Kingsmouth, Solomon Island
Standing a safe distance from the treeline, the blue and red armoured woman tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, considering the flickers of movement her suit was detecting ahead of her, along with the distinct lack of heat signatures. “Yeah. Fuck that,” Priss decided, loading the local map on her suits HUD and setting a ‘flight path’.
That done, she turned slightly, crouched down, and then jumped into the air, her own impossible strength, along with the suits, launching her at a velocity far greater than an observer would expect. A moment later, her suits thrusters fired, altering her course ever so slightly, letting her simply bypass the forest completely as she soared towards the shoreline.
Beneath her, she could see the far side of the forest, and beyond that, a rocky beach, lit up by a number of campfires, all of which burned with the same mystical blue flames she’d seen in Norma Creed’s bonfire. Illuminated by that unnatural light, over a dozen figures could be seen, some remaining close to the fires, while others were wandering around.
Her arrival caught the attention of every single creature on the beach, the impact kicking up a cloud of dirt and rocks that swept over those closest to her. As she stood up however, she paused, listening to their reactions. She’d expected the almost animalistic snarling from the conventional zombies, but there were other voices, much more intelligent. And unlike the giant Draug that had been yelling at her earlier, they seemed to be speaking English.
As the dust began to settle, Street Sabre activated the light built into the side of her helmet and stepped forward, sweeping her gaze across the area. As she did so, her eyebrows rose in surprise. Every figure she could see, either from the light of the fires or from her helmet, was still human, lacking the mutations and coral that seemed to define those monsters. But at the same time, they weren’t more of the locals, killed and reanimated by the Fog. They were far older, skin stretched tight over their bones, the flesh underneath long since rotted away. Their clothes were just as old as they were, patched and repaired a thousand times.
But more than that, their body language was human. They were alert, clearly aware of their surroundings in a way most of the undead weren’t, and there were clear, defined emotions on what remained of their faces. One of them even seemed to be tending a pot hanging over one of the fires, although he was clearly distracted by the new arrival.
Taking in the sight of the living dead, Priss grinned as the pieces came together in her mind. “Am I interrupting breakfast?” she asked.
Her voice echoed in the near-silence that covered the beach, and several of the zombies glanced at each other in confusion. After a moment, one of them pulled his gaze away from her to consider the people around him. “Well?” he growled in frustration, waving a hand in Street Sabre’s direction. “Get her!”
Backing up a step, the heroine raised her hands towards the approaching zombies. “Come on guys,” she laughed. “I love a good brawl as much as the next girl, but how about we save it for-” Her attempt at making peace came to a sudden and painful end, as one of the ‘healthier’ zombies raised a hand, fingers twisting in strange patterns as it growled in a language better left forgotten. Priss felt the familiar sensation of reality twisting in unnatural ways, like oil sliding over her skin, and then a bolt of lightning arced out from the mans hand, striking her in the chest before she’d even realized she should move.
Enough of the electricity made it through her suits insulating layers that, even with her superhuman level of durability, Street Sabre was knocked back to her knees, nearly blinded by the sudden pain. It vanished almost as quickly as it began, the caster lacking the strength to create continuous lighting, and Priss gasped, even as her faceplate automatically sealed up. Before she managed to recover however, flames washed over her from two separate directions. Two other zombies, both of them moving to flank her, were conjuring steady streams of fire, trying to bury her inside a small inferno.
Despite the situation, and the alarms screaming in her helmet, Priss laughed lightly, hands clenching into fists as she rose to her feet. Her theory about these zombies had been all but confirmed, and she’d even tried to make peace with them.
So, as usual, it was time to to make them want peace.
Emerging from the flames in a high speed charge, the Knight Sabre blasted past a pair of feral zombies that had been stumbling towards the bright light, sprinting towards the lightning mage. His reflexes were better than she’d hoped, and he clearly was smart enough to recognize that the fire wouldn’t be enough to take her down. Despite that, he didn’t realize that she wasn’t aiming herself directly at him, and the lightning he summoned went wide, cutting down one of the ferals instead.
Sliding past the mage, Street Sabre drove an elbow into the back of his head, sending him flying into the sand, seemingly out cold. Not even pausing, she leapt forward again, barely avoiding a salvo of ice blades that formed out of thin air. Behind her, the sand began to bubble and churn, trying to grab at her feet. Turning her dodge into a roll, Street came to a stop, deflecting several of the ice blades off her gauntlet, and wincing slightly at the discovery they were able to leave scars in the armour plating. “Fire, ice, lightning… Yeah, I called it,” she muttered, even as the mages moved forward and attacked again.
Over the next few minutes, a pattern began to form as the heroine and undead mages danced around each other. The mages tried to surround her and wear her down, trying to chip away at her armour with their magics. At the same time, Priss kept moving, trying to stay ahead of the onslaught as best she could, seeking out openings where she could move in and strike, with sharp, brutal punches that left her targets on the ground, gasping in pain.
Had there been an outside observer watching the fight, they would quickly come to the conclusion that Street Sabre was losing the fight. Despite her best efforts, the Sabre was still taking a number of hits, and while she seemed to shrug off the flames, the shards of ice and rock tore at her armour, many of them leaving gleaming scars. To make matters worse, while she was incredibly durable, it seemed her striking power was limited. Besides the lightning mage she’d hit first, none of the other mages she’d hit were seriously injured, a number of them already back on their feet and rejoining the fight. The mages, clearly battle-hardened and experienced, pressed their advantage, pushing Street Sabre back towards the shoreline.
Tearing a large boulder from the ground with a gesture and a growled incantation, one of the mages stepped forward, what was left of his face twisting into a sickening grin. As a storm of ice blades forced Street Sabre to dodge to the side, he pointed at her, and the floating rock obeyed his commands, shooting towards the seemingly off-balance hero with incredible speed. However, a moment before it would have hit, Street adjusted her stance, bracing herself and raising her right arm, which had already reconfigured into its concussion blaster form. The resulting shockwave shattered the boulder into dust, then continued on to send the mage and several others flying backwards, crying out in surprise and pain.
Hardsuit thrusters roaring to life, Street Sabre went on the offensive, her sudden speed catching her opponents by surprise, their spells going wide as she intercepted the single fire mage currently standing. Dropping into a slide, she crashed through the zombies legs, continuing on past him even as he hit the ground screaming, clutching at his knee. Another burst of thrusters launched Street back onto her feet, and she skidded to a halt, turning towards the treeline and raising her left arm. There was a flicker of light from just behind her wrist, and then another mage was howling in pain, one of her hands pinned to a tree by a long, thin metal spike.
Despite the sudden change in the flow of the battle, the mages were already regaining their balance, moving closer together and combining their spells into a heavier and more powerful attack. This time, Priss didn’t even bother trying to evade the massive wave of ice and rock they summoned. Instead, she launched herself directly at the approaching barrier, left hand crackling with energy as the weapons array built into it charged up. Before the mages could try to alter their summoned elements, Street Sabre drove her fist into the ice with superhuman strength, and the knuckle bomber roared.
The resulting explosion tore the target apart, shards of ice flying in every direction, and several of the mages cried out in agony as debris sliced into them. A moment later, Priss landed in the middle of the group and, without slowing down, grabbed one of the mages by the neck before continuing on to slam the man against a nearby rock. The man, the one that had given the order to attack Street several minutes ago, winced in pain, then his eyes widened in horror as the armoured womans right hand began to glow like the left had just before she’d shattered the ice. Several of the other mages cried out in fear as the fist flashed forward… only to suddenly stop, less than an inch from his face.
Eyes still unnaturally wide, the man stared at the gauntlet for several seconds, watching tiny arcs of energy crackle across the emitters built into the knuckles, then forced himself to turn his head as best he could, looking at the gleaming visor and faceplate that hid the woman behind them. “Do ya get it now?” she growled. “Because I’m done being patient. If you assholes don’t want to talk…” Her voice trailed off, the promise unspoken but impossible to ignore.
“Ah,” he replied, the noise more of a gasp than anything else, and she loosened her grip. Slightly. “Yes, yes. You’ve made your point very clear. We shall talk. All of you, calm yourselves.” The other mages glanced at each other, then reluctantly stepped back and lowered their hands, as Priss felt the magic fade slightly and reality return to as close to normal as Kingsmouth seemed to manage. After a moment, Street nodded in satisfaction and released the man, stepping back as he coughed and rubbed at his throat. “My apologies,” he said, starting to smile, before pausing as he realized just how that expression looked on his rotting face. “It has been… well, a very long time since we met anyone willing to talk. We have found that it is safer to simply defend ourselves.”
Retracting her faceplate, Street couldn’t quite suppress a smirk. “Eh, don’t feel too bad. Damn near none of your buddies back in Paragon are ever willing to talk these days, even if we give them a chance.” The mage blinked at that comment, and Street Sabre’s expression became more serious. “I found a body out there, one I figure belonged to your lot,” she continued, waving a hand in the direction of Kingsmouth. “I’m guessing there wasn’t much of his mind left even before one of the locals took a shotgun to it, honestly. But his chest was blown wide open, which let me see the magic stick going right through his heart.” She turned, considering the men and women that were currently trying to stay a safe distance away from her, without looking like they were doing so. “You’re all members of the Circle of Thorns, the ancient cult of body-stealing ghosts that live in what’s left of Orenbagel.”
“Orenbaga,” the mages leader automatically corrected her, looking irritated. “And… yes, we are of the Circle.” Eyes narrowing, he considered the heroine. “Although I am not sure what you mean by ghosts. Even with the changes the Ur-Draug inflicted upon us-”
“Yeah, been a while since you lot were in Paragon, ain’t it?” Street Sabre interrupted, trying to hold back a laugh. “That dirty little secret of yours came out, damn, least a decade back. Still, explains why you didn’t recognize me.” Grinning, she started brushing sand off her armour. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty well known back in the City of Heroes. That strategy you guys were trying on me, the old ‘Death of a thousand cuts’ nonsense? Your buddies in the local Thorn chapter tried that same one, damn near seven years ago.” Pausing in her attempt to make herself a little more presentable, she looked back up at the mage, lips curling up in a cold smile that inspired instinctive fear in anyone that saw it. “It didn’t go well for them. At all.”
Taking a moment to consider that, the man nodded slowly. “I can believe that,” he admitted, trying to keep his voice and expression level. “You are an interesting individual, Miss…”
“Street Sabre.”
Sighing, he shook his head in understanding. “So, the tradition of ‘Mystery Men’ continues to today it seems,” he muttered. “Well then, Street Sabre. I am Toland. Once, Arch-mage of the Circle of Thorns and Orenbaga. Now, I am simply the leader of this group of survivors.” Gesturing at the gathered men and women, he sighed again, and for a moment, his body slumped with an exhaustion millennia old. “And as for the tale of how we came from Paragon City to here, in such a sorry state... “ A well-worn layer of determination and control slipped over the exhaustion as he brushed at his sleeves. “Well, it almost certainly has something to do with what has brought you to this unfortunate town.”
Nodding in agreement, Street waved a hand towards one of the campfires, and the log someone had dragged over to serve as a makeshift seat. “Well then Toland, if you’re willing to tell the tale, I’m willing to listen. Who knows, instead of finishing that little brawl, maybe we can help each other.”
***
Riot Force Headquarters, Kallisti Wharf, Paragon City
By the time Ifrit and Nene had finished bringing General Ironwood up to date on events on Solomon Island, the man was finishing up his second cup of tea, and his already serious expression had developed into a full-blown scowl. The office was silent for almost a minute as the Vanguard Commander considered the matter, not looking up from the teacup in his gloved right hand. Eventually, he nodded slightly, placing the cup back on its saucer. “Officially, I don’t believe Vanguard can intervene in this situation as it stands,” he said, regret flickering over his face. “Our charter is very clear on this. We can not deploy in member nations without permission from the local government, or confirmation of a planetary level threat. At the moment, the evidence doesn’t appear to support a threat of that magnitude.”
Standing up, James walked over to where Ifrit had a number of photos hanging on the wall. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked through the photos, eventually settling on the group shot from the W’Tin wedding. “The Draug are dangerous, but have only ever been a regional scale problem, limited to raids on coastal towns and missing ships,” he continued, smiling faintly at memories of the day that marked the end of the Rikti Wars. “Their appearance in America is unusual, yes, but it could easily be argued it’s not a Vanguard level threat. As for the other elements in this scenario…” Shaking his head, he turned back to the women. “The dimensional incursion happened here, not in Kingsmouth.”
Finishing her own tea, Nene put the cup down and leaned back into her seat. “It’s unlikely that we’d be able to prove that the Shadow was already present in Kingsmouth in some form,” she agreed, her own expression irritated. “Especially not with the mess it made of our teleporter bay.”
“And the Bees of Agartha are not what one would considered a credible source of information to those unfamiliar with them,” her wife sighed.
James nodded in agreement. “In all honesty, the Bees are…” he paused for a moment, considering. “I wouldn’t necessarily call them unreliable, but their perspective is too alien to be entirely useful. A threat to them may not be a threat to Earth, or humanity. I’ll take note of their comments, but until I can receive verification from a more reliable source…” He shrugged, very slightly.
Glancing at each other, the Romanova’s held a silent conversation, before Nene turned back to their friend. “That’s Vanguard’s official stance,” she noted. “And unofficially?”
“Unofficially,” James replied, “Riot Force, as always, has access to quite a lot of our files and resources, and I’m sure a number of our independent contractors would be very interested in you sending some work their way.” His smile at that comment was slightly lopsided. James Ironwood was a military man at heart, and had never been entirely comfortable with some of his predecessors methods. Even with all the changes he’d implemented since Lady Greys retirement, some things were simply too hard-coded into the Vanguard tradition to ever disappear. However, he would hardly let that unease stop him from exploiting it.
“In addition, I think I’ll speak to some of my contacts in Washington, and see if I can’t discover just who is in command of the military response on Solomon Island.” Walking back over to the two women, his expression darkened. “Besides the attempts to keep this situation hidden, the failure to secure and protect civilians trapped in what should clearly be declared a Hazard Zone…” Pausing, he made himself take a breath.
Nene nodded slightly, her own expression serious. “Hey, you’ll get no argument from us on that,” she assured him. “But that’s for later. You said earlier that you had experience with the Draug back in Europe.” Leaning forward, she raised an eyebrow. “What’s their story, anyway?”
Reaching over, James picked up the flash drive he’d placed on the table earlier, plugging it into a USB slot built into the table. A moment later, the holographic projector powered up and a menu screen appeared in midair. The Vanguard Commander quickly found and loaded the relevant file, and the menu vanished, replaced by the image of a bloated, rotting corpse half destroyed by salt water. This one showed further signs of injury, its left leg missing below the knee in what both women recognised as the disintegration effect of a Vanguard fusion rifle, while the left arm, already twisted and deformed by the coral growing out of it, showed similar signs of energy weapons fire.
“Animated undead species E-023, common name Draug,” General Ironwood said, slipping into what his subordinates called his Instructor stance. “Encountered by Hero groups and military forces in Greenland, Iceland and Norway. They are believed to be animated by an unknown Necromantic magic, although this remains unconfirmed. All known attempts to capture prisoners for questioning have failed, either because the animation process depends on an outside source, or some sort of suicide protocol. My analysis of the evidence suggests the former, but it could easily be argued either way.”
Sipping at her tea, Ifrit considered the autopsy photo with the ease of experience. “That arm looks an awful lot like some of the images Street Sabre has sent us,” she commented thoughtfully. “I assume it’s a common element among them?”
James nodded, fingers brushing over the holographic controls and skimming through the images, stopping on what looked like a still frame image from a helmet camera, showing several Draug, one of them clearly injured despite the image quality, engaged in combat with soldiers the notes alongside the image identified as the Hunter Corps of the Royal Danish Army. “Based off reconnaissance gathered by the Jægerkorpset in 2009, it’s a part of their ‘reproduction’ process,” he explained. The next image showed several Draug, along with two more conventional zombies and another, unique figure. Clearly female, but rotting and decayed, with a lot of the decomposition hidden by a layer of seaweed that covered much of her body. What couldn’t be hidden was the giant wound that had been torn into her stomach, from which a number of massive tentacles reached out towards the zombies.
“Whenever the Draug raid a town or village, their magic reanimates the bodies of their victims. Those undead that meet whatever requirements the Draug have are collected and taken to this… thing. The mystics call it a Feigr Broodwitch,” he noted, pausing only briefly in pronouncing the creature's name. “Each of those tendrils can be used to implant some form of coral inside the zombies-”
Groaning in a mixture of pain and disgust, Nene interrupted him. “And the coral grows through the corpse and around it, transforming it into a Draug.” James raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. “Leon and Robin saw something like it on Solomon,” she explained. Shuddering, she shook her head. “So, those raids you mentioned. I’m guessing it’s to make, er, baby Draug?”
Shrugging, James sat back down. “It’s the best theory anyone has. And given the lack of success at taking prisoners alive for questioning, theories are all anyone has,” he admitted. “The raids aren’t for more conventional supplies. It’s possible that some of the ships that go missing in the Arctic Ocean are their doing, but again, there’s nothing we can confirm.” Frowning, he adjusted his glove. “Really, unconfirmed seems to be the standard with them. Even their possible origins are speculation based off old folklore and myth.”
“If there is one thing we have learnt over the years,” Ifrit pointed out with a faint smile, “It’s that stories often have more fact in them than we realize.”
Considering the woman, and remembering her own mystical origins, James had to chuckle, some of his foul mood fading as he did so. “That’s very true. Still, while there’s the usual variation between different versions of the myths, and quite a few details missing from some recovered writings, there is still some consistency. Enough that we were able to develop a basic timeline. So, once upon a time…”
“Nice use of the classics,” Nene said.
“Thank you. Once upon a time, during the Viking Age to be precise, the god Heimdallr came down from Asgard, with a warning for the Jarls that ruled over Scandinavia. In a distant land, far beyond seas even the bravest Viking sailors had never dared to cross, was the base of the the world-tree Yggdrasil. There, the serpent Níðhöggr had awoken, and his venom was killing the tree that held up the world. For whatever reason - which, naturally, varied wildly from story to story,” he noted with a slight shrug, “the Gods themselves couldn’t intervene. And as is so often the case, the problem was handed off to mortals. The bravest warriors from across the lands answered the call and set sail.”
Familiar with the nature of such tales, Ifrit couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, despite the current mood. “And what followed was an epic journey, with grand adventure and glorious battle, as is required in all the finest warrior traditions?” she asked.
Nodding in agreement, Ironwood’s lips twitched with a faint grin. “There’s quite a lot of variety in the stories,” he noted. “Names, battles, every version follows its own path, as the various ships were apparently separated by weather and tides. But eventually, they all come back to a single point. A distant land under siege by inhuman monsters, led by a beast of pure darkness. The locals and the Vikings join forces, driving the monsters back, slaughtering most of them and forcing the survivors to flee to a hiding place outside the Nine Worlds.”
As they listened to the story, both Ifrit and Nene couldn’t keep the unease from their faces. While Ironwood’s attempts to summarize the stories was talking away a lot of the impact, both women had more than enough experience and imagination to fill in the blanks. “Honestly, a summary doesn’t give them the respect they deserve,” the Vanguard Commander admitted, leaning back into his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “They fought for days, lost most of their number to the beasts, and even then, it took the weapons and magics the Gods had gifted them with to triumph. And most of the versions of the myth that remain agree it was a very close victory.”
Considering that for a moment, and remembering the time she’d spent in ancient Cimerora, Nene couldn’t quite keep the pained expression off her face. Like many of Paragon City's heroes, she’d had unpleasant lessons in just what happened when unenhanced Iron Age humans clashed with aliens and demons. The mental image of that happening again, without the help of time travelling superheroes to even the odds, sent a wave of horror flowing through her. “They drove the monsters off,” she said, trying to move the conversation along. “But things like that always come back, sooner or later…” Her voice trailed off as Ironwood shook his head sadly. “No?”
Next to her, Ifrit sighed sadly, closing her eyes for a moment. “The Vikings,” she whispered. “They struck down something even Gods feared.” Opening her eyes, she glanced over at Nene, who began to pale as understanding set in. “There are always consequences to such actions.”
Ironwood nodded, his own expression darkening. “Common consensus is that they suffered some form of death curse,” he said regretfully. “It wasn’t immediate. The warriors had already celebrated their victory and set sail for home before the first signs began to appear. It began with a wasting sickness, starting with the wounded and spreading. Flesh rotted away, but the infected didn’t die. Then, a madness began to take hold. They turned violent, attacking their comrades, devouring the flesh of their victims. The survivors were forced to abandon several of the ships, sinking them when they could. But by the time they returned to their homeland, most of them were beginning to show symptoms as well.” He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing. “And those that had been abandoned managed to follow them anyway.”
Shivering slightly, Ifrit glanced over at Nene. “I can’t help but be reminded of the Knives of Artemis,” she commented.
Her wife chuckled bitterly, remembering the order of assassins, and their destruction during the Dark Astoria crisis. Captured by the otherworldly Talons of Vengeance, the survivors had been transformed into deformed monstrosities, their humanity and sanity destroyed beyond repair in the process. “Wow. There’s some unpleasant nostalgia for you,” she muttered. At the same time, Ironwood nodded slightly, acknowledging the similarity. “Cursed into undead torment, probably worshipping whatever it was they drove off,” the redhead mused. “Constantly attacking their old homes and their descendants for good measure… Yeah, someone’s getting some really twisted revenge there.”
As he considered the image still floating above the table, Ironwood frowned thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin. “The Draug are, for lack of a better term, rather predictable. If they’ve broken from tradition and travelled across the Atlantic, there must be a reason. If you can find that, I might be able to justify a Vanguard deployment to the Oversight Committee.”
Nene sighed. “And if what you said earlier is true, it’s not like we can try interrogating them.” Sighing again, she leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll pass it on to Alice and the others on-site, and get some of our analysts working on it when they get in this morning. Who knows, maybe they’ll find an angle we weren't expecting.”
***
Standing a safe distance from the treeline, the blue and red armoured woman tilted her head to the side thoughtfully, considering the flickers of movement her suit was detecting ahead of her, along with the distinct lack of heat signatures. “Yeah. Fuck that,” Priss decided, loading the local map on her suits HUD and setting a ‘flight path’.
That done, she turned slightly, crouched down, and then jumped into the air, her own impossible strength, along with the suits, launching her at a velocity far greater than an observer would expect. A moment later, her suits thrusters fired, altering her course ever so slightly, letting her simply bypass the forest completely as she soared towards the shoreline.
Beneath her, she could see the far side of the forest, and beyond that, a rocky beach, lit up by a number of campfires, all of which burned with the same mystical blue flames she’d seen in Norma Creed’s bonfire. Illuminated by that unnatural light, over a dozen figures could be seen, some remaining close to the fires, while others were wandering around.
Her arrival caught the attention of every single creature on the beach, the impact kicking up a cloud of dirt and rocks that swept over those closest to her. As she stood up however, she paused, listening to their reactions. She’d expected the almost animalistic snarling from the conventional zombies, but there were other voices, much more intelligent. And unlike the giant Draug that had been yelling at her earlier, they seemed to be speaking English.
As the dust began to settle, Street Sabre activated the light built into the side of her helmet and stepped forward, sweeping her gaze across the area. As she did so, her eyebrows rose in surprise. Every figure she could see, either from the light of the fires or from her helmet, was still human, lacking the mutations and coral that seemed to define those monsters. But at the same time, they weren’t more of the locals, killed and reanimated by the Fog. They were far older, skin stretched tight over their bones, the flesh underneath long since rotted away. Their clothes were just as old as they were, patched and repaired a thousand times.
But more than that, their body language was human. They were alert, clearly aware of their surroundings in a way most of the undead weren’t, and there were clear, defined emotions on what remained of their faces. One of them even seemed to be tending a pot hanging over one of the fires, although he was clearly distracted by the new arrival.
Taking in the sight of the living dead, Priss grinned as the pieces came together in her mind. “Am I interrupting breakfast?” she asked.
Her voice echoed in the near-silence that covered the beach, and several of the zombies glanced at each other in confusion. After a moment, one of them pulled his gaze away from her to consider the people around him. “Well?” he growled in frustration, waving a hand in Street Sabre’s direction. “Get her!”
Backing up a step, the heroine raised her hands towards the approaching zombies. “Come on guys,” she laughed. “I love a good brawl as much as the next girl, but how about we save it for-” Her attempt at making peace came to a sudden and painful end, as one of the ‘healthier’ zombies raised a hand, fingers twisting in strange patterns as it growled in a language better left forgotten. Priss felt the familiar sensation of reality twisting in unnatural ways, like oil sliding over her skin, and then a bolt of lightning arced out from the mans hand, striking her in the chest before she’d even realized she should move.
Enough of the electricity made it through her suits insulating layers that, even with her superhuman level of durability, Street Sabre was knocked back to her knees, nearly blinded by the sudden pain. It vanished almost as quickly as it began, the caster lacking the strength to create continuous lighting, and Priss gasped, even as her faceplate automatically sealed up. Before she managed to recover however, flames washed over her from two separate directions. Two other zombies, both of them moving to flank her, were conjuring steady streams of fire, trying to bury her inside a small inferno.
Despite the situation, and the alarms screaming in her helmet, Priss laughed lightly, hands clenching into fists as she rose to her feet. Her theory about these zombies had been all but confirmed, and she’d even tried to make peace with them.
So, as usual, it was time to to make them want peace.
Emerging from the flames in a high speed charge, the Knight Sabre blasted past a pair of feral zombies that had been stumbling towards the bright light, sprinting towards the lightning mage. His reflexes were better than she’d hoped, and he clearly was smart enough to recognize that the fire wouldn’t be enough to take her down. Despite that, he didn’t realize that she wasn’t aiming herself directly at him, and the lightning he summoned went wide, cutting down one of the ferals instead.
Sliding past the mage, Street Sabre drove an elbow into the back of his head, sending him flying into the sand, seemingly out cold. Not even pausing, she leapt forward again, barely avoiding a salvo of ice blades that formed out of thin air. Behind her, the sand began to bubble and churn, trying to grab at her feet. Turning her dodge into a roll, Street came to a stop, deflecting several of the ice blades off her gauntlet, and wincing slightly at the discovery they were able to leave scars in the armour plating. “Fire, ice, lightning… Yeah, I called it,” she muttered, even as the mages moved forward and attacked again.
Over the next few minutes, a pattern began to form as the heroine and undead mages danced around each other. The mages tried to surround her and wear her down, trying to chip away at her armour with their magics. At the same time, Priss kept moving, trying to stay ahead of the onslaught as best she could, seeking out openings where she could move in and strike, with sharp, brutal punches that left her targets on the ground, gasping in pain.
Had there been an outside observer watching the fight, they would quickly come to the conclusion that Street Sabre was losing the fight. Despite her best efforts, the Sabre was still taking a number of hits, and while she seemed to shrug off the flames, the shards of ice and rock tore at her armour, many of them leaving gleaming scars. To make matters worse, while she was incredibly durable, it seemed her striking power was limited. Besides the lightning mage she’d hit first, none of the other mages she’d hit were seriously injured, a number of them already back on their feet and rejoining the fight. The mages, clearly battle-hardened and experienced, pressed their advantage, pushing Street Sabre back towards the shoreline.
Tearing a large boulder from the ground with a gesture and a growled incantation, one of the mages stepped forward, what was left of his face twisting into a sickening grin. As a storm of ice blades forced Street Sabre to dodge to the side, he pointed at her, and the floating rock obeyed his commands, shooting towards the seemingly off-balance hero with incredible speed. However, a moment before it would have hit, Street adjusted her stance, bracing herself and raising her right arm, which had already reconfigured into its concussion blaster form. The resulting shockwave shattered the boulder into dust, then continued on to send the mage and several others flying backwards, crying out in surprise and pain.
Hardsuit thrusters roaring to life, Street Sabre went on the offensive, her sudden speed catching her opponents by surprise, their spells going wide as she intercepted the single fire mage currently standing. Dropping into a slide, she crashed through the zombies legs, continuing on past him even as he hit the ground screaming, clutching at his knee. Another burst of thrusters launched Street back onto her feet, and she skidded to a halt, turning towards the treeline and raising her left arm. There was a flicker of light from just behind her wrist, and then another mage was howling in pain, one of her hands pinned to a tree by a long, thin metal spike.
Despite the sudden change in the flow of the battle, the mages were already regaining their balance, moving closer together and combining their spells into a heavier and more powerful attack. This time, Priss didn’t even bother trying to evade the massive wave of ice and rock they summoned. Instead, she launched herself directly at the approaching barrier, left hand crackling with energy as the weapons array built into it charged up. Before the mages could try to alter their summoned elements, Street Sabre drove her fist into the ice with superhuman strength, and the knuckle bomber roared.
The resulting explosion tore the target apart, shards of ice flying in every direction, and several of the mages cried out in agony as debris sliced into them. A moment later, Priss landed in the middle of the group and, without slowing down, grabbed one of the mages by the neck before continuing on to slam the man against a nearby rock. The man, the one that had given the order to attack Street several minutes ago, winced in pain, then his eyes widened in horror as the armoured womans right hand began to glow like the left had just before she’d shattered the ice. Several of the other mages cried out in fear as the fist flashed forward… only to suddenly stop, less than an inch from his face.
Eyes still unnaturally wide, the man stared at the gauntlet for several seconds, watching tiny arcs of energy crackle across the emitters built into the knuckles, then forced himself to turn his head as best he could, looking at the gleaming visor and faceplate that hid the woman behind them. “Do ya get it now?” she growled. “Because I’m done being patient. If you assholes don’t want to talk…” Her voice trailed off, the promise unspoken but impossible to ignore.
“Ah,” he replied, the noise more of a gasp than anything else, and she loosened her grip. Slightly. “Yes, yes. You’ve made your point very clear. We shall talk. All of you, calm yourselves.” The other mages glanced at each other, then reluctantly stepped back and lowered their hands, as Priss felt the magic fade slightly and reality return to as close to normal as Kingsmouth seemed to manage. After a moment, Street nodded in satisfaction and released the man, stepping back as he coughed and rubbed at his throat. “My apologies,” he said, starting to smile, before pausing as he realized just how that expression looked on his rotting face. “It has been… well, a very long time since we met anyone willing to talk. We have found that it is safer to simply defend ourselves.”
Retracting her faceplate, Street couldn’t quite suppress a smirk. “Eh, don’t feel too bad. Damn near none of your buddies back in Paragon are ever willing to talk these days, even if we give them a chance.” The mage blinked at that comment, and Street Sabre’s expression became more serious. “I found a body out there, one I figure belonged to your lot,” she continued, waving a hand in the direction of Kingsmouth. “I’m guessing there wasn’t much of his mind left even before one of the locals took a shotgun to it, honestly. But his chest was blown wide open, which let me see the magic stick going right through his heart.” She turned, considering the men and women that were currently trying to stay a safe distance away from her, without looking like they were doing so. “You’re all members of the Circle of Thorns, the ancient cult of body-stealing ghosts that live in what’s left of Orenbagel.”
“Orenbaga,” the mages leader automatically corrected her, looking irritated. “And… yes, we are of the Circle.” Eyes narrowing, he considered the heroine. “Although I am not sure what you mean by ghosts. Even with the changes the Ur-Draug inflicted upon us-”
“Yeah, been a while since you lot were in Paragon, ain’t it?” Street Sabre interrupted, trying to hold back a laugh. “That dirty little secret of yours came out, damn, least a decade back. Still, explains why you didn’t recognize me.” Grinning, she started brushing sand off her armour. “I don’t mean to brag, but I’m pretty well known back in the City of Heroes. That strategy you guys were trying on me, the old ‘Death of a thousand cuts’ nonsense? Your buddies in the local Thorn chapter tried that same one, damn near seven years ago.” Pausing in her attempt to make herself a little more presentable, she looked back up at the mage, lips curling up in a cold smile that inspired instinctive fear in anyone that saw it. “It didn’t go well for them. At all.”
Taking a moment to consider that, the man nodded slowly. “I can believe that,” he admitted, trying to keep his voice and expression level. “You are an interesting individual, Miss…”
“Street Sabre.”
Sighing, he shook his head in understanding. “So, the tradition of ‘Mystery Men’ continues to today it seems,” he muttered. “Well then, Street Sabre. I am Toland. Once, Arch-mage of the Circle of Thorns and Orenbaga. Now, I am simply the leader of this group of survivors.” Gesturing at the gathered men and women, he sighed again, and for a moment, his body slumped with an exhaustion millennia old. “And as for the tale of how we came from Paragon City to here, in such a sorry state... “ A well-worn layer of determination and control slipped over the exhaustion as he brushed at his sleeves. “Well, it almost certainly has something to do with what has brought you to this unfortunate town.”
Nodding in agreement, Street waved a hand towards one of the campfires, and the log someone had dragged over to serve as a makeshift seat. “Well then Toland, if you’re willing to tell the tale, I’m willing to listen. Who knows, instead of finishing that little brawl, maybe we can help each other.”
***
Riot Force Headquarters, Kallisti Wharf, Paragon City
By the time Ifrit and Nene had finished bringing General Ironwood up to date on events on Solomon Island, the man was finishing up his second cup of tea, and his already serious expression had developed into a full-blown scowl. The office was silent for almost a minute as the Vanguard Commander considered the matter, not looking up from the teacup in his gloved right hand. Eventually, he nodded slightly, placing the cup back on its saucer. “Officially, I don’t believe Vanguard can intervene in this situation as it stands,” he said, regret flickering over his face. “Our charter is very clear on this. We can not deploy in member nations without permission from the local government, or confirmation of a planetary level threat. At the moment, the evidence doesn’t appear to support a threat of that magnitude.”
Standing up, James walked over to where Ifrit had a number of photos hanging on the wall. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked through the photos, eventually settling on the group shot from the W’Tin wedding. “The Draug are dangerous, but have only ever been a regional scale problem, limited to raids on coastal towns and missing ships,” he continued, smiling faintly at memories of the day that marked the end of the Rikti Wars. “Their appearance in America is unusual, yes, but it could easily be argued it’s not a Vanguard level threat. As for the other elements in this scenario…” Shaking his head, he turned back to the women. “The dimensional incursion happened here, not in Kingsmouth.”
Finishing her own tea, Nene put the cup down and leaned back into her seat. “It’s unlikely that we’d be able to prove that the Shadow was already present in Kingsmouth in some form,” she agreed, her own expression irritated. “Especially not with the mess it made of our teleporter bay.”
“And the Bees of Agartha are not what one would considered a credible source of information to those unfamiliar with them,” her wife sighed.
James nodded in agreement. “In all honesty, the Bees are…” he paused for a moment, considering. “I wouldn’t necessarily call them unreliable, but their perspective is too alien to be entirely useful. A threat to them may not be a threat to Earth, or humanity. I’ll take note of their comments, but until I can receive verification from a more reliable source…” He shrugged, very slightly.
Glancing at each other, the Romanova’s held a silent conversation, before Nene turned back to their friend. “That’s Vanguard’s official stance,” she noted. “And unofficially?”
“Unofficially,” James replied, “Riot Force, as always, has access to quite a lot of our files and resources, and I’m sure a number of our independent contractors would be very interested in you sending some work their way.” His smile at that comment was slightly lopsided. James Ironwood was a military man at heart, and had never been entirely comfortable with some of his predecessors methods. Even with all the changes he’d implemented since Lady Greys retirement, some things were simply too hard-coded into the Vanguard tradition to ever disappear. However, he would hardly let that unease stop him from exploiting it.
“In addition, I think I’ll speak to some of my contacts in Washington, and see if I can’t discover just who is in command of the military response on Solomon Island.” Walking back over to the two women, his expression darkened. “Besides the attempts to keep this situation hidden, the failure to secure and protect civilians trapped in what should clearly be declared a Hazard Zone…” Pausing, he made himself take a breath.
Nene nodded slightly, her own expression serious. “Hey, you’ll get no argument from us on that,” she assured him. “But that’s for later. You said earlier that you had experience with the Draug back in Europe.” Leaning forward, she raised an eyebrow. “What’s their story, anyway?”
Reaching over, James picked up the flash drive he’d placed on the table earlier, plugging it into a USB slot built into the table. A moment later, the holographic projector powered up and a menu screen appeared in midair. The Vanguard Commander quickly found and loaded the relevant file, and the menu vanished, replaced by the image of a bloated, rotting corpse half destroyed by salt water. This one showed further signs of injury, its left leg missing below the knee in what both women recognised as the disintegration effect of a Vanguard fusion rifle, while the left arm, already twisted and deformed by the coral growing out of it, showed similar signs of energy weapons fire.
“Animated undead species E-023, common name Draug,” General Ironwood said, slipping into what his subordinates called his Instructor stance. “Encountered by Hero groups and military forces in Greenland, Iceland and Norway. They are believed to be animated by an unknown Necromantic magic, although this remains unconfirmed. All known attempts to capture prisoners for questioning have failed, either because the animation process depends on an outside source, or some sort of suicide protocol. My analysis of the evidence suggests the former, but it could easily be argued either way.”
Sipping at her tea, Ifrit considered the autopsy photo with the ease of experience. “That arm looks an awful lot like some of the images Street Sabre has sent us,” she commented thoughtfully. “I assume it’s a common element among them?”
James nodded, fingers brushing over the holographic controls and skimming through the images, stopping on what looked like a still frame image from a helmet camera, showing several Draug, one of them clearly injured despite the image quality, engaged in combat with soldiers the notes alongside the image identified as the Hunter Corps of the Royal Danish Army. “Based off reconnaissance gathered by the Jægerkorpset in 2009, it’s a part of their ‘reproduction’ process,” he explained. The next image showed several Draug, along with two more conventional zombies and another, unique figure. Clearly female, but rotting and decayed, with a lot of the decomposition hidden by a layer of seaweed that covered much of her body. What couldn’t be hidden was the giant wound that had been torn into her stomach, from which a number of massive tentacles reached out towards the zombies.
“Whenever the Draug raid a town or village, their magic reanimates the bodies of their victims. Those undead that meet whatever requirements the Draug have are collected and taken to this… thing. The mystics call it a Feigr Broodwitch,” he noted, pausing only briefly in pronouncing the creature's name. “Each of those tendrils can be used to implant some form of coral inside the zombies-”
Groaning in a mixture of pain and disgust, Nene interrupted him. “And the coral grows through the corpse and around it, transforming it into a Draug.” James raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. “Leon and Robin saw something like it on Solomon,” she explained. Shuddering, she shook her head. “So, those raids you mentioned. I’m guessing it’s to make, er, baby Draug?”
Shrugging, James sat back down. “It’s the best theory anyone has. And given the lack of success at taking prisoners alive for questioning, theories are all anyone has,” he admitted. “The raids aren’t for more conventional supplies. It’s possible that some of the ships that go missing in the Arctic Ocean are their doing, but again, there’s nothing we can confirm.” Frowning, he adjusted his glove. “Really, unconfirmed seems to be the standard with them. Even their possible origins are speculation based off old folklore and myth.”
“If there is one thing we have learnt over the years,” Ifrit pointed out with a faint smile, “It’s that stories often have more fact in them than we realize.”
Considering the woman, and remembering her own mystical origins, James had to chuckle, some of his foul mood fading as he did so. “That’s very true. Still, while there’s the usual variation between different versions of the myths, and quite a few details missing from some recovered writings, there is still some consistency. Enough that we were able to develop a basic timeline. So, once upon a time…”
“Nice use of the classics,” Nene said.
“Thank you. Once upon a time, during the Viking Age to be precise, the god Heimdallr came down from Asgard, with a warning for the Jarls that ruled over Scandinavia. In a distant land, far beyond seas even the bravest Viking sailors had never dared to cross, was the base of the the world-tree Yggdrasil. There, the serpent Níðhöggr had awoken, and his venom was killing the tree that held up the world. For whatever reason - which, naturally, varied wildly from story to story,” he noted with a slight shrug, “the Gods themselves couldn’t intervene. And as is so often the case, the problem was handed off to mortals. The bravest warriors from across the lands answered the call and set sail.”
Familiar with the nature of such tales, Ifrit couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, despite the current mood. “And what followed was an epic journey, with grand adventure and glorious battle, as is required in all the finest warrior traditions?” she asked.
Nodding in agreement, Ironwood’s lips twitched with a faint grin. “There’s quite a lot of variety in the stories,” he noted. “Names, battles, every version follows its own path, as the various ships were apparently separated by weather and tides. But eventually, they all come back to a single point. A distant land under siege by inhuman monsters, led by a beast of pure darkness. The locals and the Vikings join forces, driving the monsters back, slaughtering most of them and forcing the survivors to flee to a hiding place outside the Nine Worlds.”
As they listened to the story, both Ifrit and Nene couldn’t keep the unease from their faces. While Ironwood’s attempts to summarize the stories was talking away a lot of the impact, both women had more than enough experience and imagination to fill in the blanks. “Honestly, a summary doesn’t give them the respect they deserve,” the Vanguard Commander admitted, leaning back into his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. “They fought for days, lost most of their number to the beasts, and even then, it took the weapons and magics the Gods had gifted them with to triumph. And most of the versions of the myth that remain agree it was a very close victory.”
Considering that for a moment, and remembering the time she’d spent in ancient Cimerora, Nene couldn’t quite keep the pained expression off her face. Like many of Paragon City's heroes, she’d had unpleasant lessons in just what happened when unenhanced Iron Age humans clashed with aliens and demons. The mental image of that happening again, without the help of time travelling superheroes to even the odds, sent a wave of horror flowing through her. “They drove the monsters off,” she said, trying to move the conversation along. “But things like that always come back, sooner or later…” Her voice trailed off as Ironwood shook his head sadly. “No?”
Next to her, Ifrit sighed sadly, closing her eyes for a moment. “The Vikings,” she whispered. “They struck down something even Gods feared.” Opening her eyes, she glanced over at Nene, who began to pale as understanding set in. “There are always consequences to such actions.”
Ironwood nodded, his own expression darkening. “Common consensus is that they suffered some form of death curse,” he said regretfully. “It wasn’t immediate. The warriors had already celebrated their victory and set sail for home before the first signs began to appear. It began with a wasting sickness, starting with the wounded and spreading. Flesh rotted away, but the infected didn’t die. Then, a madness began to take hold. They turned violent, attacking their comrades, devouring the flesh of their victims. The survivors were forced to abandon several of the ships, sinking them when they could. But by the time they returned to their homeland, most of them were beginning to show symptoms as well.” He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing. “And those that had been abandoned managed to follow them anyway.”
Shivering slightly, Ifrit glanced over at Nene. “I can’t help but be reminded of the Knives of Artemis,” she commented.
Her wife chuckled bitterly, remembering the order of assassins, and their destruction during the Dark Astoria crisis. Captured by the otherworldly Talons of Vengeance, the survivors had been transformed into deformed monstrosities, their humanity and sanity destroyed beyond repair in the process. “Wow. There’s some unpleasant nostalgia for you,” she muttered. At the same time, Ironwood nodded slightly, acknowledging the similarity. “Cursed into undead torment, probably worshipping whatever it was they drove off,” the redhead mused. “Constantly attacking their old homes and their descendants for good measure… Yeah, someone’s getting some really twisted revenge there.”
As he considered the image still floating above the table, Ironwood frowned thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin. “The Draug are, for lack of a better term, rather predictable. If they’ve broken from tradition and travelled across the Atlantic, there must be a reason. If you can find that, I might be able to justify a Vanguard deployment to the Oversight Committee.”
Nene sighed. “And if what you said earlier is true, it’s not like we can try interrogating them.” Sighing again, she leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I’ll pass it on to Alice and the others on-site, and get some of our analysts working on it when they get in this morning. Who knows, maybe they’ll find an angle we weren't expecting.”
***