Crusade: Keith Murphy Urban Fantasy Thrillers, #3

By Peter M. Ball

 

Keith followed orders: He came back home, freed his soul, and laid claim to a magic sword he never wanted to weild. All he wants now is the opportunity to walk away from his old life and forget the years spent killing things that go bump in the night.

 

But Keith Murphy doesn't have time to rest, because his sorcerous partner Danny Roark is out of commission and the end of the world is thundering towards humanity like a freight train on steroids. As the elder entities from the depths of the Gloom break through the veil of reality with increasing regularity, Keith's forced to assemble a rag-tag army of demons, seers, and reluctant allies to stop Ragnarök from occurring.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brain Jar Press
• Release date: Dec 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215861240

Peter M. Ball

Peter M Ball is the author of more than fifty short stories and six novellas, along with essays, RPG material, articles, and poetry. His short stories and non-fiction have appeared in venues such as Clarkesworld, Strange Horizons, Shimmer, Dragon Magazine, Writing Queensland, and Apex Magazine, and has been included in several Year’s Best anthologies. He’s previously taught creative writing at Griffith University and the Queensland Writers Centre, spent five years as the manager of the Australian Writers Marketplace, and convenes the biennial GenreCon writing conference in Brisbane, Australia.

Book preview

Crusade

CRUSADE

A KEITH MURPHY URBAN FANTASY THRILLER

THE GOLD COAST RAGNARÖK TRILOGY

BOOK 3

PETER M. BALL

Brain Jar Press

CONTENTS

Eighteen Months Later

Funeral Rites

The New Deal

The Cost of Doing Business

New Boss

Recruiting

Incursion 22

Victory Celebrations

Consequences

Stake-Out

Extraction

Efficient, With Minimal Bloodshed

The Stars Are Right

Betrayed

On The Job

A Minor Breach of Trust

Nine Days

Pain

LOCAL HEREOS

Acknowledgements

Keith Murphy Urban Fantasy Thrillers

About the Author

Other Books by Peter M. Ball

Thank You For Buying This Brain Jar Press Ebook

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

Danny Roark died on the top of Kirra Hill, trying to block the Fenris Wolf from breaking into our reality. It was a Friday night, cold and damp, a chill wind blowing across the ocean and leaving us all shivering. A three-man team: me and Danny and Holly Langford, the only people Roark trusted to stop the apocalypse from happening.

Kirra’s hilltop was small and exposed to the elements. One side ended in a steep drop, straight down to the highway that ran beside the beach and the cliffs of Kirra Point. The only cover from the wind was a cast-iron statue of an eagle, a bricked-in barbecue, and graffitied picnic tables. Roark sat by the brickwork, lighting his third cigarette. Holly Langford crouched to his left, ripping the wrapper off a Snickers. She bit into it. Grimaced.

Two hours, she said.

I know, Roark said.

And it’s cold as Satan’s tit.

Roark breathed against his smoke. We’re all aware.

Langford took another bite, pushed the rest of the chocolate bar back into the foil. It’s like trying to chew a stone, she said, words muffled by the lump of half-masticated chocolate. That’s how fucking icy it is.

That’d be why I’m over here, I said.

Yeah, and you look toasty warm. Langford grinned at me. She was a tall, bird-faced woman, a witch from the dreadlocks and piercings brigade. One of Roark’s old friends, which meant she looked forty-five, maybe, underneath the tats and the hair.

Danny Roark appeared a hell of a lot older, a small, white-haired bloke with a neat beard and a nose that’d broke and been reset too many times to be normal. He scanned the night air, his breath steaming a little even after he’d ground out the cigarette. Keith, he said, get up.

I obeyed out of habit, the legacy of sixteen years working as Roark’s partner. He was the brains of the operation, the one who understood the rules of magic. I was the trigger man, back when I got to use guns instead of some oversized sword from the Gloom, descended from all those enchanted swords you hear about in myth and legend.

Roark pointed at the yard of the closest beach shack. Down there. You see it?

I squinted. The fence was a roll of chicken-wire held up by the occasional metal stake, marking the lawn of a pale-blue fibro cottage. A bright point of light shimmered and dimmed a little, then returned to its usual glow. It flickered a second time, almost going black. First signs of a breach.

How long do you reckon?

Roark sniffed the air like a bloodhound. A few minutes, maybe?

Right. I moved the sword into a ready stance, the tip of the blade angled towards the incursion. Best get to it, then.

Roark’s eyes narrowed. Keith?

I hesitated.

This isn’t… His voice cracked, forcing him to hawk and spit into the darkness. We’ve done okay, you and I, he said. Killed a lot of things people claimed we couldn’t kill. We made some mistakes, but we accomplished good along the way.

Yeah?

This isn’t like that, Roark said. This is desperation. If we didn’t have that sword, I wouldn’t even chance it.

He stared at me, eyes cold and blue. There was fear there. That was new. Roark wasn’t prone to worry, not in the years we’d worked together. Pity there wasn’t time to get a handle on that before the shit hit fan. I scrambled down the slope, boots skidding on the damp grass. The darkness between me and the porch light thickened, the murky night air growing tangible.

This was the twenty-first incursion, the name he’d given to the weak points between our world and the Gloom, letting through things you’d rather not think about. Myths and terrors made flesh.

The Gloom bulged and something that could have been a wolf emerged, if you enlarged your basic lupine form and filtered it through the nightmares of a dozen terrified children. The head slid free first; a black-furred maw with fangs like shards of smoked glass. The rest flowed out of the breach, big as a car, silent as a cat. The wolf’s presence registered on a deep part of the brain, one of those primal responses that told me to run. I could hear a hundred whispers cutting through the night, wordless rhythms I couldn’t identify. Breathing hurt; icy air burning through the weak flesh of my lungs, seeping into my veins and muscles.

Up the hill, by the barbecues, Roark and Langford were chanting, using magic to contain the wolf or force it back. The red eyes lifted, focusing on the sorcerers. Ordinarily I would have shot it a few times, used bullets to slow it down and make it easier to catch with the sword, but the cold was bad enough I didn’t trust my hands not to tremble. Maintaining a two-handed grip was as close to sturdy as I could manage.

Hey. I jabbed at the wolf’s long face, drawing its attention. Black lips pulled away from teeth capable of ripping my arm off without breaking a sweat, and we circled one-another as the wolf gauged how much of a threat I could be. I kept the sword-point between us, weaving like a serpent. You know what this is, I said. I’ll give you until three to go back where you came from, otherwise me and the letter opener from hell send you home the hard way.

The wolf eyed the sword, unsure of the danger I represented. It had been long centuries since its last sojourn on our world, and it still expected champions to stand against it with naked steel. Honorable, heroic figures destined to be kings.

Me, I was just a mook who killed for money. Making the best I could with the tools I had, wanted or not.

One, I said. Two.

Then I jammed the sword into the wolf’s right eye.

It didn’t bleed, but I’d long ago given up expecting creatures from the Gloom to respond to injury like humans. The wolf reared back, exposing its belly, and I swung the blade across the soft underbelly. Clumsy work on my part. Wielded by a swordsman who’d spent years drilling and mastering their control, the wound might have been fatal. My training consisted of eighteen months of hasty lessons between breaches, trying to prepare for the oncoming hell. I nicked the fur and pissed the creature off, set it snarling and lunging in my direction, moving fast.

I focused on basic principles: don’t get bitten; don’t fall over; don’t let the wolf slip past the blade. Up the hill, Roark and Langford built their chanting to a crescendo, voices growing louder and faster. Shadowy tendrils reached out of the night, trying to take hold of the wolf and drag it back through the knot of Gloom. It fought. Snarled. Shouldered me to one side and darted towards the sorcerers with a speed I couldn’t match.

The wolf slammed into the wards and the impact rattled through Roark and Langford’s droning chant. I followed it up the slope, forcing my tired legs over the slippery grass, struggling as the dropping temperature sapped my strength. The steady drone of Langford’s tenor and Roark’s snarling baritone guided my way, and the edge of panic creeping into Langford’s rhythm warned me their protections wouldn’t last for long. Their magic couldn’t contain the wolf. It barely kept them safe as it hammered against their defenses again, trying to break through.

I wasn’t fast enough. I knew that the moment I started up the hill and my tired legs screamed in protest. Roark and I were a team, one of the best, but we dealt in smaller problems than the Fenris. Our prey were normally demons in human skin, or the lesser fey, werewolves, and newly minted ghosts. The occasional sorcerer who crossed the line. Every hit took time, research, and planning. Weeks of it, if not months.

I drew my SIG and fired at the wolf. The gun kicked in my right hand as I dragged the heavy blade in my left. I heard something break up by the barbecues, and Roark’s rough chant lost its momentum. The old man swore.

Blue flames burst against the wolf as Roark fell back on lesser magics, channeling the raw power of the Gloom into fierce offense. The beast didn’t slow, and Langford’s voice faltered. I dropped the SIG, forced myself into a sprint. Watched the rows of glass-shard teeth lock tight on Roark’s skinny arm, dragging him to the dirt. That wasn’t good. I knew that. Roark was screaming. Langford was giving ground, trying to find somewhere safe. I charged, sword held in a two-handed grip. Raised it up and swung it down hard, letting the anger carry me.

The blade smashed into the wolf’s face, all my weight behind it. Tenebrous fur and bone gave way, part of the long maw disintegrating in the blow’s wake. The creature’s form shimmered, struggling to maintain cohesion. The enormous head whipped around, tossing Roark like a doll. Grounded him and tore through his jacket, savaging his right shoulder with dagger-sharp teeth. Dark blood pumped out, leaving a stain on the ground.

The wolf turned, hurting but eager to hunt. I hit it again, hard as I could, blade singing in my hands. The wolf howled as its vast body discorporated into the night. Too injured to maintain its presence and resist the Gloom’s call to come home.

In the distance, I could hear sirens. Gunshots attracted too much attention in a place like Kirra, even on a Friday night.

Langford pulled herself together. Knelt down beside me, checking Roark’s wounds.

Shit. She slapped Roark’s cheek. Danny? Hey, Danny?

The old man opened his eyes. Coughed up a mouth full of blood. His lips moved and bubbles formed, the harbinger of a wracking cough. Roark exhaled hard. Didn’t breathe in again, after.

I grabbed Roark’s hand. Held it. Felt the shudder as his body stopped fighting the pain.

Langford touched my shoulder. Keith, she said. Keith, we’ve gotta go.

I lifted my head. Sniffled. The sirens were getting closer, coming round the curve at the bottom of the hill

Right, I said.

It seemed the better choice than pointing out how fucked we were.

FUNERAL RITES

We cremated Danny Roark three days later. Took the usual precautions, splitting his ashes into seven equally sized piles, disposed of each at a different location, scattering them into the wind for maximum dispersal. Funeral rites get tricky when you’re dealing with sorcerers, particularly those with Roark’s experience. Powerful spirits had a tendency to re-appear in the Gloom, manifesting as ghosts or other malevolent entities. Some liked to think they could come back from the dead, reanimate themselves like some B-Movie villain. Roark never wanted that. One day we’ll fuck up, he said. When I’m gone, I’m staying gone.

His instructions specified cremation. They told us when and where to discard his remains. It took the better part of seven hours, Langford and I sitting side-by-side in my rental car.