat, the doctor will be right with you,” I said, and rammed my knee up into the fork of his legs, and pulled hard on the cooler handle. The door swung open, smacking the Brother over me and into the linoleum with a sharp crack. I rolled to my feet, and scooped up the fallen dagger and my hat, ready for a more balanced fight, but the Brother had vanished. A thin whisp of black smoke slithered into the cracks in the linoleum, and disappeared from sight. Blast. They always do that.

I breathed deep, and slowly reined in control over my rocketing, adrenaline-infused heart. With that, I pulled the cooler back open again, and pulled out two gallons of 2% reduced fat milk, wincing as the weight of the gallons pulled down on my injured arm. A grim sensation of satisfaction settled over me, and a slight smile crossed my face, until my mind connected the dots. The text had warned about fallen things shifting. After Stormhaven, genuine demonic activity was pretty low, and the Brotherhood was all but extinct. But after so long, I had a run-in with a demon and a Brother on the same night. What next?

As it was, finding the electrical tape and checking it all out went smoothly. Sure, the cashier clerk looked at me kinda funny when he saw the bandaged shoulder and the pommel of the dagger sticking out from my belt, but whatever he was thinking, he didn’t comment. I was half-tempted to whip it out and start cackling maniacally, but I suspect that was the pain-killer finally kicking in, mixed in with the dying adrenaline rush. Anyways, I bagged up my milk and the tape, nodded at the scarecrow behind the customer service desk, and slipped back out the doors. The snow had now risen to my ankles, swirling silently in the light of the parking lot lights.

Once more, the vibrating sensation of an oversized bumblebee emanated from my coat pocket. My curiosity invigorated, given the circumstances the last time I ignored such a text, I opened it promptly.

Nice job with the spook.

Keep a sharp eye out.

Tolkienites on the prowl.

Be safe.

-Solus Deo Gloria

As I tramped through the slowly rising snow and into the growing darkness, I felt a steady chill slide down my spine, not at all related to the weather. Tolkienites… where have I heard that phrase before? By now, the sun had long since fallen, and shadow reigned freely.

Isolated pools of light beamed from the street-lamps, providing a ragged path through the snowdrifts. Between them, the darkness melted into a smooth, silky shroud, ranging from the dull grays of ice to the deep midnight-blue of shadows upon shadows. I swerved around the spotlights on the snow, not so much to avoid being seen as to avoid highlighting myself against the background. As before, my gaze drifted restlessly over the frozen, silent terrain, searching for any signs of movement, any possible threat or trap. Not a sound could be heard, but now, it was more like the entire world was holding its breath in anticipation.

That’s when a Wraith stepped out of the trunk of a pine tree about 20 feet in front of me. I froze in my tracks and crouched low in the snow, but I knew it would hardly be a benefit camouflage-wise. Its tattered black robes fluttered slightly in the icy breeze. Fastened to its arms were heavy-looking iron gauntlets, engraved with intertwined, spiraling symbols. Belted to its waist was a long, slender blade, rusted and oxidized with age. The rancid scent of decaying flesh emanated from its dank form.

In my mind, I cursed myself for my thick-headedness. Wraith. Tolkienites. To a normal person’s view, the being that stood before me could easily have been a Lord of the Rings cosplayer who’d gotten lost on the way to the convention hall. How I really envy those nameless normal people.

I could almost hear my brother’s voice recounting his experiences with them, quizzing me before my final initiation exam. Wraiths- the lowest class of demon, but still nasty business. Parasites of the mind, sowing doubt and despair amongst humans. A single Wraith can just make a person a bit funky, doubting his abilities, that sort of thing. But in a swarm, they can drive a lone Guardian insane, tearing away everything that holds him together- love, hope, and faith. That Brit chap Tolkien gave the name, and even put them in a story, for some reason.

I carefully shuffled forward in the snow, keeping my eyes locked on the Wraith, which was still oblivious to my approach. So long as it didn’t see me, I could take it out easily, before it called the rest of its team. Tolkien got one part right, at least- where there’s one Wraith, more will follow. The plan could have been successful, and I could have been back to the squad in time for an early dinner, right up until a fallen branch buried under the snow snapped as I stepped down. The Wraith’s gaze whipped in my direction, and if there was a face beneath that ragged hood, it probably would have grinned in anticipation.

With the Wraith locked onto me, and no backup, I did the only thing a person could do in these circumstances- I charged like a maniac. It reached down to its sword, but I was already right on top of it. I swung my milk-laden bag like a mace and smacked it to its knees, before ramming my confiscated dagger up into where its ribcage would have been. The effect was almost instantaneous- although not exactly what I was expecting. The Wraith shriveled up in the snow, bent over double, the dagger hilt quivering in its chest.

Suddenly, its piercing shriek of frustration and fury shattered the relative silence. Moments later, farther off in the woods, a second screech responded back. Then another cry rang out, and another, until the entire forest echoed with the cries of the Wraiths’ call to their fallen brother. The Wraith at my feet turned its gaze slowly to me, seemingly saying your move, boy. I did- I ran like the devil himself was behind me, which wasn’t that far from the truth. 

About half an hour later, I finally crashed through the outcropping of trees, and stumbled to my knees. All around me, wispy stalks of grain wavered in the wind, dusted gently by snow. Far off, over the fields, I could see a small glimmer of light- probably a farmhouse, settling down for the night. Surprisingly, I still had my hat, and the milk- silly thing, I know, to keep two gallons of milk while running for your life, but hey, I’d paid for it, and my squad needed it. Thankfully, the gallons were double-bagged, but they still were pretty tattered.

I got to my feet with a groan and a few choice comments on the situation in Gaelic, and turned back to look at the forest. There they stood, nearly two dozen Wraiths, staring at me blankly, almost as though they were just waiting for the bus. I felt the spiky vine of adrenaline slither down my spine, bolstering me to action. All I had now was the milk, the tape, and the cross still on my belt. Compared to Stormhaven, this was nothing- however, fighting two dozen Wraiths all alone, it was almost suicide.

You are NOT alone. I don’t know whether the voice was in my head, or actually a real voice, but it whispered comfortingly, yet roared triumphantly. I half-felt a gentle, firm hand settling down on my shoulder, like a watchful father guarding his child. Comforting warmth seeped through my veins, like a rally cry to my courage and strength. The Wraiths unsheathed their swords, the sickening hiss of rusted steel echoed all along the tree line, but for the first time this evening, I was not afraid. If these stick-waving spooks wanted to take me down, then I was ready to take at least a dozen down with me.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” I whispered, as I stepped forward. “I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.” The Wraiths stepped forward, blades extended, forming an indestructible wall as they glided through the wheat field. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me,” I continued, my voice a tad bit more confident. A deep rumbling thundered across the field, like waves pounding a distant shore.

I placed my gallons of milk on the ground and withdrew the cross from my belt, standing my ground. “Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” I said, standing perfectly still, staring down the Wraiths, as the distance between us shortened. “Thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” I raised my cross before me, to ward off the wall of darkness approaching. There was maybe just four yards between us now. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever,” I concluded. Hopefully, those words would not prove to be prophetic.

 By now, I could count the individual links in their belts. The thundering noise was louder, closer, yet more distinct, something I recognized. Not thunder. Suddenly, my phone vibrated furiously in my pocket, breaking my attention away. I glared at the Wraiths, and held up a hand for them to stop. They stumbled to a halt, although a mite bit confusedly. I stepped back some and flicked on my phone, expecting some new profound advice from my anonymous texter, but instead, it was now just one word.

DUCK!

On that prompting, I fell to the ground, half-burying myself in the snow, just as three figures on horseback thundered out from the underbrush behind me. Their unsheathed blades seemed to glow amidst the drifting, aimless snowflakes. Before I knew it, they ripped past me straight into the wall of Wraiths, and broke through. All fell into chaos, as they systematically carved their way through the wall, trampling a Wraith here, cutting down a few more here and there. The air was filled with the sounds of the snorting of the horses, the clashing of blades, and the piercing screeches of Wraiths cut short as they were vaporized. The remaining Wraiths tried to rally and form into a defensive circle, but the riders hacked their way through, pushing them back.

By logic, a trio of horsemen shouldn’t be able to take out 24 armed and angry demons. But then again, in my life, logic and reason are tossed out the window first thing. The riders smashed the remaining huddle of Wraiths, and then slashed them into dust. I sat back in awe at the scale of destruction- all around the mouth of the field lay small piles of tattered black robes, empty gauntlets and ownerless blades scattered around them. The riders leaned down off their horses a few times- probably to collect a few Wraith gauntlets or blades as trophies- and wheeled back around, before trotting to a stop in front of me.

I got to my feet, and finally got a good look at them. They were clad head-to-toe in matte black battle armor, each with a silver cross emblazoned on the domes of their helmets. One of them, however, wore a tattered crimson shoulder cape, probably a rank designation of some sort. Their sheathed swords at their belts followed the same black-and-silver scheme, yet each sheath was individually etched with interweaving knots and vines. I stared up at them, only to see my haggard, mildly crazed face reflected back in their T-slit visors- wow, I looked like a mess.

The red-cloaked one rode forward, and glanced down at me. Or rather, I presumed that he was looking at me. I knew from experience that with a helmet on, you could be looking any direction and nobody would be any the wiser. Silence fell, at least until he reached over onto the other side of his saddle, and pulled two familiar tattered grocery bags, and tossed them to me.

 “Will, you really have got to cut down your milk addiction. Remember how Mum would blow a vein when you’d go through a gallon every two days?” the crimson cloaked man asked, as he shoved up his visor. If I were not already on the ground, I probably would have fallen back in shock. His icy-blue eyes seemed to laugh mirthfully at my confusion. His shock of rust-red hair bristled slightly in the icy breeze. A pale, jagged scar arched down his cheek, but all in all, it was my brother’s face.

“Brother? What are you-“

 “Doing wearing this? Well, after Stormhaven, you seemed to have the situation taken care of, so-” 

“Connor,” I muttered, but he kept going. 

“-Figured that if Stormhaven was really the last outpost, there’d be innocents who needed help too, not just on the East Coast-”

“Connor.” “-Brought along Lizzie and James, and borrowed a few blades from the armory, and figured you wouldn’t mind, so-”

 “CONNOR!” Connor froze mid-sentence, and smiled apologetically. In spite of my frustration, I couldn’t help but smile back. No matter how angry or flustered I’d get, Connor would always manage to defuse my wrath with a patient, ever enduring smile and a handful of well-chosen words.

“I missed you too, little bro,” Connor said. I felt the tirade that I had prepared for this meeting shatter like ice. It was just like old times again- my brother was here, and in spite of the circumstances, all was right with the world again. “But you were still pretty rude not to text back,” he quipped, breaking the Hallmark-redeemed-brother moment. “Now, I’m presuming you need a lift back to your place?”

The ride back was disappointingly short. All along the way, Connor and I chattered idly about old stories from Stormhaven, which sentries would neglect to report missing books from the library if a still-warm glazed donut was involved, and so on. Lizzie and James, the other two riders, must have thought I was slowly growing more scatterbrained from the dying adrenaline rush, but if they had any such thoughts, they kept it to themselves, and rode on in silence. Eventually, we sidled up to the dingy apartment building that my squad and I were renting, and as I slipped off the back of the horse, Connor reached down to grasp my forearm.

“Keep safe bro. And keep in touch, okay? You’ll see us soon enough. Heck, even your squad could join in the hunt sometime.”

“Maybe so, Connor. Keep your crew about you, or maybe next time it’ll be my squad saving your scrawny hide,” I said, a wry smile on my face. Connor grinned, and shoved me away playfully.

“In your dreams boyo. Remember, save whom you can,” he began, nodding gently.

“And give no one back,” I concluded, and waved them off, watching them ride off into the twirling snow and shadow. After a few minutes, my aching body impatiently reminded me that it was below freezing outside, and asked if I might slip inside where I wouldn’t be at risk of hypothermia. I obliged, and turned away at last from the trio slipping off in the distance. Next time I went out for milk, I figured, I’d bring along backup, and maybe a sword.