Read Online Stone Soldiers 4: Shades of War by C. E. Martin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. E. Martin
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humans that had gathered here. Others were still below ground, resting in the earth on which they had died so long ago.
Clint slowly drifted down to the site, landing near the southern encampment. The few spirits in his vicinity were curious and began to drift over. As they approached, he began to feed them.
It was something he had not been able to do in his lifetime. Then, bound to the body he had been born into, he had only absorbed energy, using it for the many powers he had unlocked over the years. But now, after his resurrection and possession of mortal shells, he had learned other ways to use that energy.
The spirits around him seemed to brighten and solidify as they drank in the raw power. They became visible to even human eyes, manifesting as sparkling, shimmering shapes even as a dense fog began to rise from the ground.
More spirits rose with that fog. They sensed the power emanating from Clint in his stolen body. They drifted toward him, from all across the battlefield.
Clint could sense their thoughts, their feelings. They felt him as well- an unspoken sense of connection between spirits.
The many specters gathering around Clint were angry. Not at this newcomer, but at their condition. The energy that now gave them form fueled their rage at dying. At least most of them. Many, hovering on the outskirts were unsure. They hesitated to come forward. They were not what Clint needed. He needed shades of anger and hatred, ready to resume the killing they had been called to do a hundred and fifty years ago. He carefully drew the power away from the curious and complacent, watching them fade from existence. He gave it to the angry.
Soon, he had a force of over fifty shades. Shades of gray- of the South, ready to wreak revenge on the living. They would be enough for tonight. It was time to start his campaign.
Turning, Clint extended an arm and gestured toward the encampment of humans on the other side of the battlefield. He didn't need to do this- the ghostly army was firmly under his control, and knew his wishes. But it felt right to gesture.
The shades extended into a long skirmish line and began marching forward, rifles materializing in their hands.
Clint smiled. The smile quickly faded as something caught his attention from the corner of his mortal eye. He turned and saw something hovering over the battlefield. A shape. Nearly invisible, man-shaped, and a good twenty feet off the ground.
The form, now more clearly that of a woman, started as he stared at it. It knew it was being watched. But what was it?
Clint took a step toward the being- if that is what it was. It contained energy, but not like those of his own small army. It seemed strangely alive.
The strange, nearly-invisible form suddenly streaked from the battlefield- moving at a speed that Clint himself could never hope to achieve. It flew rapidly to the southeast, vanishing in under a second. He strained to see it, first with his eyes, then with his other senses, but the figure was gone.
A chill crept up Clint's spine. It was fear- fear of the unknown. He was amazed he could feel this, after having been dead himself. It seemed that death was not the final mystery after all. He swallowed and forced the feeling away. He needed to concentrate on something else. Like the screams ringing out from the encampment to the north.
He turned and saw that his army had begun firing their rifles- silently sending spectral balls of shot into the fabric tents and bodies there. The dead had begun their attack upon the living.
***
The battle had only been raging for only fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen minutes of pure hell for Tom Hye. The Civil War reenactor had come to Georgia to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Chickamauga. He'd brought all his finest period clothing and equipment and was prepared for a glorious weekend of reliving a historic moment in American history. In the morning- after a good night's sleep.
That sleep was
Clint slowly drifted down to the site, landing near the southern encampment. The few spirits in his vicinity were curious and began to drift over. As they approached, he began to feed them.
It was something he had not been able to do in his lifetime. Then, bound to the body he had been born into, he had only absorbed energy, using it for the many powers he had unlocked over the years. But now, after his resurrection and possession of mortal shells, he had learned other ways to use that energy.
The spirits around him seemed to brighten and solidify as they drank in the raw power. They became visible to even human eyes, manifesting as sparkling, shimmering shapes even as a dense fog began to rise from the ground.
More spirits rose with that fog. They sensed the power emanating from Clint in his stolen body. They drifted toward him, from all across the battlefield.
Clint could sense their thoughts, their feelings. They felt him as well- an unspoken sense of connection between spirits.
The many specters gathering around Clint were angry. Not at this newcomer, but at their condition. The energy that now gave them form fueled their rage at dying. At least most of them. Many, hovering on the outskirts were unsure. They hesitated to come forward. They were not what Clint needed. He needed shades of anger and hatred, ready to resume the killing they had been called to do a hundred and fifty years ago. He carefully drew the power away from the curious and complacent, watching them fade from existence. He gave it to the angry.
Soon, he had a force of over fifty shades. Shades of gray- of the South, ready to wreak revenge on the living. They would be enough for tonight. It was time to start his campaign.
Turning, Clint extended an arm and gestured toward the encampment of humans on the other side of the battlefield. He didn't need to do this- the ghostly army was firmly under his control, and knew his wishes. But it felt right to gesture.
The shades extended into a long skirmish line and began marching forward, rifles materializing in their hands.
Clint smiled. The smile quickly faded as something caught his attention from the corner of his mortal eye. He turned and saw something hovering over the battlefield. A shape. Nearly invisible, man-shaped, and a good twenty feet off the ground.
The form, now more clearly that of a woman, started as he stared at it. It knew it was being watched. But what was it?
Clint took a step toward the being- if that is what it was. It contained energy, but not like those of his own small army. It seemed strangely alive.
The strange, nearly-invisible form suddenly streaked from the battlefield- moving at a speed that Clint himself could never hope to achieve. It flew rapidly to the southeast, vanishing in under a second. He strained to see it, first with his eyes, then with his other senses, but the figure was gone.
A chill crept up Clint's spine. It was fear- fear of the unknown. He was amazed he could feel this, after having been dead himself. It seemed that death was not the final mystery after all. He swallowed and forced the feeling away. He needed to concentrate on something else. Like the screams ringing out from the encampment to the north.
He turned and saw that his army had begun firing their rifles- silently sending spectral balls of shot into the fabric tents and bodies there. The dead had begun their attack upon the living.
***
The battle had only been raging for only fifteen minutes, but it was fifteen minutes of pure hell for Tom Hye. The Civil War reenactor had come to Georgia to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Battle of Chickamauga. He'd brought all his finest period clothing and equipment and was prepared for a glorious weekend of reliving a historic moment in American history. In the morning- after a good night's sleep.
That sleep was
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