A/N: Thank you to the people who reviewed!
Chapter One
The pixie held it in for as long as it could, but eventually the pain proved too much; its sharpened teeth tore a bloody chunk from its lip as it screamed.
The branding iron was lifted away. "The location - now!"
Still the thing remained silent. The red-hot metal descended once again. The human translator turned away with his hand over his mouth, dashing for the doorway. He was blocked by someone coming in.
"Going somewhere, Professor?" a cool female voice asked.
"General, surely I don't have to be here to see this!" he protested.
"Actually," a hand grasped his shoulder firmly and turned him back to the scene of torture, "you do. That thing is not human, doctor. That thing knows something we need to know, and it's not talking. And you're the translator. So as soon as it starts talking, you start translating. Understand?"
The man had been a professor of ancient language in the old world - that made him valuable even in the new. So, faced with the hard gaze of Goldshield, he nodded. "Alright. I understand."
"Good." She looked past him to where the torture was continuing. She motioned for the brand to be lifted. "How long can you keep this up before it dies?"
"Not long," Lieutenant Stanner said. "It's fading."
"Then stop."
The translator lifted his head, hope dawning across his face. Was this the same Goldshield? Was this the woman who had shown no remorse when ordering the burning of Glastonbury? The bombing of Machu Picchu? She was showing...mercy?
Stanner seemed scarcely less amazed. "General?"
She looked impassively at the panting and bleeding pixie. "Begin again tomorrow, after it's had some time to heal." She walked over to the creature, grabbing a handful of red hair. With a yank and a yelp of pain, she dragged the head up, putting her face close to its smaller one. "Understand me, pixie. This will never end. Even if you decide never to tell us, I will make sure you are in agony every second of your immortal life. Unless you give me what I need."
The pixies bright green eyes were swimming in tears, but nakedly broken. It struck the professor that Goldshield's gaze was perversely the same colour. Then the pixie nodded. A voice issued from its mouth; a tone that was trembling in pain.
Goldshield looked at her translator. "Professor?"
Before the war, Ancient Gaelic had been a hobby he'd dabbled in. He'd taught Ancient Latin and Greek at Brown University. Now he focused primarily on Gaelic. He had no choice. It was the main language of the enemy. There were rumours that Goldshield was learning Elvish, though no one knew how. It was the language of the magickind high command. Pushing aside the complexities of his commander, the professor focused on what the pixie was whimpering.
"Màs é do thoil é!" it gasped. "Màs é do thoil é!"
He winced, knowing that if he held a weapon in his hands he would have ended this poor creatures misery. So did Goldshield, which was exactly why she had ordered no translator be armed. Conscious of the general shifting behind him, he focused on what she wanted to know.
"Where is the attack to take place?" he asked. "Just tell me and I promise I will help you."
"Conas?" it asked. "Conas?"
"Bás," he said quietly. "Tapaidh bás."
With a sob, the pixie began to speak. It had the strength for no more than a minute before its strength failed. But the professor had Goldshield's answer. "Tehran," he said. "The attack will be on Tehran."
"How many?" she demanded. "What's the target? Are they coming by air, sea? Land?"
He related the questions to the pixie. Its clouded eyes were now completely dull; he didn't think it was breathing. It gave one last exhalation. "Muir..."
Goldshield shoved past him and lifted the pixie up by its throat. "How many?!" she yelled, shaking it.
It was too late; it flopped in her grasp, either unconscious or dead. She dropped it with a disgusted noise. From the groan it made as it hit the concrete floor of the cell, the translator guessed it was still alive. His heart twisted in sympathy.
"General, please-"
She waved a dismissive hand. "Fine. It's told us everything it's going to anyway. Stanner," she nodded.
Conscious of ammunition wastage, Stanner only used one bullet. The professor breathed a sigh of relief. Goldshield's eyes didn't miss it. "What did it tell you?"
"He- It said the sea. But it didn't say anything about numbers or possible targets."
The muscles in her jaw bunched momentarily, then she beckoned to Stanner. They marched out of the cell without another look to the dead pixie, talking in a rapid undertone.
He watched them go with hatred. Hatred of them, hatred of his job. Hatred of this world.
"Who's closest?"
"General Touma," he said. "The Riyadh Bunkers. He also has the third battalion with him."
"How soon can he get to Iran?" she demanded.
"They have choppers to get them to the Persian Gulf, and then it'll be a short journey across to Iran. It'll have to be trucks from there."
"They're coming by sea," she growled.
"It's still the fastest way," he said. "Otherwise we'd have to go through Kuwait and Iraq."
She sighed in frustration. It was faster to travel by air, but safer by land. The sky was full of dragons, but for the last few years their migrating patterns had seen them centre around the Far East; dragon courtship rituals could go on for months. Apparently it was quite beautiful to watch. A dance of flame and wings in the air. Goldshield was in no way inclined to ever see it. If she had her way she'd rip the scales one by one off every one of them.
On the land there were more of the enemy that could attack any convoy, but thankfully they were weaker than dragons. Still, with thirty year old cars and tanks they wouldn't go anywhere fast.
She nodded shortly. "Air and water it is. Stanner, get to MTAC, dispatch the orders."
"Yes, General." He began to walk away, then stopped. "Ma'am? Do you think... Will he be there?"
Goldshield stared into the middle distance. Silverlance. He knew how important the nuclear power that Tehran provided was to them, he knew that the oil reserves were dangerously low. He knew that they were running out of time to end this war on favourable terms. Destroying Tehran could only hasten their defeat. If the bastard intended to lead the attack himself, then she would have to be there. She wanted to be there.
"No," she said finally. "He won't be there. It's the solstice in three days. Holy day for them. He'll be in Bethmora."
"So Antrim?" Stanner asked heavily.
Goldshield gritted her teeth. "He's probably somewhere in Belfast right now." Or what's left of it.
That wasn't much. Belfast - her home - had been the first major city the Golden Army had decimated. She was one of only fifteen people, out of almost three hundred thousand, who had survived. Her parents hadn't been so lucky. The idea of that monster being in her city was maddening. Then again, the idea of him existing anywhere was the same. It was why she'd never stop. Why she'd hunt him until she was a hundred years old. Why, if she couldn't get him, she'd go after every single one of his people. He'd massacred billions of hers. It was the least she could do to revisit the favour.
"But, Stanner," she said, "contact Colonel Banik. We'll need Polish help as well to hold the city. They can get there through Turkey."
"Yes, General."
Stanner walked away, and Goldshield made her way outside, heading to her private quarters. She had pixie goop on her hands she wanted to wash off. The bright sunlight was dazzling after the dankness of the cell - she'd never really gotten used to the Australian sun at midday. Or the fact that it was December and she stood in ninety degree heat. It was meant to be raining, and freezing cold. Time had never done anything to remove her longing for Ireland. But that was gone now. Swallowed in magic. Australia was probably their last refuge that was safe from magical attack - mostly. In the chaos that had consumed the world, no one had noticed at first that the huge country was the only one not sending out hopeless cries for aid. The reason for that quickly became apparent - the aboriginal people. Though they had been ravaged and abused by Western cultures, they'd always maintained a stronger link with the natural world - and the mystical one - than almost any other group on Earth. There were rumours of others, in the Amazon jungle, for instance, or Africa. The anger that magical things had for the rest of the world hadn't really touched the aborigines, so their homeland was still relatively safe.
After this fact had been discovered by the Resistance, Goldshield had given them a simple choice; fight, get out of Australia, or die. That had been early on in her command - she remembered feeling guilty at that. She no longer did. She no longer thought she was capable of feeling the softer emotions. Rage, contempt, hatred - these were her refuge. War was her domain. She knew how to fight, not to compromise. In a battle such as this, there was either victory or annihilation.
She made her way to her quarters and ran a basin of water, scrubbing her hands free of blood and then quickly rinsing her face. Then there was a hammering at the door. The standard practice was that no one knocked; it wasted time and slowed communication. It wasn't as if she would be interrupted doing anything personal - there was little time to allow any kind of personal time, and definitely no time for sex.
The boy who burst in was young; under twenty. Most of her troops didn't live beyond twenty five. "General, you're needed in MTAC urgently - there's a message coming in from Poison Province!"
For a moment she stared. "That's impossible."
"I know, General, but we're certain. It is coming from America."
Goldshield was still for a second, then shoved past him, running through the complex to MTAC. Stanner was waiting for her, reading the demand on her face. "It's true, General," he said immediately. "We've verified the signal. There are survivors."
Goldshield couldn't help the grin of triumph. There are survivors. And if there were survivors of that holocaust, then it meant they could win. It meant they would survive. It meant they were invincible. There are survivors.
A/N: Review please!