"Jesus, Lieutenant," Reynolds voice came from behind me, horrified. "We fell back when we saw them dropping in, but..." He pushed one of the closest Germans over with his boot, and coughed into his hand. The man had a bullet hole directly through his forehead. I stared mutely up at the burly courier, and whatever he saw was apparently disconcerting. "...Hell, Masters, what are you?"
"You aren't helping, Reynolds." Wes's voice was more even, although there was a hard edge to it as he pushed Reynolds to the side and pried the trench spike from my hand. "Chance?"
"I'm fine." I said quietly. "How many left?"
"Here? Not a god damned one. You killed them all," Reynolds said, taking a step back from myself and Wes.
"Ours, not theirs," I snapped, feeling emotion flood back in. "How many of us left?"
"Doyle took a hit and went down; we dragged him back to the supply carts," Wes explained, looking out over the carnage that filled the trench. "We're all that's left."
"Us and that tank," Reynolds said, somewhat smugly. I stood, my legs shaking, and looked out across the top of the trench. There were scattered groups of torn and mangled soldiers, burning wreckage, and no sign of movement. I grabbed the edge of the trench wall and pulled myself up onto the solid ground. Wes and Reynolds followed. The tank had pushed forward, settling into no man's land easily, the hatch popping open to expose a self-satisfied looking British commander.
"Huns never can stand up to this kind of firepower, eh?" the commander said, laughing, and I offered a tired smile.
"We couldn't have done it without you," I agreed, looking across at the field of dead and dying. "We need to find Schuntzel. If he was killed in the fight, I need it confirmed. We can't assume the problem is dealt with."
"That's it, then?" the tank commander said lazily, leaning back against the edge of his hatch. "We'll head back, I'm going to need more shells if--" His response was cut short as the tank was suddenly thrown from the ground in a violent burst of localized, unnatural and deadly storm. The several ton vehicle cartwheeled away into the air as if it had been kicked by a giant, flipping and careening through the air before bouncing off the ground behind the trenches. It rolled down into the valley below, crushed and mangled, smoking heavily.
I turned, mouth agape, to see a man standing in the swirling dust and smoke of no man's land. The barbed wire and mangled, skeletal trees provided an appropriate backdrop as he stalked across the dead ground towards us. Reinhardt Schuntzel wore a dark gray German uniform, with a heavy woolen greatcoat flapping about his legs with the stiff breeze. He held a C96 in his right hand, but his left hand was entirely encased in stone. The strange gauntlet was completely covered in Norse runes, pulsing softly with an inner light.
"I dread to think what would happen if America entered the war," he shouted across the deathly silent field. "If the average American is even a fraction of the gunfighter that you are, Masters. You spend enough time in the trenches; you get used to the average horror." He risked a glance over at the Entente line. "Then, well... then you see something like that."
"Shut your mouth, you Hun bastard," Reynolds growled, lifting his rifle. Schuntzel fired once, the round digging into the ground between Reynolds and me.
"I wouldn't act so threatening," Schuntzel said coldly, "I could wipe the three of you from the face of the Earth in an instant." He brought his left hand up, his fist still clenched tightly.
"It looks like you've managed to contain the Eye. How many times were you knocked to the ground before you figured it out?" I taunted, holding my hands out open to either side.
"Odin hung himself upon the world tree for nine days to discover the art of the runes. I suppose I should have known they would be useful in containing his power." He held his fist up and grinned. "Silver etched in solid stone, the finest Germanic craftsmanship."
"I can't help but feel that lecturing us is counterproductive." I said.
"I do recall something about being wiped from the face of the Earth." Wes added, "Is there a reason for your stalling?"
"You're a dangerous lot," he admitted readily, "There are many ways that I could use someone with your skills, Miss Masters. You can forgo the usual refusal to join, I don't intend to ask." He jammed his pistol back into the holster at his hip, digging through his uniform jacket pocket for a crumpled cigarette.
"I don't understand," Wes said, acting as the most rational of the four of us.
"Your commanding officer will recall a certain poltergeist, something akin to that," Schuntzel mumbled from around the cigarette, lighting it with a match. "We have a variety of ways to use raw material. Imagine an empty mind with the same killing instinct of the lieutenant here."
"I'd rather not." Reynolds said under his breath, and I winced.
"I won't let you turn us into some kind of abomination," I said, my right foot falling back. Schuntzel just smiled tiredly.
"You don't have much choice in the matter, but I digress. I'm certain reinforcements from our respective armies are headed to this point now. We'd better conclude our affairs before that occurs." He glanced up, the soft whistling sound of approaching artillery punctuating his statement. I followed his gaze, and could see a trio of dark shapes moving quickly towards us. Artillery shells, possibly chemical, but it was far too late to get out of the way.
Schuntzel didn't bother trying to hide. His left hand shot up, his fist opening to expose the Eye of Odin set into his palm. That familiar, explosive storm howled into the sky and impacted with the artillery shells. They popped in sequence, powerful explosions filling the air above us but far enough away to be harmless. Reynolds and Wes ran for the trenches, but I knew the Eye would have no trouble tearing through the ground to get at us. I scrabbled for the holster at my waist.
The Colt cleared leather in the same instant that Schuntzel directed his hand down and towards us. Whatever recovery period the Eye possessed gave me the edge, and I fired twice in quick succession. The heavy pistol rounds hit an instant after one another, the first burying in Schuntzel's side, the second impacting with the Eye directly. The stone gauntlet shattered violently, shards flying like shrapnel as the German fell to his knees. The Eye dropped to the ground, apparently unharmed by the direct hit. When it struck the ground, energy was released once again. Without direction, the energy was less focused. Concussive waves shot out in every direction. I saw Schuntzel tossed like a ragdoll, before I was struck as well. I felt my feet leave the ground, tossed end over end by the raging storm.
I hit the ground rolling an instant later, the breath solidly knocked from lungs. I lay uselessly on the ground, sucking in the grimy air of the battlefield in deep, nourishing gasps. I turned and looked at the place I had last seen Schuntzel. He was nowhere to be found, but two large, dark shapes fluttered to the ground nearby. They were ravens, but far larger than any I had ever seen before, hopping about, quirking their heads from side to side. One paused to peck at the ground, and I noted with a start that it had grasped the Eye of Odin in its jet black beak. The other looked directly at me, tilting its head to the side a final time, before both took flight.
I sat up, coughing violently, and watched as the pair disappeared into the sky. I had no intention of questioning what I had just seen, and instead wavered to my feet. I returned my Colt to its holster, and weariness washed over my body as I realized the fight was over. Wes and Reynolds appeared in the trench as I limped towards it, peering cautiously over the side.
"It's over," my voice scratched, containing the bare minimum inflection. I held a hand to my throat and winced. "Get on the line and call command. We need someone to hold this trench."
"Already done, Chance," Wes said, helping me down into the trench.
Reynolds was looking at me with a strange expression and finally said, "I don't even know what I just saw, Masters." I felt another wash of exhaustion pass over me. "But I'm glad you're with us. I never want to be on the wrong side of your gun," he added.
"Good choice," I said, and we both smiled, although a distinct sense of unease remained. The sun was rising in the distance, over what had been the German lines. Fresh troops arrived before noon, relieving the three of us. It was with great relief that I returned to the military staging area and boarded the now empty train car that had brought us to the front lines.
Doyle was none the worse for wear, his arm hanging uselessly from his side, but in high spirits upon discovery of our victory. There was no conversation on the trip back to Paris, as we all fell heavily asleep the instant we'd left the front behind.