Azar's Fury: The Redeemers, #2

By R.B. Ashton

From the ashes of Galeko, a new monster rises.

 

The war never truly ended in military-occupied Galeko. Barry Rustin, Civilian Liaison to Camp Viszla, sees that every day. The locals are afraid of murderous rebels and their own corrupt police force. Only the US military keeps the country from falling apart – and they do that through force, which often goes too far.

 

In the most neglected part of the country, where life is cheapest, something strikes back against the violence. A terrible force bursts from beneath Galeko. She stands taller than a tower and burns with fury. She will crush them all.

 

Rustin and his colleagues race to escape the coming disaster, in a fight for survival they can't possibly win. He's convinced there's a chance to find peace, if he can just communicate with the monster.

 

But Galeko has never known peace.

 

In R.B. Ashton's next thrilling instalment in The Redeemers series, experience more heart-stopping action, with an unforgettable giant threat. A standalone story set in the same terrifying world as Kacie-B! Start reading today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neringa Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201021481

Book preview

Azar’s Fury

R.B. Ashton

MMXXI

Part 1

1

Azar’s pulse quickened, her body aware that something was wrong before she’d seen or heard anything to confirm it. Her eyes locked on Felak, the low-lying cluster of villages that made up her home – three hundred yards away, asleep bar a couple of lights in windows and old Muna tinkering with his car. Azar herself should’ve been readying for bed, but had trekked to fetch water to save time tomorrow. Then came the sound. The buzz of something moving fast through the sky. She locked her eyes on her stone hut, a long way down the road.

Umi! she cried, realizing what was coming and watching for her daughter inside. She was sprinting, waving her arms above her head. Old Muna looked up, startled.

Azar’s flapping skirt tangled around her legs and pulled her down. Muna shouted as the overhead buzz became a piercing whine, then the village exploded. Something struck Azar in the head and she rolled across the road in dazed agony. Muna flew past her – part of him, at least – amid a rain of brick and stone. Pushing back to her knees, the left side of her face aflame, Azar struggled to focus on Felak through only one eye. In place of her village was a mushroom of black smoke, highlighted by licking flames, debris thudding into the ground. Gasping for breath, Azar touched a hand to her searing face and it came away wet – an intense throb of agony, where her left eye should have been, matched her rising emotions. She blinked the right eye, trying to change the view – to see her home back again. But the buildings she had lived among her whole life were not there. Umi was gone.

Like Ashan and Bahldir. Mawli. All gone.

Why? Umi – Felak – the last remnants of hope that Azar had left. She struggled to keep her pain and anguish from shrieking out. Why was she spared, to hurt and remember? Azar sank her hands into the road, collapsing forward, and wailed. The blood that soaked one hand mingled with the dirt, so the earth could drink her grief.

The world answered.

The ground shook and Felak rumbled again – a thunderous sound worse than the explosion. Azar looked up, afraid to see what fresh destruction was coming. The charred ground of her village vibrated – bulged – and she knew this was something different. Her blood had touched the ground. The earth burst outward and a fissure splintered the road. Cracks spread in all directions, and one shot past Azar.

She sat back on her haunches and watched Felak’s remains erupt with a volcanic yawn. Fire poured through the ruins of her life, spitting into the sky as chunks of earth flew over her head. Something was rising from the underworld, awoken by the brutal destruction. It stretched higher and higher, a piling, molten mass, burning around its edges, and somewhere at the center she sensed burning eyes looking out. Regarding her. Bigger than a house, now, it kept growing. Bigger than ten houses. Azar held its fiery gaze as she stood, steadying her feet against the moving earth. And slowly, crackling with energy, the lava-like being changed before her eyes, reshaping into something somehow familiar.

Major Clondike braced a hand against the dash as their Ground Mobility Vehicle rattled over rocks and holes in the sand. Watching through the green hue of night-vision goggles, he reflected that taking this off-road route might be good for keeping them covert but it wasn’t much good for his constitution. It didn’t help that Sergeant Hallister was merciless at the wheel, sacrificing safety for speed. Hallister didn’t so much navigate a route as beat his way through it, but if it worked to get them home in time for a bourbon before bed, Clondike wasn’t complaining. Getting eyes on the ground following a drone strike was hardly noble work, so the sooner they got it out the way the better.

Clondike squinted ahead, trying to pick out a hint of their destination, though the goggles weren’t much good for distance, especially not bouncing along like this. Something didn’t look right. Light, visible sooner than expected. As it got closer, the glow made Clondike lean forward and he tapped Hallister’s arm to slow down. There was a steep slope ahead, blocking off the horizon, and whatever was on the other side lit the edge like a beacon.

Hallister drove slower as Clondike pulled back his goggles, seeing they were about to reach the light proper. The glow was orange – a huge fire beyond the hill. Troubling for two reasons: the drone’s blast should’ve blown itself more-or-less out, without leaving a flaming mess – and there shouldn’t have been anything down there to fuel a fire this big.

Stop, Clondike said and Hallister gave him the briefest look before braking. Still pinioned against the dash to avoid flying through the vehicle’s open front, Clondike used his free hand to check his gun. He exited with the other three men right behind him. Clondike led the way up a sandy incline, the team professionally silent despite their baggage, and as he drew to the tip of the hill he held up a hand for the others to hold back. He crept over the last few meters and stopped and stared. The shitty little village was gone, alright, and it wasn’t a fire they’d left behind. Matter of fact, he wasn’t altogether sure what it was, except that it was glowing and big as a damned tower. Smoldering around the edges, highlighted in places by licks of flame. The ground was an open mess at its base, crackling with burning light like they’d blasted through the crust of hell itself.

What in holy hell, Clondike said, as Hallister fell in beside him.

Where did that come from? Hallister said.

Clondike gave him a sideways look, figuring the more important question was what it was, rather than how it got there. He gestured to the other two and shouted, forgetting all caution, Get up here, tell me I’m not imagining this shit!

Hallister took a quick step back, lifting his gun in surprise. It’s moving!

It rose higher, taking in the world, as Azar hurried out of its path. It focused on something far off in the shadows – and she heard a voice, carried into the valley from the raised horizon. There was a silhouette, a tiny slither of movement. People who had come to watch the terror that struck her home – people who didn’t belong here. Azar balled her sticky fists, glaring their way, bubbling with a rage hotter than the blood streaming down her face.

With a massive, lumbering stride, a great part of the creature swung over Azar. It slammed into the ground a distance away as wide as the village again, shaking the earth. The men on the horizon fled as the thing took another step. As it moved, it was reshaping, refining its final form. Azar savored the sight, swallowing the part of her that worried this would bring more suffering. Forgive, she had said, so many times. Forgive. But how could she forgive now?

The titan reached the hill with one last thundering step and it reached down towards the fleeing men. They yelled in fear. Not so tough now.

Forgetting her pain, Azar shouted, Destroy them all!

2

Camp Viszla was in unrest, right when Barry Rustin needed a bloody aspirin and a sit-down. He hadn’t drunk enough water today, having traveled three hours into the desert to meet a hut-dwelling tailor only to be told the man was rescinding his complaint about a member of the Red Flag guard stealing his tools. Once the tailor saw the forms he needed to fill in, he baulked at putting his name on record. No amount of assurances could persuade him that Red Flag would be held accountable and no one would seek revenge.

Rustin returned to camp determined only to relieve his headache – a typical day in the life of South West 49’s Civilian Liaison, he mused. As part of a UN team assigned to monitor the concerns of everyday Galekians as the West Coalition rebuilt the country, Rustin himself had found himself in a thankless position where his suggestions went unheard and his reports unread. The only difference between trying to improve social cohesion in Galeko and his former role reporting on estates in London was that out here he received four times the pay and had absolutely nowhere to spend it. He went back to his billet each night and drank himself to sleep safe in the knowledge that once he finally left this country, having helped precisely Zero people, he could drink himself to sleep for about five years before having to worry about working again. All the goodwill and intentions he’d mustered studying diplomacy at university had no real application in the face of poverty, war and people being people.

But as his driver pulled into the compound after this long, ineffective day, it was clear this particular evening of self-pity would have to be put on hold. There were soldiers running across the central clearing like they expected an attack. A soldier in one of the two entrance towers, the only break in the camp’s encircling concrete walls, shouted down at them to report in.

Rustin’s driver pulled their Humvee into the circle of tents and prefab command units that made up Viszla. Sat on a plateau at the end of a dirt road, looking out over countless miles of flat desert, it was hard to imagine anyone advancing on the camp unnoticed. The driver must’ve been thinking something similar as he cut the engine and sat watching the upset with surprise. He was a young guy, like most of the boys in camp. Rustin was practically a dinosaur here, pushing forty. Meaning that this green soldier was allowed to sit mystified in a crisis, but he, as one of few senior figures in the area, had to get on top of it. Never mind that being Civilian Liaison amounted to being a glorified nanny – it was a position of some authority when you considered the hundreds of supposedly well-trained soldiers assigned to South West 49 were typically the most ineffective or troublesome that the US Army had to offer.

Rustin sighed, climbing down from the Humvee, and assured the driver, It’s probably nothing. Bomb scare in town, I’ll bet.

He ambled across the central clearing towards the command tent – a large polyester rapid assembly shelter that they’d never bothered to replace with something more solid. It was broad enough to fit a couple of dozen people, and through the open flaps Rustin saw it was at capacity. The even larger mess hall, a marginally more secure TEMPER module, was quiet: no music from the stereo, no soldiers sharing late-night jokes. Beyond that, a handful of soldiers were running for the big metal hangar at the rear of camp – readying Viszla’s modest offering of tanks and aircraft?

Rustin! Where’ve you been? a voice drew Rustin’s attention back to the command tent. Lieutenant Jennings strode broadly out. Tall, articulate and ruggedly handsome, he was one of Viszla’s few truly competent soldiers, and an occasional drinking partner of Rustin’s. Jennings didn’t slow down as he pointed back the way he’d come. You’ll wanna get in on that briefing!

What’s happening? Rustin called out, but Jennings shook his head, in a hurry.

The hell is going on, Barry? another voice pulled Rustin the other way. Marit Johanson. Platinum blond, six feet of Scandinavian charm, with a jaw almost as rugged as Jennings but none of his charm. Like Rustin, she had been shipped to Viszla under the guise of assisting the rebuilding of Galeko; the fact that she’d ended up in South West 49 said she’d pissed off more than a few people in the past, and the sting of it showed. Where he spent his days tiredly trying to get people talking, she broke people’s balls for misplacing the resources sent by her charity employers, ViBryr. Her sharp tongue and pedantry made her relatively off-limits to a camp of generally repressed soldiers, and Rustin had the dubious honor of being perhaps the only man in Viszla to have slept with her. It happened once, when they were both drunk, and she definitely regretted it. She shot him down the moment he ever tried to spark a personal conversation, with a net result of bitterness on both sides.

Seeing her dirt-encrusted cargo slacks and unbrushed hair, Rustin commented, Heard a commotion and threw on your best gear, did you?

Marit curled her nose at him, drawing close and patting some of the dust off her clothes. We had a truck break down on the highway, had to move everything by hand. What’s your excuse?

Rustin offered a humorless smile.

They’ve been in there twenty minutes already. Marit pointed at the command tent, urging him to figure it out on her behalf. Rustin resisted the urge to turn her away, facing the usual conflict of both wanting to take her down a peg and wanting to please her. Rather than decide either way, he turned to the tent to do his duty. Whatever concerned Camp Viszla concerned the locals, meaning it concerned him. He entered with Marit dogging his heels, and the soldiers inside gave him grim looks as they shifted to make room.

Yes, you stink, Marit told Rustin helpfully, seeing him hesitate under their gaze. But everyone already knows that.

Unlike some people, Rustin whispered, I’m merely conscious of interrupting others.

The soldiers were looking at something on the screens up front with an eerie quiet. Whatever was going on, the stillness was a strange contrast to the activity outside. Marit pushed Rustin to continue. To be fair to her, he conceded, she clearly was conscious them interrupting – that’s why she wanted him to do it.

Rustin slipped through the silent crowd with apologetic smiles. It was tightest towards the front, around the digital map consoles, and his movements drew surprise as men bumped into each other to accommodate him.

Who’ve we got? Colonel Sutton’s voice called out. Rustin? Marit? Donnie and Les not with you?

Haven’t seen either of them since dinner, Rustin said, as the crowd parted.

Sutton appeared more worried than usual; a small man with a round head and wispy gray hair, outside his uniform you might’ve thought him a reclusive janitor rather than a decorated military commander. He spoke softly and had trouble holding eye contact, bar the occasional explosions when he needed to exercise his authority. He said, They should be on-site, it’s after curfew.

They went into town, Marit said, getting an aggravated sound from Sutton. Like everyone in Camp Viszla, the camp’s two resident journalists rarely respected the rule to be in after dark. Marit saw an opportunity to needle Rustin, with a whisper, Guess they forgot to invite you.

Both of you look at this. Sutton waved.

A group of flatscreen monitors were mounted over a desk ahead, and the largest was lit up with a black and blue display. A topographical map of hill contours, intersected by the straight lines of roads – no particular area Rustin recognized.

You’re looking at the Felak Valley, Sutton said.

Hold on, Rustin asked, patting at his pockets for his notepad. Must’ve left it in the Humvee. No one read his field reports, but Command were adamant that they exist.

"This is a shut up and listen situation, Sutton said firmly. He pointed at an empty space on the map. The village of Felak sat there. Until an hour ago. We had rumors of a Dheridin weapons cache. At least thirty automatic rifles."

Rustin raised his eyebrows. Thirty guns sounded scarcely worth a phone call, let alone erasing a village for. But this was Galeko, in the wake of a war that had been tenuous to start with. For a forgotten outpost like this, thirty guns was as good an excuse as any to exercise their training.

We got major heat-readings, after the strike, Sutton continued. As though we’d struck something much bigger. Then we lost contact with the ground team.

Rustin’s brow raised higher. The colonel was saying they had struck the village, but this wasn’t the guilty confession he’d been expecting. Sutton pressed a button and the map changed; a new grid, more wavy lines on a black background. A red circle glowed on the edge of it, a heat signature. There was no reference point for scale, but going by the hill contours it was big.

You set fire to the village? Marit suggested.

"The village is gone, Sutton tutted irritably. And was surrounded by sand. No ball of fire, and no flaming building, moves like that." Sure enough, as they stared, the red circle shifted.

Rustin wanted to ask why there was no aerial footage, but he could guess the answer. Along with harboring the worst people, SW49 received the worst equipment – hence a ground team was sent to report and the best they had now was a drone’s heat signature rather than high-definition camera footage.

It’s ten miles out of Felak, now, Sutton continued. We’re getting eyes in the sky and a satellite feed from Command. But we’re also preparing contingencies, anomalous as it is. Go get Les and Donnie, Rustin. Until we know what this is, everyone’s to sit tight. Understand?

Rustin hesitated. You have some theory as to what we’re looking at?

Yeah, Sutton said. A big, hot mess.

What direction’s it headed? Marit asked. How far away is this Felak Valley?

Hundred fifteen miles, Sutton said. But that thing’s a hundred five away now.

Hundred flat, sir, a corporal corrected, watching the screen.

Anything between us and Felak? Rustin asked.

Lot of rocks and sand, Sutton said. You’re hearing what I’m saying, Barry?

Yeah. It’s coming our way, Rustin said. And we should think about moving.

Sutton snorted. Something finally happens in South West 49 and you want to run?

Rustin didn’t reply as others murmured half-serious insults. Never mind something happening in South West 49 – something happening anywhere in Galeko was usually bad news. But no, of course he wasn’t going to run. If this hot mess was coming their way, rounding up the journalists would be the least of his problems.

3

There was partying outside, not far down the road – immodest and inconsiderate. Loud enough for Sherin to hear through the soil above her head. The town of Banajerd put the nocturnal tastes of their foreign guests over everyone else’s need to sleep.

Not that Sherin was planning on sleeping in this underground cell. She had to stay alert in case they came for her. The Red Flag guards, the thuggish militia who now controlled the Galekian streets, had overpowered her to hustle her into the barred cellar. For what? Telling the truth. How could she not? As a teacher, Sherin had to stand in front of twelve bright-eyed children day after day, thirsty for knowledge yet surrounded by lies. Red Flag passed out leaflets produced in the capital of Tamulz, reporting new schools and hospitals, insurgent attacks suppressed, food supplies increasing … everything the sheltered people of townships like Banajerd wanted to hear. None of it real as far as they could see.

The Americans, with scant support from their European allies, had invaded Galeko in 2015, under the pretext of disbanding Iban Ruz’s Imperial Army. Ruz was a horrible dictator, but it was his posturing over taxing fuel exports that engaged the Westerners. That, Sherin reflected, and because someone had wanted to sway the 2016 US election by promising war.

Then, the Western Coalition quickly secured points strategic to their own interests – the northern fuel fields, the mines, the western highways – rather than help the undefended civilian populations of the south. It had taken eight months for them to corner and kill Ruz, at which point General Cairns, the American leader of the Coalition, stopped speaking of the Imperial army’s chemical weapons and started preaching vigilance against the surviving Dheridin guerrillas. But while the Coalition had happily seized control of Tamulz, they showed little interest in pushing south to stamp out the Dheridin completely. The terrorist rebels were dug into the Volteek Mountains, promising a hard fight, and the Americans had already proved an aversion to that kind of risk. In early 2017, they were embarrassed by a botched attempt to take Rogh Pass, and few mountainous operations had followed that.

Anyone paying attention could see that only the most expendable Coalition forces made it as far south as the city of Aileer, much less the distant townships like Banajerd. They paid lip service to the stated claims of Cairns’ campaign