A SKUL CHRISTMAS
1)
Dane’s
Dark-Night-of-the-Soul
Somewhere between Hell’s doorstep and Satan’s foyer
Dane was running for his life…again.
Dane was running for his life…again.
He knew he was sleeping and knew he was dreaming the same dream he had dreamt every night since their last operation down in South Louisiana. That particular visit to Hell’s half acre had nearly cost SKUL everything. Worse still were the implications of it all. Dane, the survivors, and SKUL’s leadership knew it was only going to get worse. The dream – no, this was a nightmare – progressed as it always did with men, his friends, teammates, and fellow operators who were caught up in his abysmal nightmare falling away from him on all sides in increasingly brutal fashion. They were, quite literally, being torn apart by dozens of savages. The first to fall was always Tweeker, just as he had during the operation – protecting his teammates. Ansil paid the ultimate sacrifice by jumping in front of a lunging savage intent on taking out his teammates, his friends. Twitch, who stopped to fend off a savage that had taken Toad down, was next. Three hit him all at once and tore through his body like a bullet through gelatin. They then turned to Toad, but he was already gone as evidenced by the thick pool of ever-widening blood. Lastly was Jed, who forcefully pushed Dane onward while screaming, “Go Dane! Someone has to survive! You run, dammit! Stay alive for your boy!” Saber team’s ATL disappeared in rolling mass of hate and anger and a tumultuous sea of fur, claws, and fangs.
Despite every bone in his body screaming at him to stand and fight, he honored Jed’s request and flew through the mind-made swamp like the proverbial bat-out-of-hell. Dane’s KtacS was torn and useless, compliments of the beasts’ obscenely sharp claws and fangs. His helmet had been ripped from his face, and even as he ran pell-mell toward whatever end awaited him, he spit gobs of clotty blood and broken teeth from his mouth. Behind him, he could feel their power, could feel the hot, hungry, werewolfian breath on the back of his neck. The damnable thing about this continual nightmare was that he always managed to stay just ahead of the charging horde until there was no one but him left.
He was always forced to watch them fall, everyone.
Then, it would end for him, too.
More men, SKUL operators and friends
to the last, fell to either side of him.
He saw Hammer, the former Air Force JTAC who went through SEE-S with
him, Toad, and Tweeker as the new guys, fall when a massive claw racked his head from his shoulders. It happened so fast his body took two then
three more steps before it realized there was no brain left driving. Dane’s scream would have made angels cry and
broken Satan’s heart; but, still he ran until, suddenly, the familiar swamps
locked within his nightmare bled away to reveal a snowy cityscape. The buildings and surroundings looked
strangely familiar, but the city’s name sat on the edge of his mind and refused
to dislodge itself from his subconscious.
No matter, he didn’t really have time to worry about it anyway nor did
it matter.
Behind him a massive howl rent the
cold night air and caused him to glance back just long enough to slip on a
sheet of previously unseen ice.
Ice, he thought helplessly, just a second ago I was in a fuckin’ swamp.
Instantly, Dane found himself ass-over-tea-kettle and, of all the shitty luck, half buried in a deep snow drift. He struggled to push himself out – he was so, so tired – and for the first time in his life, Dane felt a twinge of doubt begin to creep into his mind. There, it manifested, like a cancerous tumor bent on growing, on feeding off nutrients meant for normally functioning cells, until all around it was destroyed. He wondered, for a split-second, if giving up and accepting defeat wouldn’t be easier. After all, his friends were all gone now, he and Abbey’s divorce was final, and he had no idea where she or their son, Henry, were living.
Maybe it was because he knew this was only a dream – a nightmare – or maybe it was the same sense of pride, self-worth, and fear of failure that had always driven him to succeed where others failed, he could never be completely sure. But, just as every other time he found himself working against a stacked deck, he made a choice. It was a simple choice, no doubt about that, but it also tested the inner workings of his soul. It was then, as the werewolves closed on his position, that anger flooded through his veins like a Sith lord on cocaine summoning the dark side of the Force, that he dragged himself to his feet…
One. More. Time.
He flung his HK416, long since having expended the last round of silver, angrily to his side and watched it clatter across the icy sidewalk. Slowly, he pulled his solid silver tomahawk from its sheath at his waist. He briefly took in the stamped SKUL shield on one face before flipping it to the other side. There, he read the name of one of SKUL’s fallen – Rocket Rodney Jefferson, a former DEVGRU SEAL and SKUL shooter. Rocket died giveing SKUL, his country, hell, the world his last full measure. Dane decided, for what amounted to the millionth time in his life, he would be damned if he wouldn’t honor Rocket’s name by giving the same; even if this was nothing more than a never-ending nightmare.
Dane stared down the charging werewolves the way Doc Holliday eyeballed Johnny Ringo just before stamping his forehead with a few ounces of lead and mailing his sorry ass to the seventh circle of Hell. They would be his doom, there could be no doubt; but he held no fear in his heart. The beasts yellow eyes burned like embers in a fireplace, and their monstrous maws hung open hungrily. Thick, viscous drool dripped from inhumanly long canine teeth. He snarled and let loose a battle cry that shook even the dreamscape of his mind, but before he could charge headlong into the throbbing mass, a hand fell on his forearm.
It was Jed or what was left of him, at any rate. Blood poured freely from any one of a dozen areas of destroyed KtacS, and the lower part of his left arm clung to the rest of his body only by the tiniest thread of skin and tissue. With half his face missing, it had been ripped off or…
…Jed turned to him. His lone remaining eye showing the first hints of a sickly, yellow glow. The charging horde of werewolves stopped their advance. Each savage looked to those standing to either side as if to say, Are you fucking kidding?
“You should go,” Jed snarled as he squeezed his lone eyeball shut and shook his head. “I’m fighting it, Dane, but I don’t know how long I can hold out.”
Seeing his old friend, one of SKUL’s most experienced operators, Saber team’s assistant team leader, and the shooter he regarded as the most dangerous one man on the planet, cursed with the blood of chaos and destruction broke Dane’s heart. “Jed,” he gasped through the thick and painful curtain of lost hope, “not you too!”
“’Fraid so,” Jed replied through gritted teeth. Jed was clenching his jaws so tight it was like he was trying to eat his own teeth. “I’m finished, Dane. My time’s done.” Blackmoor drew his two tomahawks from their sheaths, and Dane noted with a terrifying sense of finality that Jed’s once destroyed arm was now whole again. Even now, his old friend’s hands were smoking and the pain the silver was causing him was horrifically yet perfectly etched across his ruined face. Jed’s body began contorting at odd angles and the distinct sounds of bone breaking and reforming were heard over the howling of the rapidly approaching wall of teeth, claws, and fur.
Through the torment and pain, Jed growled, “I said go!”
The seasoned shooter’s voice was no longer solely human, nor was it entirely bestial; rather, something caught in between. Jed was fighting the curse of the werewolf with everything he had, and had no tolerance for sentimentality. When Dane did not immediately react, he shoved SKUL’s Saber team leader with strength even he didn’t possess in life. Dane again found himself flying through the air with his ass somewhere up around his shoulders. After what seemed like hours, he landed with a crunch nearly twenty feet away and slid another ten feet on the icy pavement before skidding to a stop. He managed to make it to his feet just in time to witness Jed’s final destruction. His old friend engaged the first wave of savages with his smoldering tomahawk and deadly efficiency before being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. In the end, Jed’s already dead body was drawn in four different directions at once and brutally quartered in a mist of green and red – a mixture of the his human blood and that of demon-kind. Dane opened his mouth to scream – and, he most assuredly did just that – though his voice was drowned out by an unearthly, thunderous scream from above. It sounded like an incoming volley of missiles and out of pure muscle memory, Dane threw himself to the ground. Above the crescendo, which now sounded like a squadron of fighter jets prepping to un-ass from an aircraft carrier at the same time, rose the deep, basso laughter only someone who was teetering on the blurred edge of either insanity or ecstasy could produce. Flames exploded all around him, melting ice and asphalt in equal measure; yet, Dane felt none of its heat. Despite his fear, he looked up to see a gigantic sleigh slide to a screeching, sideways halt. The monstrosity of wood and brass was being pulled by eight…
Dane blinked but it was more like closing his eyes tight and saying a tiny prayer just before taking a second look.
Oh.
Fuck.
The sleigh, easily the size of a double-decker bus found carrying people with chippy attitudes and bad teeth down the fair streets of London, was being pulled by eight fire-breathing dragons.
Ice, he thought helplessly, just a second ago I was in a fuckin’ swamp.
Instantly, Dane found himself ass-over-tea-kettle and, of all the shitty luck, half buried in a deep snow drift. He struggled to push himself out – he was so, so tired – and for the first time in his life, Dane felt a twinge of doubt begin to creep into his mind. There, it manifested, like a cancerous tumor bent on growing, on feeding off nutrients meant for normally functioning cells, until all around it was destroyed. He wondered, for a split-second, if giving up and accepting defeat wouldn’t be easier. After all, his friends were all gone now, he and Abbey’s divorce was final, and he had no idea where she or their son, Henry, were living.
Maybe it was because he knew this was only a dream – a nightmare – or maybe it was the same sense of pride, self-worth, and fear of failure that had always driven him to succeed where others failed, he could never be completely sure. But, just as every other time he found himself working against a stacked deck, he made a choice. It was a simple choice, no doubt about that, but it also tested the inner workings of his soul. It was then, as the werewolves closed on his position, that anger flooded through his veins like a Sith lord on cocaine summoning the dark side of the Force, that he dragged himself to his feet…
One. More. Time.
He flung his HK416, long since having expended the last round of silver, angrily to his side and watched it clatter across the icy sidewalk. Slowly, he pulled his solid silver tomahawk from its sheath at his waist. He briefly took in the stamped SKUL shield on one face before flipping it to the other side. There, he read the name of one of SKUL’s fallen – Rocket Rodney Jefferson, a former DEVGRU SEAL and SKUL shooter. Rocket died giveing SKUL, his country, hell, the world his last full measure. Dane decided, for what amounted to the millionth time in his life, he would be damned if he wouldn’t honor Rocket’s name by giving the same; even if this was nothing more than a never-ending nightmare.
Dane stared down the charging werewolves the way Doc Holliday eyeballed Johnny Ringo just before stamping his forehead with a few ounces of lead and mailing his sorry ass to the seventh circle of Hell. They would be his doom, there could be no doubt; but he held no fear in his heart. The beasts yellow eyes burned like embers in a fireplace, and their monstrous maws hung open hungrily. Thick, viscous drool dripped from inhumanly long canine teeth. He snarled and let loose a battle cry that shook even the dreamscape of his mind, but before he could charge headlong into the throbbing mass, a hand fell on his forearm.
It was Jed or what was left of him, at any rate. Blood poured freely from any one of a dozen areas of destroyed KtacS, and the lower part of his left arm clung to the rest of his body only by the tiniest thread of skin and tissue. With half his face missing, it had been ripped off or…
…Jed turned to him. His lone remaining eye showing the first hints of a sickly, yellow glow. The charging horde of werewolves stopped their advance. Each savage looked to those standing to either side as if to say, Are you fucking kidding?
“You should go,” Jed snarled as he squeezed his lone eyeball shut and shook his head. “I’m fighting it, Dane, but I don’t know how long I can hold out.”
Seeing his old friend, one of SKUL’s most experienced operators, Saber team’s assistant team leader, and the shooter he regarded as the most dangerous one man on the planet, cursed with the blood of chaos and destruction broke Dane’s heart. “Jed,” he gasped through the thick and painful curtain of lost hope, “not you too!”
“’Fraid so,” Jed replied through gritted teeth. Jed was clenching his jaws so tight it was like he was trying to eat his own teeth. “I’m finished, Dane. My time’s done.” Blackmoor drew his two tomahawks from their sheaths, and Dane noted with a terrifying sense of finality that Jed’s once destroyed arm was now whole again. Even now, his old friend’s hands were smoking and the pain the silver was causing him was horrifically yet perfectly etched across his ruined face. Jed’s body began contorting at odd angles and the distinct sounds of bone breaking and reforming were heard over the howling of the rapidly approaching wall of teeth, claws, and fur.
Through the torment and pain, Jed growled, “I said go!”
The seasoned shooter’s voice was no longer solely human, nor was it entirely bestial; rather, something caught in between. Jed was fighting the curse of the werewolf with everything he had, and had no tolerance for sentimentality. When Dane did not immediately react, he shoved SKUL’s Saber team leader with strength even he didn’t possess in life. Dane again found himself flying through the air with his ass somewhere up around his shoulders. After what seemed like hours, he landed with a crunch nearly twenty feet away and slid another ten feet on the icy pavement before skidding to a stop. He managed to make it to his feet just in time to witness Jed’s final destruction. His old friend engaged the first wave of savages with his smoldering tomahawk and deadly efficiency before being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. In the end, Jed’s already dead body was drawn in four different directions at once and brutally quartered in a mist of green and red – a mixture of the his human blood and that of demon-kind. Dane opened his mouth to scream – and, he most assuredly did just that – though his voice was drowned out by an unearthly, thunderous scream from above. It sounded like an incoming volley of missiles and out of pure muscle memory, Dane threw himself to the ground. Above the crescendo, which now sounded like a squadron of fighter jets prepping to un-ass from an aircraft carrier at the same time, rose the deep, basso laughter only someone who was teetering on the blurred edge of either insanity or ecstasy could produce. Flames exploded all around him, melting ice and asphalt in equal measure; yet, Dane felt none of its heat. Despite his fear, he looked up to see a gigantic sleigh slide to a screeching, sideways halt. The monstrosity of wood and brass was being pulled by eight…
Dane blinked but it was more like closing his eyes tight and saying a tiny prayer just before taking a second look.
Oh.
Fuck.
The sleigh, easily the size of a double-decker bus found carrying people with chippy attitudes and bad teeth down the fair streets of London, was being pulled by eight fire-breathing dragons.
2)
Jolly Old…Saint
Nick?
Through the flames, which were
licking far too close for comfort, Dane watched as one of the sleigh’s doors swung
open. From the delicately lit inner
sanctum of the dragon-drawn sleigh came the same deep, baritone laughter he had
heard only moments before. It sounded an
awful lot like Ho, Ho, Ho! and filled
Dane, along with the surrounding cityscape, with a deep and profound sense of
mirth and glee. What Dane felt was not
mere happiness or comfort, but pleasure on such a profound, primal level that
there was no way it lived at the same address as wholesome.
In
fact, it felt an awful lot like madness incarnate.
Again, the dragons bathed the confused and frankly frightened werewolves in white-hot flames, liquefying the asphalt into something akin to a molten tar pit. Their breath turned the first wave of beasts into charred meat instantly.
The smell was riotous, and Dane had to scrunch his nose under its assault in order to keep from decorating the new-fallen snow with what he had eaten for supper.
The sleigh, all rich woods and burnished brass trappings, shifted from side to side on its ski-like skids as a gigantic figure clad in a hooded, flaming red cloak trimmed in snow white fur stepped from its depths. An equally snow white and braided beard spilled out of the hood of the cloak and fell raucously over an obviously muscular chest. The silhouette of the man was cut at such sharp angles that it looked like it had been chiseled from marble, even under the cloak. The figure, standing as silent as a tomb, glared across the snow-swept landscape in the direction of the werewolves. Unless Dane was going crazy – which, considering this was his dream thus making it entirely possible – he saw something he’d never personally seen emanating from the savages.
Fear.
The red-cloaked figure tilted his head ever-so-slightly in their direction then drew a two-handed Great sword from the scabbard lashed to his back. The blade made a hissing sound as it was slowly released from its captivity. The edges of the massive sword glinted white in the pale light of the moon, and the blade itself drank in the available light greedily, making it more than it ever thought about being. The giant wielded the four foot long sword as deftly as a fencer might wield a rapier. Ceremoniously, he drug the tip of the blade across the pavement in a wide arc, but instead of sparks erupting in its wake, flames spewed from solid cement.
The man brought the sword up to a low-ready position and turned his head toward Dane. The only thing the SKUL operator could see within the shadows of the hood was a set of large teeth bent in a wide, maniacal grin. “Stay there,” the unknown giant said in a surprisingly soft though thoroughly commanding voice, “this won’t take but a second.”
With nothing further to add, the man turned, let loose a battle cry that shook the very edges of Dane’s self-conjured nightmare, and ran straight into the heart of the werewolves. Stunned by the brazen attack, the savages began stumbling over themselves in a desperate, scrambling retreat. The newly arrived warrior moved so impossibly fast he made even the werewolves look slow. He moved like heated mercury cleaving three of the unlucky savages in half with a single slash of the mighty sword. From the wounds erupted a colossal shower of sparks.
A sword of silver, Dane thought as the sparks revealed the mystery of the sword’s make.
The blade sung through the night as it ate through the werewolf demons. Whatever the sword truly was, it was obvious to Dane, even at a distance, that it had its own wants and needs that could only be fulfilled through a baptism of blood and bone.
“Ho Ho Ho!” bellowed the giant in unison with his deadly slashes, thrusts, and parries.
With each fallen savage, the man’s voice became deeper, its timbre become indistinguishable from war drums. The swordsman worked his way through the savages with the same ease a master chef might chop an onion and just as efficiently, as well. In twos and threes, the werewolves were dismembered, disemboweled, and beheaded in a shower of green ichor. Only once was there so much as a question as to the battle’s outcome. That came when a large, gray werewolf lunged at the man while his back was turned. He was engaging two particularly vicious werewolves and more concerned with keeping them outside his defenses than anything else happening. As soon as the warrior’s attention was diverted, the gray savage latched onto the man’s shoulder with its massive teeth and steel-shattering jaws in a wild flash of gray, white, and red. Unfazed, the giant clubbed the beast across the skull with a hammer stroke of his pommel. The blow was so violent the werewolf crumpled at his feet, instantly stunned. The other two, far weaker yet even more dangerous due to their duplicitous nature, subsequently closed on the giant to their great regret. The red clad warrior spun in place and slashed the broad sword in a wide arc. It happened so quickly Dane was not sure he had moved at all until both savage began slowly sliding apart at the waist. He then turned back on the werewolf trying to pick himself up off the ground. Between the sheen of ice coating the sidewalk and his own inability to coordinate multiple muscle groups, the werewolf was easy pickings for the red cloaked warrior. Unsatisfied with simply ending the beast, he put a boot onto its back and pressed, forcing the beast back on its stomach. He then delivered brutal hammer stroke after brutal hammer stroke across the werewolf’s skull and didn’t stop until the thing’s head was a pile of mush and its brains were leaking out of its ears. Only then did he cleave its head from its body.
Standing, the behemoth greeted the last of the werewolves with the speed and grace of a ninja hopped up on steroids and imbued with superhero powers. In seconds, the unknown swordsman had completely overwhelmed the savages. In fact, he had ended the last of them before the first body slumped to the ground. In one swift motion he held the sword out to his side, flicked the ichor from the blade, and seated the sword back in its scabbard. The blade, furious at being imprisoned yet again, filled Dane’s nightmare with an angry thrum that could only come from ancient power.
Only then did the giant of a man remove his hood, and Dane was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu. He had seen this before, or something very, very similar. It hit him at once and, despite the situation, a tight smile grew across his grimy, blood-stained face. It reminded him of the first time Obi-Wan Kenobi took down his hood after chasing off the Sand People. It was a defining moment the first Star Wars movie. Dane halfway expected the man to look his way, smile, and say in a heavy Cockney accent, “Hello there,” and in response to R2’s beeps, “Come here, my little friend. Do not be afraid.”
Only this man was no Sir Alec Guinness and this wasn’t the Jundland Waste on the desert planet of Tatooine.
Despite his size – and, at a conservative estimate of nearly seven feet tall, he made Tweeker look small in Dane’s eyes – the man moved with a gentle, somewhat feline grace that absolutely could not be of this world. He covered the ground between the two as easily as a deer might hurtle a barbwire fence, and in the blink of an eye, was standing before Dane. As with his beard, the man’s long hair was snow white and fell over his shoulders. His skin was the milky white of fine, bone China, and other than his red, ankle length cloak and black gauntlets and boots, the only color on the man radiated from his eyes and cheeks. His eyes were piercing pools of blue that could only be challenged in both depth and chill by the core of a glacier. His cheeks, made round by a wide, rowdy smile, were a blustery red. It was as if they were constantly assaulted by a dry, frosty wind. Upon closer inspection, the red cloak, though strangely articulated – reptilian even – looked supple, almost leathery and the white fur trim of his cuffs, midline, and hood, thick and warm. The fur was easily identifiable to Dane now. It was obviously werewolf fur, but the origins of the material making up the cloak itself was not nearly so obvious. That is, until one of the dragons puffed a clot of fire from its nose and set a nearby snow-covered magnolia tree to flame. The easy violence of such a mundane act drew Dane’s attention. His eyes took a double take as he focused on the dragon’s skin.
He turned back to the giant before him.
Fear trickled up and down Dane’s spine and crept like cold pine sap to all parts of his body. The cloak was dragon skin; that much was now certain. If you believed the mythology – which Dane was having trouble not believing at this point – then it was easy to see why the werewolf’s bite was turned away so easily. Dragon skin was all but impenetrable.
Fuck me was the only thought Dane could collect in his riddled mind. Those two words were actually fairly profound considering Dane was a seasoned SKUL team leader. He had seen much in his short time with the unit – werewolves and vampires being way at the top of the list – but this…well, this took the cake.
The swordsman towered over Dane as he lay prone in the waist-deep snow. His eyes pierced the vestibules of Dane’s mind with the power of ice and fire. There was no middle ground, no neutral purchase to find anywhere on the giant save for his voice. His voice was both soft and kind and brought about visions of his son to Dane’s mind when he spoke; and, the air seemed to fill with the scents of fir trees, cinnamon, chocolate, and good bourbon.
He held out a gauntleted hand, presumably to help Dane to his feet.
“Commander Dane Stackwell, I presume?” The timbre of the man’s voice lived on a seesaw teetering between both demanding respect – by force, if need be – and one that held compassion close to the heart and ready to offer the lowliest of souls. “I’m Saint Nicholas. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Dane’s mind was reeling and his eyes darted from the sleigh, to the dragons, to the dead werewolves, and back to old Saint Nick. “Humongous assed sleigh,” Dane pointed his finger to the Frankensteinian amalgamation of wood and brass before ticking it to the fore of the vessel, “eight…somethings…” he shook his head vigorously, hoping he’d wake up, the turned his pointer back to the man in red, “and, a right jolly old…elf?”
Dane meant the last as a question but before he could put the question mark on the sentence, the great, silver bladed sword was laid across his throat.
“Elf?” the man’s voice changed, becoming both deeper and, at the same time, far more fearsome. “I am Saint Nicholas, winter lord of the Sidhe, and father of Christmas; and, you are pissing me off!”
Dane drew his breath, hoping to collect his senses enough to speak intelligently, and said, “My apologies, Santa…” The huge man calling himself the god of winter or whatever he just said moved the blade closer to Dane’s jugular. “…My apologies, Saint Nicholas. I am Stackwell, and I am at your disposal.”
“Ho Ho Ho!” laughed Saint Nick, and again, Dane’s mind shook with its force. “Well met, Commander Stackwell! Well met, indeed!” Suddenly, the sword was gone and in its place was the behemoth’s catcher’s-mitt-sized, gauntleted hand. “Please, grant thee a parlay in thine sleigh nestled upon the virgin snow o’er yonder.”
Dane took the proffered, hand and the giant drug him to his feet with both ease and surprising delicacy. Understanding this was nothing more than a dream, Dane had to ask, “Do you always talk like that?”
Again, laughter shattered the night and filled every crevice of Dane’s mind with the memory of his son’s birth, his little baby giggle, and, of all things, snicker doodle flavored coffee. “Not on your fucking life, my boy!” Saint Nicholas smiled as he shrugged, “Unfortunately, I’ve got an image to uphold.”
Dane
forced himself to act as flippantly as the giant, mythological being he was now
walking shoulder to shoulder with by pointing out the obvious. “Dude, dragons? What about the whole eight tiny reindeer bit?”
The
laugh elicited from Nicholas’ mouth was strong enough to crumble mountains, and
the slap delivered to Dane’s back should have shattered his spine, but it
didn’t…because it was a dream. What it
did do was send him face first into the very door they were walking to. Again, that should have broken bones, but it
didn’t. It did, however, stagger him;
and even across the nether of his dream, Dane had a hard time collecting his
wits.
“Sorry,
lad,” said the Sidhe lord as he again helped Dane to his feet. “Forget my strength at times.”
“No problem,” Dane stated over swollen lips.
Father
Christmas smiled, “To answer your question, I’ve got an incredible marketing
director,” admitted Saint Nick. “I mean,
can you imagine where I’d be placed in pantheonic lore if the world suspected a
clan of dragons led my sleigh? There’d
be anarchy!”
With
a mighty shove from jolly old Saint Nick, Dane spilled into the inner sanctum
of the winter lord of the Sidhe.
3)
The Christmas
Spirit
As
incredibly obscene as the outside of the sleigh seemed, the inside was
downright palatial. With several
staircases leading to the upper floors and a series of hallways spider-legging
off the main living area, the interior of the sleigh seemed to have no
end. Truly, it was the home – the
fortress – of the winter lord of the Sidhe that moved about the Earth on the
wings of what equated to two million horses of dragonian, fire-breathing power.
Or, at least that’s the way Saint Nicholas described it.
The interior smelled of oiled wood and polished brass, rich chocolate and finely tooled leather, old whiskey and expensive cigars. The lighting was perfect in its softness, like a thousand candles burning with equal intensity and none of the inherent heat. Only, there were no candles, anywhere, nor were there any shadows; just perfect white light. A heavy table of teak, several leather chairs, and a couch that looked like if you sat down in it you would be swallowed whole sat before a stone hearth. The fire it held crackled like new paper being crumpled and gave off the perfect amount of warmth. Above the mantle hung a flat screen TV that was at least sixty inches across. Dane smiled as he realized the muted TV was playing an episode of Sons of Anarchy.
“Haven’t read anything about you being a fan in any of the old nursery rhymes,” Dane smirked.
“Only a passing fan. The main character’s a bit too whiney for my taste,” he replied off-handedly. Nick looked around the vast living area with what Dane discerned as a certain level of bewilderment. It was like he was having trouble locating something. Finally, he looked to the high ceiling and thundered, “Hey, hon, I’m home!”
From deeper within the flying fortress came a sweet, far-away voice, “Hang on, I’m coming!” A few moments later, a stunning woman in a blood red evening gown fringed in white fur – obviously, the same make as Saint Nick’s – stepped into the living room carrying a tray of piping hot cookies. She placed the tray on the spacious table adorning one side of the room and retrieved a dusty, ancient-looking bottle of something from a cabinet and placing it beside the tray before turning around.
“Commander Stackwell,” began Father Christmas, “allow me to introduce you to…well, I guess you would call her, Mrs. Claus.”
The woman was shorter than Saint Nick but not by much. Her hair was the color of burnished copper and held the light of an old sun. Bound in a tight ponytail by a leather thong, tt was just beginning to streak with the silvery strands of age. Her skin held the same copper hue, and her eyes were the next best things to perfectly cut emeralds. Locked within those pools of green was an intensity that matched Nick’s own; and framed in lean muscle, she moved as lithely as a cougar.
Hell, she is a cougar, thought Dane but only briefly before dismissing the mental picture as quickly as possible.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the heat of Saint Nicholas’ glare but chose not to acknowledge it. “Pleased to meet you ma’am,” said Dane as coolly possible. The fact he was in the presence of the Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus of folklore and could form any intelligent thought was, quite frankly, impressive.
“The pleasure is all mine, Commander,” purred the woman in a voice that brought visions of all things good and pleasurable to his mind. Though Dane’s cheek’s flushed and his head burned, the woman added nothing further and turned to Nick, “Would you like me to relieve you of the burden of your sword, Nicholas?”
As Nicholas shrugged the scabbard off his back and handed it over to Mrs. Claus, the blade screamed disapprovingly. Its protestations began in a language that was unrecognizable to Dane. After the initial deluge of gibberish, they coalesced and formed a single word, a name that everyone knew, and the sword spoke it over and over again in Dane’s head.
“Thank you.” Nicholas then reached up to a high shelf and pulled down a sand-filled hourglass and turned it, starting the cascade anew. “If you’ll excuse the Commander and I, please?”
“Certainly,” the tall beauty said with a bow, adding, “Don’t be too long,” on her way out of the room.
“Is that really the sword? The sword of legend?” Dane blurted. “It spoke to me, I think, but nothing made sense until just now.”
Saint Nicholas looked to his wife who was now glaring at Dane with bewildered heat and standing stone still. She did not so much as draw breath, and her face had lost some of its beauty. In its place resided a storm of pure fury. Saint Nicholas said quietly, “Better leave it here.”
“As you wish,” she said woodenly. Mrs. Claus handed back the sword and scabbard reverently, nodded curtly in Dane’s direction, and then left the room on silent footsteps. Once departed, Nicholas began, “Forgive her. She’s a bit protective.” He paused long enough to lean the sword against a nearby wall, then added, “So, Commander, you have questions, no?”
“Understatement of the year,” Dane mumbled, more to himself than anything.
“I’m sorry?” queried the giant warrior.
“Ah, nothing,” Dane said while rubbing his temples. “Talking out loud, I guess.”
“Most people do,” Nicholas said with a mischievous grin.
Dane shook his head in frustration, “I have questions, yes.”
Saint Nick nodded and began, “I understand. You also have a limited amount time here with me. When the sands of the hourglass run out, so has our time. May I suggest we do not tarry? Please understand, some of your questions I can answer but many, I cannot. The majority of those I am simply not privy to the answer at this time while others, I’m not allowed to answer.” He paused, then added in a voice that bordered on frustration, “Yet.”
“Allowed?” Dane spat bitterly. “I don’t understand.”
Nick shrugged and with the biggest I-couldn’t-give-a-shit look stated stiffly, “That much is certain. Care to waste more time?”
Dane started to protest then stopped. It would do no good to argue. “The sword, it spoke a name. Is that really…”
Nick smiled as broad a smile as Dane had ever been party to, “Excalibur?”
Dane nodded so vigorously he was afraid his neck was going to break.
Nick leaned back in his chair, relaxing, seemingly proud of his decision to save Dane’s life – if only in a dream. “That old sword has had many names over the ages, but yes, for our purposes, that is Excalibur, the King-Maker.”
“And, you really are Santa Claus?”
At the name, Nicholas flushed, his eyes turned to slits of blue fire, and he fought to maintain a certain level of control. His voice, low though it may be, vibrated dangerously down the halls and stairways of the sleigh. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I am he; though, that moniker hardly defines me. I am the true winter lord of the Sidhe, the wielder of the King-Maker, an elder of the Wild Hunt.”
“And, Santa Claus,” Dane quipped with a smirk. It was probably not the smartest thing, but hey, this was a dream, right?
“You are an arrogant ass, aren’t you, Commander?” Nicholas leaned close, “Stupid too.” There was a thrum to his words that warned of ancient power. It was the same as that of the sword, Excalibur.
Dane gulped, took a second to collect himself, and changed tact, “Sidhe? If I remember correctly, they are elv…” Nick’s eyes flashed with what could only be described as the physiological manifestation of homicide, causing Dane to reword his statement midstream, “…what I mean is that my kind would think of you as elven, correct?”
Nicholas relaxed, slightly, “Correct, though it should be noted that referring to one of the Sidhe an elf will generally end very, very badly for whoever elucidated the atrocity.”
“Noted,” Dane said, and the two sat in semi-companionable silence for a long moment. Finally, Nicholas stood and walked to the table where Mrs. Claus had left the cookies and the ancient looking bottle. As he plated a few for he and his guest and poured two hearty glasses of the drink, Dane commented in a begrudgingly awestruck voice, “I’ve spent the better part of my life training for war and the last year training to fight werewolves, and I can’t even beat what’s in my own mind. You show up and utterly destroy my nightmare within seconds.”
Nick snorted, “In fairness, I’ve been at it just a little bit longer than you have.”
“Any chance you would care to join us?” Dane probed.
“Who me?” Nick said across a white-bearded smirk. “Fight on the good side against injustice and the evil that threatens all of mankind?”
“Something like that, yeah.”
The way the ancient lord of the Sidhe spelled out Dane’s request almost comically left little doubt as to what his answer would be; though admittedly Dane was ill-prepared for the colorful nature of his response.
“Commander, that sort of do-gooder bullshit is the province of humankind and humankind alone.” He beckoned Dane to his table, and the two sat across from each other as he continued, “Immortals, for the most part, are ill-concerned with right and wrong, much less walking through their very long lives living under the constraints of any type of perceived moral code. Simply put, we take what’s good and enjoyable out of life, pursue it with great passion, and strive to avoid the rest. Admittedly, problems arise when our wants and needs bleed, quite literally, over into the human realm. Werewolves are particularly problematic; but, it’s important to understand that they are only acting out of their primal instinct to dominate all life and to destroy whoever or whatever stands in their way.”
Seeing the question form in Dane’s mind before he was even aware of it, Nicholas added quickly, “Before you ask; no, I am not entirely privy to the exact reasons why the werewolves and vampires hate each other so…only rumor and half-truths. I’m sure you’ve heard much the same. But, Dane, don’t doubt what I’m about to say for one instant. The blood-sucking demons that visited your thoughts on the night that continually troubles you in your dreams are not necessarily on your side of the equation, either. They function under the same amoral existence as the werewolves; though, admittedly, they do a better job at hiding their taboo – as you humans view them – nature than the were-clans do. They may be standing there with you when it’s all said and done; but, the fact remains, if they are, you can bet they’ll be there for their own gain.”
The words, spoken by a terribly ancient and powerful being, lingered on the air between them like a coastal fog – suffocating and heavy. The weight forced Dane to sit deep in thought for a moment. As sure as he was the winter lord was trying to tell him something, he was equally as sure that this was as far as Saint Nicholas would – and probably could – go. Deciding to probe further on this subject would be useless, he asked, “If what you say is true, and I have no reason to doubt veracity of it, how then do you square with Christmas? I can’t imagine that kind of pressure – keeping up with the naughty and nice list for the entire world, for instance. That can’t be a very pleasurable experience, yet you do it – if history holds – on the same night, every year.”
Again, Saint Nicholas’ thunderous laugh echoed across the mindscape of Dane’s dream, “They call me Father Christmas and the winter lord of the Sidhe for a reason, Commander. I don’t keep up with the lists. That’s for others of my ilk to worry with. Don’t get me wrong, I do take pleasure in my Christmas Eve flight, but not necessarily for the reasons you may think. From late July until well after Christmas, you are hard-pressed to walk past a store front without my bastardized visage sitting in the windowsill. That, my young friend, is power at the most primordial level. You see, most of the beings in positions such as mine gain power from being worshipped. I’m talking, a tremendous amount of power. The effects are as addictive as any drug ever produced or any drug that might possibly ever be produced on this earth. Man simply cannot perceive the all-encompassing euphoria of which I speak, and over the last century and a half, the greed of humankind and the commercialization of Christmas has certainly fed my own power to a level I’ve not seen in all my long years.”
He paused purposefully and gripped the armrests of his chair in white-knuckle fashion, “One night’s sacrifice for lifetimes, no, generations’ worth of pure power? I like the math there, boy.”
For a split second, burned ozone dominated the air. It was like Zeus dropped a handful of lightning bolts down on their position with little result.
The air cleared, replaced again by the goodness Dane’s mind was conjuring, and Nick continued ominously, “Makes you wonder, given that tidbit of knowledge, exactly what the werewolves hope to gain by pressing their agenda now. Given the history of these uprisings and the ease at which they have been shattered, particularly in recent history, one would have to think the werewolves feel as though they are now playing poker with a loaded deck.”
Again, Saint Nicholas let his words hang between them like clothes set out to dry. Dane could tell there was something hidden in his words, could feel it, but the dream state his mind was in just could not stitch the riddle together. After another moment or two of silence, Nicholas slapped his knees and slid the mug across the table to Dane. “Unfortunately, Commander Stackwell, we are running short on time; so, it’s time we get down to the reason for my visit into the world of your dreams this evening.”
He tilted his mug in Dane’s direction and smiled. Dane returned the gesture in kind, and the sword lying against the wall began to hum. The sound was indistinct at first and stayed on the edge of his mind, but even so, he could tell it was not the same angry thrum of power he had originally felt emanating from Excalibur. This time, it sounded almost happy. Words spoken in a tongue Dane could not understand but knew they were not of this world began to meld with the humming.
Nicholas recognized the song being sung. He knew it well. It was in the tongue of the Sidhe, taught to the ancient Druids who forged the mighty blade. “Ah, the King-Maker sings. Again, you impress me, Commander Stackwell. The ancient blade only reveals itself to those emboldened with a true warrior’s spirit.” After a moment’s worth of listening, Saint Nicholas commanded in a voice that sounded not unlike a Baptist preacher offering Communion, “Drink.”
The two drank.
At first, Dane drank slowly, only sipping the concoction until he tasted it. He tasted his first kiss when he was in the sixth grade, a result of a game of spin-the-bottle. He tasted saltwater on his lips that reminded him of the last obstacle, a grueling cold-water swim, in his right of passage to having the SEAL Trident pounded into his chest. He felt his baby boy’s hair on his cheeks and caught hints of his precious baby smell and tears grew in his eyes. In that drink, he felt the warmth of the first sunrise he truly appreciated, a sunrise he thought he’d never see. He and his team of SEALs had been inserted just outside the wire of COP Keating – Combat Outpost Keating – in the remote, high mountains of the Nuristan province of Afghanistan. They were a QRF – quick reaction force – for the 10th Mountain who called it home, nearly did not even make it to the outpost alive, and for the next twelve hours endured nothing short of the next best thing to hell on earth. In that drink, he tasted the next morning’s sunrise when, with the arrival of reinforcements, he looked around and realized he and his team had survived. Another scent wafted to his nose and on it he tasted something familiar yet just out of his ability to recall. Finally, the memory coalesced in his mind, and he remembered the first time he had smelled it. It was down in Mexico on his final mission with Section 8.
Jasmine. Dane pushed the mug away and shook his head. The contents of his skull felt thick, like someone stuffed a blanket into his ears and forced his brain aside. What the hell? he thought. The feelings that began to well up from his core confused his already syrupy mind making it impossible to concentrate.
“What the hell is this?” Dane asked with a thick tongue and heavy eyelids. “Did you drug me?”
Saint Nicholas chuckled heartily, and Dane’s focus sharpened to a pinprick. The same feeling of euphoria was pounding his chest wall and the narcosis of deep sleep was still assaulting his mind, but both had become muted. It was like a dam, bulging under an immense flood, holding out until the last.
“Why, no, Commander Stackwell,” bubbled the man’s voice as he chuckled merrily in tune with the words. “Christians would call it manna, the Greeks, ambrosia, and those of the Hindu persuasion would call it amrita. Even your own Native Americans had their version. They called it peyote. Either way, the history books have it wrong, always have. You’re not granted immortality through drinking the nectar. Rather, as mortals, you’re granted a slight sliver into the meaning of life…and it’s a very personal experience for each of you. The sights, the sounds, the smells you’ve just experienced are some of the things you hold dearest. They, Commander Stackwell, more than anything else, are what makes your life worth living for you.”
“Why,” Dane was breathing deep, and he had to begin fighting the raging narcotic-like slumber wrestling with his mind, “why show me this?”
Dane viewed the ancient warrior through half-closed eyes, “Why, my young friend, I would have thought that would be obvious to you by now.” Dane’s chin began to droop, and Saint Nicholas caught it and tilted Dane’s eyes to his. “You needed to remember what’s important to you. You needed to experience true, unadulterated happiness and understand what causes it for you. At the end of the day, that’s what’s going to keep you moving through the dark times ahead. You needed this in order to survive the darkness that’s coming, and it is coming, Commander. Hold what you’ve seen and heard here tonight close to your heart.” Saint Nicholas gently swiped his fingers over Dane’s eyes and allowed the sleep to overtake him; but, not before whispering one final thing. “Merry Christmas, Dane Stackwell.”
Dane was smiling as the dam finally broke, and the comforting waters of sleep finally took him.
4)
Wake Up Call
Banging, heavy
and incessant, filtered into Dane’s subconscious and began to drag him from his
deep slumber. The euphoria began to
abate and a longing to have it back filled its place. It was pure addiction, the feelings he had felt
with a simple drink from the mug. Still
though, something in his mind – which was finally beginning to be able to put
two thoughts together – told him that too much of the shit would drive him to
madness.
More banging and with it, a stern though muffled voice.
Dane’s eyes flicked open, and it was like pulling a blanket off his brain. He was slick with sweat, naked, in his stateroom. Beside his bed, on the nightstand, was his favored handgun – an HK45 Tactical. Having it in his stateroom was such a blatant violation of SKUL’s weapons protocol that he imagined the Skipper would just rip it from the table, put it to his temple, and pull the trigger himself if ever discovered. Dane kept telling himself he kept it close due to what he and many others suspected in the aftermath of their last operation. But, if Dane was honest with himself, he knew that was not the truth. The truth laid in the way he sat up at night, bathed in cold sweats, staring at the weapon; the way, on the oft chance he actually slept, he dreamed of pulling the trigger himself just as the savages overtook him.
But, now, those urges were gone and in its place he felt warmth coursing throughout his body. The warmth was both heavy, though never burdensome, while simultaneously being equally light even though it kept him grounded. He knew what it was. It was the gift from Father Christmas.
The banging turned to mule kicks, and the pieces to the voice’s puzzle finally fell into place.
“Dammit, Boss! Answer the fuckin’ door!”
It was Jed Blackmoor, his team’s ATL. Jed, a former Ranger and Delta operator before coming on board with SKUL, was one of the most senior enlisted men in the entire Joint Special Operations Command. He was a master of several different forms of the martial arts, including Krav Maga and Muay Thai along with a half dozen others. Jed was, without a doubt, the most dangerous man Dane had ever worked with.
And, right now, he was really, really pissed.
Luckily, he was also a friend.
Dane checked his alarm clock. It read 3:17 a.m.; yet despite the time, Dane felt more awake than he had in days.
“Goddammit, Dane, open this door!” How the door held against Jed’s onslaught was anyone’s guess.
“Hang on, Jed. I’m coming.” He pulled himself up off the bed and noticed he felt lighter, clearer somehow, and padded to the door. He pulled the door open, and two things happened within milliseconds of each other.
The first thing was that Jed spilled into the room without preamble.
The second thing Jed did was fall back out of the room with a curse. Dane was completely naked and hadn’t realized it until it was too late.
“Dane, what kind of basterdized fuckery is this?” he demanded, more than a little off-put by falling into a sweaty, naked dude.
Dane stuttered in his initial reply, “I…I…Merry Christmas, Jed!” He hugged the former Master Sergeant not caring one bit about the lack of clothes. Jed, horrified, struggled out of Dane’s grip.
“Judas-nipple-twisting-Priest, Dane,” Jed shouted as he stepped away. “It’s fucking March!”
“Huh?” Dane asked, bewildered. He began doubting the dream and stepped into Jed’s face with the determination of a forest fire. “Where’s the team, Jed? Where’s Saber? Where are my guys?”
For maybe the first time in his life, Jed backed up. “Damn man, they’re right where you left them. Both of them are drunk off their asses in the platoon area along with the rest of the platoon minus Titan.” Jed smirked, “I guess you probably remember that, though.”
The way the bastard said it forced Dane to run through the recent catalogue of his mind until he hit on the target. “Dude, that’s fucked. We’re just friends.” The conviction in his voice wasn’t as strong as it had been even twelve hours before. Things had, literally, changed. “Tweeker, Jed. Where’s Tweeker?”
Jed looked into his eyes twice, unsure what was going on. Neither of them had gone more than a few hours without checking in on the huge Nordic asshole that was Saber’s medic. “Same as he’s been for the last week or so, Dane.” Jed looked him up and down. “You sure you’re okay? I heard a lot of screaming coming from your room.”
Dane had not told anyone about the nightmares.
“Yeah, Jed, I am now.” Dane, now aware he was naked, looked down. Jed wasn’t dressed much better than he was. Jed’s eyes inadvertently followed his for a quick second before each threw up their arms, screamed Dear Lord! and left everyone to their evening. Dane may have been naked, which was – admittedly – pretty awkward, but Jed was wearing a pair of solid white boxers with an arrow pointed to his crotch and the words In case of fire, pull flap, suck hose, and die happy inked into the thread.
Dane was still smiling as his door closed again.
He wandered in haphazard fashion to his ruggedized laptop and stared at it for a long while. Finally, he opened it, found the name he was looking for, and sent a quick instant message:
You awake?
He paced impatiently for a reply until he could not stand it anymore and stepped outside, retrieved a beer amidst cat calls from his platoon mates, and shut the door back on his stateroom. There was still no reply; and, though he knew several time zones likely separated sender from receiver, he was beginning to think the message was being delivered via the Pony Express. Finally, three little dots appeared.
She was typing a reply.
Unfortunately…what’s up?
…
Nothing…this just sucks is all, he replied while taking a pull of his beer.
…
I heard you passed your neurological exam…you’ll be back operational soon enough.
He read her message, typed out his response, and allowed his cursor to hover over the send button. He gritted his teeth and clicked the button.
A thousand miles away, having been temporarily reassigned to Tim Meadows Titan team and running the intelligence for their deep cover operation on the border between the U.S. and Mexico, Samantha Steele’s breath caught in her throat. She looked at the message…
Not talking about my operational status,
Sam. I’m talking about how bad I miss
you.
…a dozen times before her mind could formulate a reply.
Merry
Christmas! Don’t forget what’s important
in life!
THANK YOU for all the support this year!
THANK YOU for all the support this year!
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