A heavy wave crashed against the U.S.S. Bunker Hill as she dropped anchor in the purple stillness of an early dawn. It was March 7, 1847 and the ship was prowling the waters off the coast of Veracruz, Mexico at the vanguard of an American invasion fleet. A series of forts hugged the city’s coastal perimeter with their cannons nervously sighted on the flotilla. The Mexican guns were inferior to their American counterparts, but the Bunker Hill’s captain was no fool; his ship was anchored safely out of range.
The Mexicans had little cause to fear the armada directly. Veracruz was well defended from a sea-borne attack, but little more than a fifteen-foot wall protected it on land. Grasping this vulnerability, General Winfield Scott, the American commander of the invasion force, ordered ten thousand soldiers ashore south of Veracruz to storm the city.
On the bow of the Bunker Hill, an erect officer studied the Mexican coast with an old and battered telescope. He was taller than most men, with straw-colored hair draped over his gray eyes like tattered curtains. He possessed a sinewy build and his movements and posture suggested the lazy gracefulness of a scarecrow. An ancient sword decorated with runes was sheathed on one side of his belt; a Colt service revolver nicknamed Betsy was holstered on the other. A boyish grin played across Lieutenant Jedediah Faust’s features as he collapsed the telescope and handed it over his shoulder. He smiled at the cloudless dawn and calm waters. Perfect conditions, he thought, to invade a foreign country.
“Do you see ‘em, lad?” asked Sergeant Cormac McGuinness in a thick Irish brogue as he took the telescope. Compared to Faust, McGuinness was shorter, stockier, and older by several decades. A hairless pate and a bushy, fiery-red beard framed his head. Beady eyes and a crooked nose made it impossible to settle on the center of his face. An old war hatchet scarred from a lifetime of service on the battlefield was tucked into his belt.
“They’re manning that battery over there,” said Faust as McGuinness extended the telescope. “Look for the fifth cannon from the left.”
“Where? Wait … I see ‘em, I see ‘em,” warbled McGuinness with glee. “Are we going to try to take ‘em when we land?”
Faust shook his head. “The Mexican Army stands between us and our quarry. Once we land, their forces will stretch to form a ring around Veracruz. I wager that’s when our boys slip out of town and head for Mexico City to warn the Russian. We’ll follow them and take them on the road.”
“So is our mission to capture these fellas that you’re whispering about, sir?” piped up Private Benjamin Crowe who stood next to McGuinness. He was taller than McGuinness but shorter than Faust with thick black hair and a dusting of freckles on his cheeks and nose. He was no more than sixteen years old and unsure why he had been assigned to accompany this odd pair.
“Not all of them,” said Faust. “We intend to capture one or two for questioning; the rest we kill.”
Behind them, the Bunker Hill’s deck stirred to life. Sailors uncovered large, flat-bottomed rowboats and lowered them over the side of the ship. The rowboats gave a little splash as they plunked into the water.
“Sir, why, out of the entire Mexican army, are these men so important?” asked Crowe. The frustration in his voice was palpable. Neither McGuinness nor Faust had told him much since he had been reassigned to support them on their mysterious mission.
“Listen,” said Faust. “I can’t tell you everything at this point, but I need your eyes. McGuinness and I can handle just about any regular fellow in a fair fight. But I need someone with a steady aim to watch our backs. That’s where you come in. Captain Turner says you’re a pretty good shot. That true?”
“Yessir. I’d put my aim up against any man in this war, and that’s countin’ the Mexicans too.”
And it was true. Crowe wasn’t just a good shot; he was a great shot. Every man in his last company had marveled at his skill with a Sharps rifle. He owned one of the first kills of the campaign when he put down a deserter at a hundred yards at night while on guard duty. Crowe felt certain that he belonged with the regular infantry where his skills as a sniper would be most needed, not following some secretive lieutenant and his scatterbrained sergeant.
“Well, that’s the value you bring to this mission. Look—” Faust raised his hand to silence the boy before he could ask more questions. “Believe me, I don’t want to be here any more than you do, so I’ll share with you what I can. But I need you to understand that our objective requires tangling with the sort of adversaries you don’t normally find on the battlefield. You will need to keep your wits about you.”
Crowe rolled his eyes. “It’s all right, sir. I’ve seen dead bodies before and have killed plenty.” Just weeks before, while serving in General Zachary Taylor’s army, the boy had stopped counting his kills when they crested more than a dozen at the battles of Palo Alto and Buena Vista each.
“We’re not talkin’ about regular soldiers, lad,” added McGuinness. “We’re goin’ ta encounter things that yea wouldn’t believe if we told yea. Yea’ll have to see ‘em with yer own eyes and judge fer yerself if they be true.”
“Give him the telescope,” ordered Faust. “He might as well find out sooner or later, and you’re right. He’s going to have to judge for himself.”
McGuinness shook his head in protest. “The lad ain’t ready to know everything yet. Yer fadder wouldn’t normally show an outsider so much so soon.”
“Yeah well, Dad ain’t here, is he?” snapped Faust. “Instead, I’ve been ordered to come and finish what he started and couldn’t complete. If I’m being compelled to do this, we’re going to do it my way. Now, give him the telescope.”
The whole episode of his reassignment still left a bitter taste in Faust’s mouth. Three weeks ago, his old infantry company was one of several tasked with advancing on Veracruz after the cannons had silenced the city. Everyone in his outfit was expecting—even eager—to engage in some real fighting, to see some blood. That was before General Taylor received a letter from Faust’s father; a letter that caused the general to call Faust into his tent and hand him a new set of orders that would take him far away from the battlefield. One minute Faust was playing cards with the other officers in his company, the next he was packing his bags with orders to report to the Bunker Hill. The other soldiers were probably snickering behind his back, accusing him of cowardice for having his father call in a favor with General Taylor. Faust didn’t blame them. He probably would have done the same if he were in their shoes.
McGuinness handed the telescope to Crowe and went to sulk at the stern of the ship. Faust ignored him and told Crowe where to aim his view.
“Tell me what you see. But keep your voice to a whisper. We don’t need the entire fleet knowing our business.”
Crowe found the battery and focused the telescope until seven Mexican soldiers gathered around a cannon sharpened into view. They looked perfectly ordinary, except for the fact that they were on fire. A nimbus of ghostly blue flame engulfed each man as he calmly went about his business.
Crowe pulled back from the telescope wide-eyed and panting hard. He tried to describe the fiery figures but could only babble a few syllables.
“See anything interesting?” Faust took the worn telescope and handed Crowe a newer model. “Now try this one.”
Crowe trained his eye on the battery again. The men appeared the same, but their auras had disappeared.
“What … what happened to them?” sputtered Crowe. “How could they walk around like that while on fire? And where’d the fires go?”
“The first telescope I handed you is very old and imbued with special properties, you could say magical properties that reveal the presence of sorcery. This one,” Faust thumped the second telescope in Crowe’s hands, “is a modern version the Army issues to senior officers.”
“But what about those men, how could they walk around on fire like that? They should be dead.”
“That’s because they’re already dead, of course,” said Faust. “Those soldiers are possessed by the dead spirits of men who served evil while they lived. We call them tormentors. There are spells that can recall a tormentor into service from the afterlife, but they must inhabit a mortal host to do their master’s bidding. The auras that you saw are the telltale signs of a tormentor’s presence.”
Crowe turned this new information over in his mind while McGuinness walked back towards them with an Army captain at his side. The captain had flowing, blonde locks and a soft jaw. His uniform was immaculate and he carried himself with an air of accustomed deference. The contrast between the officer’s strut and McGuinness’s trollish gait could not have been more obvious.
“Don’t forget what I’ve shown you,” whispered Faust to Crowe. “But speak of it to no one else except for me and McGuinness. That’s an order.” He quickly shoved both telescopes into a bag at his feet.
“Lieutenant Jedediah Faust, I presume,” said the captain with a voice like a chirping flute while they exchanged salutes.
“Faust, this is Blancheford,” mumbled McGuinness. “He’s been looking for us.”
Blancheford pursed his lips at the curt introduction. “Captain Percival Blancheford,” he clarified with a forced smile. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I understand that we have some work to do together.”
“Pleasure,” said Faust, his voice straining to sound civil. The refined officer standing before him was witty, dashing, and debonair—everything that Faust wanted to be. They could have been friends under different circumstances, but Faust suspected the price of admission to that social circle was more than he could afford.
“I understand that General Taylor assigned you a delicate task; an assignment that requires your unique skills—whatever those may be—and the utmost,” Blancheford sniffed and gave a sideways glance at McGuinness who was picking his nose, “discretion. My orders are to serve as your liaison to the quartermaster. However, I require the presentation of your written orders to perform my duties.”
Faust retrieved a folded piece of paper from his shirt and gave it to Blancheford, who read it out loud.
“Lieutenant Jedediah Faust is tasked with obtaining an artifact critical to the success of U.S. military objectives in ongoing hostilities with the State of Mexico. He is authorized to obtain such provisions from the U.S. Army General Quartermaster as are necessary to fulfill his duties without gravely compromising the U.S. Army’s ability to conduct operations. Furthermore, Lieutenant Faust shall be provided a subordinate staff of commissioned and non-commissioned officers sufficient to perform his duties. Questions regarding these orders shall be directed to General Zachary Taylor or General Winfield Scott, as appropriate. Signed, General Zachary Taylor.”
Blancheford paused for a minute after reading, as if he were studying several of the passages in greater detail.
“Now that that’s over,” said Faust, “let’s talk about how fast you can get me and these men ashore.”
Twenty minutes later, Faust leapt into a rowboat from a rope ladder dangling beside the Bunker Hill. The boat rocked violently following his landing, but Faust couldn’t have cared less. Any dismount was fine with him so long as he didn’t end up getting soaked. He looked up to see Blancheford smiling at him from the Bunker Hill’s deck with a wide grin of perfect teeth.
McGuinness came next and shook the entire time he scaled down the rope ladder. When he reached the bottom, he overleapt the boat and plunged into the water with a splash. Crowe descended without incident while some sailors hauled McGuinness out of the water looking like a half-drowned cat. Blancheford came last and pranced into the boat with swan-like grace.
“While studying swordsmanship, I learned that balance should be achieved in every situation,” he explained to no one in particular. He stepped over McGuinness while the latter lay gasping for breath and took a seat.
Faust tried to ignore Blancheford and pretended to study Veracruz’s defenses. He couldn’t help but notice later that Blancheford was examining the tormentors’ battery with his own telescope extended and a puzzled look on his face.
Once everyone settled in, the sailors slid behind their oars and the rowboat glided towards shore. It was one among dozens headed towards the rendezvous point on the beach south of Veracruz. Most of the rowboats carried men, but a few others hauled horses, supplies, and the cannons that would later be used to pound the city into submission.
Faust, Crowe, and McGuinness jumped into knee-high water as soon as their boat approached the shore. McGuinness’s toe caught the lip of the boat as he hopped out, and he tumbled into the water for a second time in less than a half hour. Blancheford watched with amusement as Crowe and Faust heaved the Irishman to his feet and dragged him to dry land.
“See what our tormentor friends are up to,” Faust whispered to Crowe and McGuinness while the rest of their rowboat unloaded. “I want to know when they leave that battery.” He handed his old telescope to Crowe and turned to Blancheford. “Captain, might I have a word, please?” Blancheford nodded and gestured for Faust to lead the way.
Fifteen minutes later, Faust and Blancheford returned with three horses in tow: two were chestnut colored and the third was gray with faded white spots.
“The Mexicans are drawing up around the city,” reported Crowe as he handed the telescope back to Faust.
“Any sign of our boys?”
“That’s our lads, I think,” said McGuinness. He pointed to a dusty, solitary road meandering west through green hills away from the city. A single wagon bumped along the road like a brown beetle slowly crawling away. Through the magical lens of the telescope, the beetle’s back glowed bright blue from the tormentors’ auras.
Faust frowned and looked up at the sky. It was still morning, but he did not like the idea of the tormentors getting too big a lead on them. “We need to head out, now. It’s best if we take them before dusk.”
“Sir, it’ll be easier to take ‘em at night when we can surprise ‘em,” said Crowe.
“You let me worry about that, Private,” Faust told him.
Blancheford withdrew his own telescope again and studied the wagon. “I do not understand why those men in particular have captured your attention, Lieutenant. They look like ordinary Mexican rabble, if you ask me.”
“No one did,” muttered McGuinness.
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, did you say something?”
“Thank you for your assistance, Captain,” interjected Faust. “I believe we have all of the provisions that we need, in addition to those special uniforms that you were able to procure for us. We will leave you now to perform your other, surely more important, duties. I doubt we will need to trouble you again to raid the quartermaster’s stores.”
“Just a moment,” replied Blancheford. “You have told me nothing of your mission, or why those men are of critical consequence out of the entire Mexican Army. Are they in possession of the artifact identified in your orders? Is it a weapon of some sort, or information about Santa Anna’s battle plans, perhaps?”
“It can be a weapon of sorts, but I don’t believe those men are carrying it. My apologies, but I can speak no more on the subject.”
“Very well, but I’m coming with you. Should you require additional supplies from the quartermaster, I will be able to ride back and procure such provisions expediently by bringing to bear the full authority granted by my rank. Besides,” he said smiling at the saber at his side, “I am adept at using a sword and am an able marksman. You three are heading—quite recklessly I believe—unprepared into the enemy’s hands. You’ll need all the help that you can get.”
Faust considered Blancheford’s words for a moment and shifted his eyes up the coast. He did not want to get embroiled in an argument—especially with an officer who outranked him—and let a wagon full of tormentors slip away. McGuinness kept eyeing the beetle, looking more and more agitated as it slowly trundled west.
“All right, I see your point,” said Faust. “But we only have enough uniforms and supplies for three. You’ll also need a horse.”
“That can be easily arranged,” Blancheford told them as he began walking away. “I shall return shortly.”
“You two wait here,” instructed Faust when Blancheford was gone.
“Where yea goin’, lad?” asked McGuinness.
“I’m going to give our eager captain something to occupy his attention.”
Faust casually strode down the beach. Once he was satisfied that no one was paying him any attention, he retrieved a small stone from his pocket. It was smooth and white with a rune etched on its plain surface. He furtively whispered a command to the runestone before skipping it to a vacant spot out on the water. The pebble skidded to a halt and sank below the surface.
He half-ran back to McGuinness and Crowe. “Let’s go before the horses spook.”
As he spoke, an explosion ripped through the air and rained seawater down on the invading army. Waist-high waves surged ashore, overturning rowboats and scattering the panicked horses. Men clamored for their weapons and tried to shake some sense back into their rattled heads. Confused shouts among the soldiers claimed that the Mexicans had launched a preemptive attack.
The blast doused Blancheford, knocking him over a rowboat. He quickly regained his footing and darted his eyes up the beach. Lieutenant Faust and his companions were gone.
“This uniform’s itchy and the collar’s too tight,” complained Crowe. “Why do we have to wear these stuffy Mexican rags anyway? No one would believe that we’re Mexican soldiers.”
“I already told you, Private,” explained Faust. “We’re wearing these uniforms so that we can pass as lost Irish deserters: san patricios to the locals. Now, is something else gnawing on you?”
Several things gnawed on Crowe, but he swallowed the rest of them. They had abandoned the safety of the U.S. Army and wandered off deep into hostile enemy country. Their packs held enough food and water for a few days, maybe even a week if they stretched it. The weather was fair for a Mexican spring, but they were riding their horses hard to catch up to the wagon and their disguise uniforms were suffocating.
Crowe’s anxiety only increased when they came across a stone cottage nestled among a copse of palm-fronded trees. A wisp of smoke curled from the chimney and a squat woman was collecting branches in the front yard. Faust steered his horse onto the rutted road leading up to the cottage.
“Sir, are you sure that’s such a good idea?” whispered Crowe.
“It’s all right, Crowe,” Faust told him. He dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to a tree limb. “Stay here with McGuinness. This won’t take long.”
Faust retrieved a small gold amulet fastened to a leather thong from underneath his shirt collar and rubbed it with his fingers. The amulet had a dull and smooth gray stone at its center.
“Why does he want to talk to her?” asked Crowe. “Does he want to get us killed? She’ll tell every Mexican soldier that walks up the road that we were here.”
“Easy lad,” said McGuinness. “Faust can be a damn fool sometimes, but he generally knows what he’s doing.”
Faust walked up to the old woman and greeted her. Crowe couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was clear that they were not talking in English. The old woman often smiled as they spoke and appeared at ease. After a few minutes, Faust waved goodbye and returned to McGuinness and Crowe.
“They came this way all right,” he reported. “She said that a wagon full of stone-faced soldiers passed through here about three hours ago headed for an abandoned Spanish fort a few miles up the road. A fire destroyed the fort ‘bout thirty years ago, but travelers still use it to stop and rest. I expect the tormentors will probably bed down there for the night.”
“What’d yea tell her about us?” asked McGuinness.
“That we’re san patricios. She seemed to accept that.”
“An old Spanish fort?” asked Crowe. “Sounds like a trap.”
“Sharp lad,” said Faust. “You’re probably right, which is why we should try to get there while we still have some daylight.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” said Crowe as they rode back to the main road.
“I don’t,” replied Faust. He grinned at McGuinness and tucked the amulet back into his shirt. “Not all the time, anyway. Let’s hurry and try to get to that fort. It’ll be dark in a few hours and I want to get there before nightfall. If we get lucky we may find our boys there setting up camp.”
“It’d be better if we ambushed them after dark,” mumbled Crowe just loud enough for the others could hear.
McGuinness shook his head. “Yea don’t understand the things that we’re up against, lad.”
“Tormentors are creatures of darkness,” explained Faust. “At night their senses are sharper, their wits keener, and their strength is doubled. Our best bet is to take them while there’s still sun on our shoulders.”
They reached the fort at dusk. The setting sun dressed the valley in red and orange while shadows from the fort’s ruins stretched across the hills. There was an old church within the crumbling walls, full of pews jumbled together like broken ribs. The church’s exposed roof scattered the fading light as the sun retreated over the mountains. Faust and the others searched the area, but the wagon and its occupants were nowhere to be found.
Outside the church, Crowe lifted a bucket out of a parched well. He dumped out its contents: dust and dried fragments of bone. The wind quickly scattered them.
“So they ain’t here,” he said. “What do we do now? Wait for them to surprise us?”
“Well,” said Faust, “This is as good a place as any to set a trap of our own. The tormentors probably expected us to come here and we’ll turn their assumption to our advantage. Now listen closely: here’s what I want you and McGuinness to do.”
Seven ghostly figures rose in the moonlight from a craggy knoll about a quarter mile from the fort. The tormentors silently crept down the embankment with their guns and knives drawn. Their milky, lifeless eyes had been watching the fort since the afternoon, waiting nearly all day for their pursuers to arrive.
The flicker of campfire light drew them to the ruined church first. Inside, a lone figure was hunched over a fire before the altar with his back to the door. Four of the tormentors went to find the other two pursuers, while the remaining three slipped up behind the figure warming himself.
“Don’t move,” ordered the biggest of the three tormentors in a husky voice. He leveled his bayoneted musket at the figure’s back.
A gunshot rang outside the church, followed by angry shouts and the shuffling feet of a skirmish. The figure by the campfire never stirred, not even when a second gunshot cut through the air.
The large tormentor licked his chapped lips. “Go lend ‘em a hand. See what ‘dey got,” he said to one of his companions. The latter grunted and left the church.
“Hey,” shouted the big tormentor again, his bayonet closing in on the figure’s spine. He was getting tired of these games. The other tormentor giggled nervously. “I’m talkin’ to you. Looks like we found your friends … hey … HEY!”
He stabbed the figure with his bayonet between the shoulder blades. The figure collapsed to reveal wooden sticks positioned inside a heavy coat to create the illusion of a man sitting.
“Hey yourself,” said Faust. He emerged from a dark corner of the church pointing Betsy at both tormentors while they gnashed their teeth. His rune-covered sword was poised in his other hand. “Drop your guns. I only need one of you alive so try not to do anything stupid that would cause you to lose your hosts.”
“Go to hell,” barked the big tormentor as he raised his rifle.
Faust shot him squarely in the chest and he collapsed against a row of pews. A tattered skeletal apparition, thin as a wisp of smoke, twisted free from the man’s corpse. The tormentor spirit locked its flaming eyes on Faust and bore its talons and fangs at him. Faust sliced through the wretched thing with his sword. A shriek filled the church and the creature disappeared in a sputter of blue flame.
The other tormentor charged at Faust with a bowie knife and a battle cry rising in his throat. Faust severed the creature’s knife-wielding hand with a sword stroke, and shot him through the heart. The tormentor staggered back and fell against the altar. Moments later, Faust slashed through the tormentor’s spirit as it wiggled free.
Footsteps came rushing towards the front of the church. Faust spun around with Betsy trained on the door.
McGuinness barreled into the sanctuary with his war hatchet glistening with blood. His eyes still held a glimmer of berserker rage and his crooked nose cast a shadow like a jigsaw puzzle across his face.
“Devil’s jowls!” he cried when he saw the two bodies. He rushed to Faust and patted him on the shoulder. “Yea did a’right, lad. Yer fadder’d be proud.”
Faust winced at the reference but only nodded. “Where’s the boy?” he asked.
“Still up in the church tower.” McGuinness waved up towards the belfry through the church’s exposed roof. A hand waved down at them and then Crowe’s smiling face appeared.
“Run into any trouble?” Faust asked.
“Nah, me and your fadder‘ve faced worse. Your plan worked like a charm though, lad. The boy shot the first one from the bell tower—bang!” McGuinness slapped his free hand against the side of his hatchet, “right through the head. I cut through that tormentor and the second one took almost no work at all. Before I could get to the third one the boy had already shot ‘em. There was nothin’ lef’ fer me but to take care of the last tormentor spirit.”
“Wait, you and Crowe killed only three?” asked Faust. “And I killed these two … there must be two more wandering around somewhere. We’ve got to find them.”
“Hey, Crowe!” Faust called up to the belfry. He shouted the boy’s name again but there was no reply.
McGuinness sprinted for the tower and stomped up the steps to the belfry. Before he arrived, Faust saw a muzzle flash and heard another rifle shot. The wispy frame of a tormentor streaked out of the tower and over the fort’s wall with a murderous howl.
“Faust, behind you!”
Faust spun around and came face to face with the last tormentor twirling a hatchet as he crawled into the church over a broken section of wall.
“Should have brought a gun,” Faust told him calmly as Betsy blasted away. A quick sword jab followed to dispatch the tormentor spirit as it escaped.
Faust turned his eyes towards the belfry and saw McGuinness and Crowe looking down at him. He smiled at the boy, and tipped his hat with an appreciative nod.
They slept in the belfry that night. Dawn broke on their shoulders the next day as they trotted west, towards the extinct volcano of Rio Frio Mountain. Its snowy white rim resembled an ivory goblet half-sunken into the earth. On the other side lay Mexico City, where they expected to arrive around noon.
“So explain to me what happened again,” asked Faust as they rode.
“I told you already, but here goes,” answered Crowe who was enjoying the attention. “I was up in the tower keeping a lookout when I spotted seven men walking down the ridge towards us. All seven of ‘em entered the church, but then I saw four walk back out again and make for the barracks. I shot the first one when I saw McGuinness give the signal from the far side of the barracks. That pale demon that crawled out of ‘em, what did you call it? A torrent—“
“Tor-men-tor,” corrected McGuinness with his heavy Irish accent.
“Yeah,” continued Crowe, “never seen anything like them before. Well, McGuinness swung his hatchet through the first one and then dealt with the second one in a likewise manner. I shot the third one while McGuinness was going at the other two. The fourth one took off as soon as the fighting began … must of snuck into the tower while I was waving at you. He surprised me with a strangle hold from behind. I could tell by his grip that he could break my neck like a chicken’s if he wanted.
“Well, your shouting distracted him for a second, so I rammed him in the ribs with my Sharps. He lost his balance and fell over backwards through the trapdoor onto the landing below. It was dark and I didn’t want to take any chances so I—”
“So you shot him,” interrupted Faust.
“Yessir, and glad I did. One of those demon things rose up from his chest like mist off a bog. It looked like a skeleton with a mouth full of sharp teeth, bony, clawed hands, and red eyes like a bloody pair of lanterns. It floated there for a moment staring at me like it was fixin’ to kill me. Then it started that god-awful hollarin’ and flew out of the tower. I looked out and that’s when I saw another one of ‘em sneaking up behind you.”
“Yea made your ferst encounter with tormentors, lad, and survived,” said McGuinness proudly. “Not many a grown men have seen as much and lived to tell about it. Fewer still have shown as much bravery. We made the right choice in picking yea.”
“So what were those things that came out of those men?” asked Crowe.
“The end result you saw was the tormentor in its natural state,” explained Faust. “Tormentors are undead creatures whose souls have been twisted by dark magic. As such, they only vaguely resemble the men they once were. Even when in possession of a host, there are still signs that reveal a tormentor’s presence. The flaming auras you saw are one such indicator. The eyes without pupils are another dead giveaway, if you are close enough to see them. You would do well to keep watch for these signs in the days ahead.”
“Why did we have to kill those men if they’re possessed victims?” asked Crowe. “Was there something we could have done to save them?”
“Tormentors can only inhabit the livin’,” answered McGuinness. “Killin’ the body they possess expels them and reveals their true nature: the floatin’ skeletons yea saw earlier. They can’t hurt yea once their host dies, but they are still a terrible sight to behold.”
“Harmless but not entirely useless,” added Faust. “They can still speak, see, and hover about. Lucky for us they can only remain on earth until the second sunrise after their host dies. Before then, they must either bind to a new victim or they are banished back to the void from which they came.”
“Now there are important lessons to be learned from last night’s fight,” said McGuinness. “One is that tormentors must die two deaths. First, the earthly body must perish, purging the tormentor. Second, you must slay the tormentor spirit itself.”
“How do you kill something that’s already dead and doesn’t have a body?” asked Crowe.
“Good question,” said Faust. “Tormentors were called back to earth by magic, and so we must use magic to sever their link to this world.”
“You’re talking about your sword and the sergeant’s hatchet,” ventured Crowe.
“Correct. They aren’t just ordinary weapons. They are enchanted weapons and can break the bond anchoring tormentors to this realm.”
Crowe’s head swam with magic and tormentors and things that sounded as if they had leapt from the pages of a fairytale. Before yesterday, hostile Mexicans, yellow fever, and inedible Army rations were his only concerns. Now it was as if a whole new world of danger and adventure had opened before him. McGuinness was right: he had to see things with his own eyes and judge for himself. Otherwise he would never have believed them.
“How do you all know this magical stuff anyhow? How come the whole world doesn’t know it?”
Faust and McGuinness both heaved heavy sighs and looked at each other.
“It’s complicated,” said Faust, “and I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for, but it’ll have to do. Just know that sorcery exists, and as you’ve seen, people use dark magic to do very bad things. People don’t like to hear otherwise, because there is no room for enchanted swords and malevolent spirits in today’s modern world of telegraphs and steam power. I know this is true because I don’t want any part of this magical business either.
“My father, and his father, and a long line of Fausts stretching back for many years, have dedicated their lives in an endless struggle against evil. I never wanted any part of their hidden war. Hell, I’ve done just about everything I can to avoid it. But then my father was injured while trying to recover something from an evil wizard in Paris. He was after a very old and powerful artifact; the same artifact that we seek here in this godforsaken country. My father’s wounds were severe and he was forced to abandon pursuit.