CHAPTER SIXTEEN- BATTLE OF ENDECOTT: PART 3

  Saturday 12th May, 2018- ENDECOTT FOREST STATE PARK, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  James slightly prayed to God, asking for a miracle to save his friends from the clutches of these exterminators, and if by some form of divine intervention, some of Hollows choose to ignore the pain of the blue dust and started to attack the armour-clad knights, while ignoring James and his two friends.

  James using the opportunity started dragging The Artist and Claire towards the tree line of the open clearing they had once taken shelter in, moving the gang has fast as he could towards the forest.

  James’s breath came in ragged gasps as he dragged The Artist and Claire deeper into the forest. The sounds of the chaos behind them. Gunfire and the unnerving screeches of Hollows— faded slightly, but the danger wasn’t far behind. Through the trees, James caught glimpses of the strangely dressed knights, their gas masks and steel armor blending eerily with the haze of the forest. They moved with terrifying precision, cutting down the few Hollows that managed to break through the dust-induced agony and attack.

  As James stumbled forward, trying to get The Artist and Claire to safety, one of the knights caught up to them. The knight leveled a Full-Auto Crossbow— an unusual sleek one-handed device that looked custom-built for dual-wielding. With a sickening thunk, a bolt flew out, embedding itself deep into The Artist’s right leg.

  The Artist screamed, clutching their leg in agony as the bolt pierced through flesh. The blue dust in the air made the pain even worse, causing their skin to sting and burn wherever it touched.

  “I...I can’t”, The Artist gasped through the pain, gritting their teeth, “James, leave me. Take Claire and get out of here!”.

  James ignored them at first, his determination unwavering as he struggled to carry both of his friends. But when The Artist’s voice grew sharper, he slowed.

  “You need to save Claire”, The Artist continued, their face twisted with pain, but their voice clear. “She’s not…she’s not going to make it much longer. You can’t save both of us. Kaitlyn…she’ll come back for me”.

  “No way!”, James shot back, panic edging his voice, “That’s suicide! I’m not leaving you behind!”.

  The Artist grunted, shifting in James’s arms as they tried to ease the pressure on their injured leg. “Claire’s foaming at the mouth, James”, they said, gesturing weakly toward her. Claire had gone pale, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, a thin mixture of blood and saliva dribbling from her mouth, “Whatever these guys did…she’s running out of time”.

  James looked down at Claire, his heart sinking as he realized the gravity of the situation. She was slipping away. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon The Artist. “Then take her”, he suggested, desperation coloring his voice, “I’ll hold off these guys. I’m not affected by this stuff like you are. I’ll give you enough time”.

  The Artist shook their head, their expression a mix of frustration and pain. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! What? Are you going to take on an entire squad of knights alone?”, they winced, gripping the bolt in their leg tighter as another wave of pain hit, “I’ve got a crossbow bolt in my leg, James. I can’t carry Claire anywhere”.

  James realized the futility of his plan, a bitter smile creeping onto his face, “You’re right. I’ve always been a dumbass”.

  The Artist managed a weak laugh through the pain, “I didn’t want to say it”.

  Reluctantly, James finally nodded, accepting The Artist’s plea. He crouched down, carefully lowering them to the ground beside a thick tree trunk. “Okay. You win. But you better hold out until Kaitlyn gets back”, he muttered, his voice thick with emotion.

  “I’m not going anywhere”, The Artist replied, gritting their teeth.

  James quickly stripped off The Artist’s jacket and used it to cover Claire, shielding her from the blue dust that hung thick in the air. He handed The Artist his AR-15 and nodded toward the M1897 shotgun still slung over The Artist’s shoulder.

  “You’ve got two guns, now. Make ‘em count”, James said.

  The Artist nodded, taking both weapons. Their hands shook from the pain, but they weren’t about to give up. “Go!”, they urged, “Get her out of here. Find Kaitlyn”.

  James didn’t waste another second. He picked up Claire, cradling her in his arms as he started running toward the direction where Kaitlyn had gone. “Kaitlyn!”, he shouted into the dense forest, “We need help! Kaitlyn!”.

  The Artist watched him disappear into the trees, their breathing labored as they leaned back against the tree trunk. They could still hear the sounds of battle nearby. The clash of steel and the unmistakable growls of the Hollows. The crossbow bolt in their leg throbbed painfully, but they fought to stay alert. With an assault rifle in one hand and a shotgun in the other, they were ready for whatever came next.

  Alone, wounded and surrounded by enemies. The Artist knew their chances of survival were slim. But they weren’t going down without a fight.

  “LEUR ICI!!! — (THEIR HERE!!!)”, a voice boomed in French from behind the trees which The Artist perfectly understood. A group of knights, rifles raised and bayonets gleaming, pushed through the underbrush toward The Artist.

  The Artist acted on instinct, swinging the M1897 up and pulling the trigger. The incendiary shell burst out with a thunderous bang, hitting the knight square in the face. His gas mask split apart as the flames consumed him. He screamed, his voice muffled but clear in its agony, as he clutched his burning face and dropped to the ground, thrashing in a futile attempt to extinguish the flames.

  But it didn’t matter. More knights closed in within seconds. One of them leveled a Full-Auto Crossbow at The Artist’s right hand, letting loose a burst of bolts. Thunk! One bolt found its mark, driving into The Artist’s wrist. Pain exploded through The Artist’s arm, and the AR-15 slipped from their grip, hitting the forest floor with a hollow thud as its magazine emptied with the last shots.

  The Artist winced, clutching their wrist, blood already seeping through their fingers. The other knights raised their bayoneted rifles, crossbows and swords, surrounding The Artist in a deadly semi-circle. A voice called out in French from behind them, “Arrêter! — (Stop!)”.

  The Artist understood that well enough it meant to stop. They were too tired to keep fighting, their body screaming in pain from the bolt lodged in their leg and the dust still stinging their skin.

  Reluctantly, The Artist dropped the M1897, the shotgun landing softly beside the fallen rifle. The knights stepped in closer, creating a line in front of them, weapons still pointed as if daring The Artist to make a move. The air felt charged with tension as they waited, standing unnervingly still. Then, a figure appeared between the ranks of knights.

  Moving with a commanding presence, the figure was tall around 6-Feet tall and distinctly female. Unlike the armoured knights, she wore a uniform that looked less like battlefield armor and more like the attire of a high-ranking officer. Her cream white jacket was accented with azure blue, the fabric pristine despite the grime of the surrounding forest.

  As the woman approached, the knights in unison shouted in French, “Commandante de la grêle! — (Hail Commander!)”. Their voices echoed through the woods, reverberating with respect and discipline.

  The woman came to a stop before The Artist. She was young, no older than mid-twenties, with long ginger orange hair that had been tightly coiled in a bun, now loosening as she reached up and removed her gas mask. Her emerald green eyes gleamed with cold intensity, the contempt on her face unmistakable as she surveyed The Artist.

  “You are James’ child, are you not, oui?”, the woman asked, her French accent thick but her English clear enough. Her voice was as cold as her gaze, calculating, but there was an edge of curiosity. “I am Chloé de La Salle. It is nice to meet you”, she said, her tone suggesting the opposite, as she extended her right hand for a handshake.

  The Artist, despite their injuries, glared up at her from the ground. Pain wracked their body, but they mustered enough strength to speak through gritted teeth, “I’m...not shaking your hand”.

  Chloé’s lips curled into a slight smile, not out of warmth but amusement. She lowered her hand and tilted her head slightly, studying The Artist like one might study an insect caught under glass, “Very well. It is no matter. You are in no position to refuse much of anything, I think”.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The Artist’s vision swam, the pain in their leg and wrist intensifying, but they refused to look away from Chloé's piercing gaze. The commander’s presence was almost suffocating, but The Artist wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing fear.

  “What do you want with me?”, The Artist spat, their voice ragged from exhaustion.

  Chloé raised an eyebrow, as if the answer should have been obvious to explain.

  “Our Order…”, she began with a calm but cutting tone, “…wants what it has always wanted with your kind— extermination. To rid humanity of the blight you and your ilk have brought upon this world. The Order of Dawn is all that stands between us and the savage mongrel creatures you call Magickal Beings and Creatures. As if you haven’t blessed us with enough of your vile magicks…”

  The Artist clenched their jaw, fury bubbling beneath the surface despite their pain. “The Order of Dawn…”, they spat back, “…are nothing but vile murderers and criminals hiding behind self-righteous lies”.

  Chloé’s eyes flashed with amusement, but it was cold and cruel. “By whose law? Yours? Or theirs?”, she shook her head, as if The Artist’s words were beneath her, “You MBCs are nothing but troublesome aliens— beasts from a distant world. A world that neither wanted nor cared for you. You’re intruders. Invaders”.

  Chloé leaned in closer, her voice almost soft, as if sharing a personal secret, “Your father, James…he understood this”.

  The Artist’s heart skipped a beat. Their father? James?

  “He was more than just a mentor to me. He was like a father to me as well”, Chloé continued, her words carrying an unexpected weight, a sort of reverence that chilled The Artist more than the pain ever could.

  The Artist’s thoughts whirled. What the hell is she talking about? This woman, this Chloé, was claiming to know their father, to have shared some kind of bond with him. But how could that be possible? The Artist had been told by Lucius that their parents were part of The Cult of Blair, followers of a sinister and corrupt path, nothing like this.

  “That’s impossible”, The Artist murmured under their breath, their mind racing to reconcile this new information. “My dad was…”, they stopped short. Sharing too much with this woman would only complicate things further, and The Artist knew better than to trust anyone aligned with The Order of Dawn.

  Chloé noticed the hesitation and sneered, “Speak, Half-Breed, speak. Don’t you understand English? Or must I use Ma Langue Maternelle for you to comprehend me?”.

  The Artist, though battered and in agony, couldn’t help but retort sarcastically, “Ce n’est rien — (It’s nothing)”. The words slipped out, a mocking edge in their voice, as they deflected her question with biting indifference.

  Chloé’s face twitched ever so slightly, but her demeanor remained controlled. “You’re disappointing, you know”, she said, her voice now laced with a calm cruelty. “For the child of the great James of Faubourg Saint-Germain, I expected more. But…”, she sighed, as if resigning herself, “…perhaps you still have your uses”.

  Without another word, Chloé turned to one of her knights and gestured dismissively. “Pick our guest up”, she commanded, “Take them to the rendezvous point for premature extraction. And make sure to wash off the Dawnstar Aerosol before it kills them”.

  The knight stepped forward, gripping The Artist’s arm as they winced in pain, unable to resist. Chloé’s emerald green eyes lingered on The Artist for a moment longer, studying them with that same clinical detachment as before.

  “To the rest of you”, Chloé called out to her soldiers, “Continue with Operation: Whisper Forest. Leave nothing alive”.

  As The Artist was dragged away, barely conscious and their thoughts a blur, Chloé’s final words echoed in their mind— James of Faubourg Saint-Germain. Who was this woman, and how did she truly know their father? There was more to this than they had ever been told.

  (5:00 PM)

  The Artist’s surroundings blurred as they were carried through the chaos, but the sounds of the battlefield were all too clear, screams of dying Hollows and the crackling of fading gunfire echoed in the distance, blending with the heavy marching of soldiers and the shouted orders that kept them in line. As they were hoisted over the knight’s shoulder, the air grew thick with the acrid smell of burning wood and ash— the remains of Echo Park Ranger Station.

  Each step brought a jarring pain to The Artist’s body, the crossbow bolt embedded in their thigh sending waves of agony with every movement. Still, they forced themselves to remain alert, tilting their head enough to observe their new surroundings. The smoldering ruins of Echo Station disappeared behind them as they were brought closer to two grey trucks parked along a dirt road deep within the forest. The large storage containers on the trucks were ominous, their purpose unknown but foreboding.

  One of the knights carrying The Artist reached for a black walkie-talkie attached to his belt, signaling someone on the other end. “Extraction team, this Sparrow 1511 signing in. I repeat Sparrow 1511 signing in. Pin signal for extraction. We’re coming in”, the knight grunted, his voice muffled by the gas mask but the intent clear.

  Through hazy vision, The Artist watched as a driver stepped out from one of the trucks. His uniform matched that of the knights, though he lacked the bulky gas mask they all wore.

  The knight carrying The Artist lowered them to the forest floor, where they groaned in pain as the dirt scratched against their injuries. “Help me with this one”, the knight barked at the driver, who was already reaching for a bucket near the back of the truck, “Get the water. Use the drinking bucket to wash off the Dawnstar before it does more damage”.

  The Artist, barely able to move, glared at the knight as he sneered. “Pathetic creature”, he muttered under his breath, his disdain evident.

  But before the knight could turn away, a sudden gunshot pierced the tense air, and the driver collapsed, blood pooling beneath him as he crumpled lifelessly to the ground. The Artist, barely processing what had just happened, widened their eyes in shock, as figure jumped out from the back of the truck’s storage container and started firing their weapon at the knight.

  Before the knight could react, more shots rang out, quick and precise. The knight stumbled as silver-finished Beretta 92FS came into view and fired rounds that struck the exposed gaps in his armor. He hit the ground with a thud, his Full-Auto Crossbow falling beside him. The Artist’s breath caught in their throat, but their relief came swiftly when they saw the familiar figure rushing toward them.

  “Lilly…”, The Artist croaked, barely able to form the words through their exhaustion.

  Lilly Lou, her wolf-cut black hair framing her face as she moved with speed and precision, skidded to a stop beside The Artist. Her eyes widened in horror as she took in their battered state. Crossbow bolts still lodged in their wrist and thigh, with burns covering their skin from the blue dust.

  “Oh God”, Lilly whispered, her voice trembling as she knelt beside them. She gently touched The Artist’s shoulder, trying to soothe them. “You’re going to be okay, I’ve got you”.

  The Artist’s throat was dry, and every word came out as a hoarse rasp. “Water…truck…”, they managed to say, pointing weakly toward the storage container the driver had been opening before his death.

  Lilly sprang into action, dashing into the container in search of water. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes for The Artist, their vision swimming from the pain and fatigue. But soon, Lilly emerged, clutching a large metal bucket in her hands. Without wasting any time, she rushed back to The Artist’s side, lifting the bucket high before pouring the water over them.

  The cool water cascaded down their body, washing away the lingering blue dust and providing immediate relief from the unbearable burning. The Artist gasped as the pain finally began to dull, though it didn’t completely vanish. Still, they could breathe again, no longer suffocating beneath the agony of the Dawnstar’s effects.

  “Thank you…”, The Artist whispered weakly, their body still trembling but the relief undeniable.

  Lilly knelt beside them once more, her face filled with a mixture of concern and determination. “I’ll get you out of here”, she said softly, her dark brown eyes meeting The Artist with fierce resolve, “Just hang on a little longer”.

  Lilly hurriedly but carefully carried The Artist to the driver’s seat of the truck, their limp body weighing heavily in her arms. She managed to lay them down, taking care to position them gently as she fastened the seatbelt across their chest. The Artist, still reeling from the pain and exhaustion, could only groan in acknowledgment, their head lolling to one side. Lilly took a deep breath and stepped away, closing the container doors behind her and scanning the area for any more threats.

  Her eyes fell on the bodies of the fallen knight and driver. Noticing the Full-Auto Crossbows on both of them, she paused, bending down to grab the weapons. “These could come in handy”, she thought grimly, slinging them over her shoulder. She snatched the keys from the driver’s corpse before stepping back to the truck. Climbing into the driver’s seat, she laid the crossbows beside her and glanced over at The Artist. They were still pale, their breaths shallow but steady.

  Starting the truck, she shifted into gear and accelerated, navigating the rough terrain of Endecott Forest with as much speed as she could while still keeping the ride steady for The Artist’s comfort. The forest was a blur of charred trees and smoldering ground as they left the battle behind, but the tension in her chest refused to let up.

  Lilly glanced over at The Artist, her eyes landing on their jeans’ pockets. “I need help”, she muttered under her breath. She reached over, feeling through the pocket of The Artist’s blue denim jeans and finding their phone. Pulling it out, she recognized it immediately from the sleek familiar design— dark, polished and with a wide screen.

  She unlocked it by guiding The Artist’s limp right hand and pressing their index finger against the fingerprint sensor on the back. Once the screen lit up, she quickly scrolled through the contact list until she found the name she was looking for— Sir. Haggins Hopkins. Her fingers moved fast as she dialed the number, the line ringing only once before it connected.

  Before Haggins could speak, Lilly cut him off. “Haggins, it’s Lilly. Listen, me and my artistic friend…are in danger…serious danger. The Order of Dawn hit them with some kind of strange substance. I’ve got them, but…it doesn’t look good”.

  There was a tense pause on the other end, followed by Haggins’ concerned voice, “Is it blue? Did they spray something blue on them?”.

  Lilly’s stomach twisted, “Yeah, it’s blue. What the hell is it?!”.

  “Dawnstar”, Haggins said, his tone now grim and sharp, “They won’t have much time left. That stuff eats away at MBCs like acid. We need to act fast”.

  Lilly glanced at The Artist, their face pale and sweaty, the burns from the Dawnstar still visible. “What do I do, Haggins? I’m driving out of Endecott Forest now, but I don’t know how much longer they can hold on”.

  “Endecott’s too far from any of our secure locations. But if they’re still breathing, we can try something. Drive to the Lower Ninth Ward in New Salem and ditch that truck. I’ll have Red Society Regents and Deathstalkers ready to meet you there”, Haggins replied.

  Lilly’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, “Okay, I’m on it. I’ll get there as fast as I can”.

  Haggins’ voice softened, though still laced with urgency. “Lilly…thank you. I know it’s tough, but right now our friend needs us more than ever. You’re saving a life”.

  “I’m not about to lose my best friend”, Lilly said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her, “I’ll get there in time”. With that, she hung up the phone and pushed the truck harder, her eyes now fixed on the road ahead, focused on one thing— getting The Artist to safety.