by Tyler Krings
Fate nodded, impressed. “How long do you think you can hold that?”
Noah smirked. “Long enough. Irving.”
The Lord of Horses appeared near the white robed god and pulled hard against the traces and straps laced with magic that had been strung across his back, connected to an apparatus in the ground. A cage sprung from the dirt and encased the Lord of Fate in a prison of earth and wood and stone and bound by magical veins. Don’t let go, old friend, Noah thought.
Gold light flashed angrily between the cracks in the cage as Fate roared in surprise. Golden threads began to wiggle and find purchase, wrapping and pulling elements from the enchantment. Irving’s strength kept the cage together, but he would not last forever. The old man found his own will quickly waning under the constant, potent attack on the shield. He reached to the trinkets he had placed in the circle and drew power from them.
With a flash of silver, one of the Angels above burst in an explosion of violet and blue. Ana streaked through them, engaging a dozen at a time, throwing and reclaiming her spear with the speed of a diving falcon. The army of angels broke from their attack on the shield and made war in the sky, their lances destroying swaths of trees and land not covered by the shield.
“Wise,” said the old man, “Lend me your strength.” When they did not respond, he dared take his attention from the shield and cage and look behind him. They stood there—the Red, the White, the Black—a few feet from him, their faces emotionless. Ah, Lamen. I knew it. They moved as one and hidden daggers took the old man in his sides and chest.
He heard Irving’s furious roar. “NO!” Noah cried, “DO. NOT. LET. GO!”
He flashed signs with his hands and bound the three to him, forcing them still so they could not stab him again. He grabbed the Red in front of him by the throat and threw a concentrated burst of electricity through her neck. Her head exploded, coating him and the others in a gory mess. The spell held her body motionless, still holding the dagger in his chest. With both hands he reached to either side and copied the procedure to the same effect. He looked at the daggers in his body, he knew the damage had already been done. With his will, he pushed the bodies away from him, but left the daggers where they pierced him. From his palm, ancient Aden sparked to life and the hilt of Spellhound found his hand. He raced the distance to the cage and plunged the long blade into the middle. The prisoner howled in pain.
The infant hands in Murder’s neck reached the lifeless body and began the awkward climb up the shoulders. When the head settled, the hands reached into the body and grabbed the necessary parts to reactivate the patchwork nervous system. Filaments of skin and tissue sewed back together the throat, esophagus, and larynx. As the Lord of Murder waited, he became enthralled with display of violence as the last son of Nathera worked a magic of his own. The man-child’s sword was everywhere at once, and no matter how many of the Maddogs rushed, there were that many more dead. By the gods, that man is beautiful.
The frightened populace stood and watched in shock rather than flee, leaving the boy an arena where he was clearly the champion. No soldier had any skill that could possibly provide a worthy obstacle as Jon West parried every blade thrust or dodged with uncanny agility. Even the arrows were not fast enough, and when only the archers remained, the Natheran flew into their ranks as though they had been merely a pace away.
When all were still and only the man-child remained, the silence in the square was broken by the clapping of a single set of hands. The Lord of Murder strode from the throngs of onlookers, none of which joined in the applause. It stepped over the dead bodies of the Empire’s finest, moving into the desecrated town square. It looked from dead body to dead body and nodded enthusiastically in approval.
“You, my friend, are a goddamn work of art!” it exclaimed. “That was mag-fucking-nificent!” The boy watched the creature, his eyes moving across Murder’s body, taking in the elongated arms and legs and the knives of its fingers, the unnatural movement of extra joints above and below where it should have had knees. “I wish, in all my heart, that you would have married me,” it said. “One night with me and I would have made all your dreams come true. I’m not even fucking joking; you can use whatever hole you want. Hell, you can even make some extra if it strikes your fancy.”
The boy moved minutely, squaring his shoulders and placing a foot behind him and bending his forward knee. Murder put out his hands submissively. “Now, now,” he started, “just hear me out. I’m sure you’ve noticed a lot of blood here? I mean, this is quite the picture of wonderful carnage, but it would be such a shame if it were to go to waste. Afterall, these folks aren’t using it.”
The boy tensed. “What are you doing?”
Murder gestured. “Just gonna even the odds a touch.” hiss hands moved quickly, sparks of red flashed and collided where its fingers met. The lake of blood began to bubble and rise, and coagulated clumps rose and floated as a dark charge filled the air. The boy moved then. His feet moved over the bodies and through the bloody flood with ease and his sword struck true, severing Murder’s hands at their wrists.
Murder howled, “Fuck me! Fuck, shit, balls! Goddamnit! Oh, wait…no it’s all right I think I finished it.” The bodies of the dead men began to rise, severed limbs reconnecting with their hosts and in some cases finding new ones. Murder bent down. “Just gonna get these hands back on…” The boy severed the god’s head and kicked it as hard as he could.
“OH, COME ON!” Murder cried as he sailed through the air, watching the undead army rush at the boy, and the people of Errol’s Fortune finally coming to their senses and running for their dear lives.
Galeblade flew through another Angel, the body and armor exploding in violet, leaving the remains to fall back to the earth. Arienaethin dodged lances and urged the descent of cyclones from the storm clouds. The Angels chased her through the storms, firing relentlessly, some flying into the mighty winds and disappearing from sight. Several dozen had pulled off from the main group and continued their assault on the old man’s shield, which was now visibly starting to crack.
Galeblade came back to her just in time to parry a lance, sending the beam of energy into the clouds. With all that she had felled, she could not yet tell a difference in their numbers. She circled around while still dodging fire to where the Angels gathered over the old man’s shield.
“We’re going to need more spears!” she cried. The constant use of her power while in a human body was beginning to tire her.
Galeblade grunted assent. The spear splintered into six smaller blades and orbited Arienaethin, gaining momentum. Her pursuers desperately tried to keep up as she willed more strength from the wind and sped forward. She came upon the Angels from above.
“Now!” Six small spears flew ahead of her, each of them hitting their mark. The bodies of the fallen trailed violet embers before they cracked against the shield. Arienaethin surged around as Galeblade reconvened herself and found the palm of her hand.
“Again!”
Galeblade began to splinter before a lance caught Arienaethin’s backside and threw her into the shield. Like a mirror shattering, the shield broke inward as her body slammed into it. Shards followed her descent and joined her as the ground arrested her fall. She stood as quickly as she could, noting the searing burn on her back. Her human form ached with greater pain than she was accustomed to, and she had to summon more will just to remain on her feet.
One of the Angels landed near her but did not attack. It removed its helm, revealing an older man of military bearing. “Ana West,” he said. “I am General Emersin. Stand down and there need not be any more violence.”
She laughed quietly. “You don’t sound like him at all.”
Emersin did not answer.
“How did Fate rope you into this? What does he have? Your child? Wife?”
By his look, she could tell she had hit the mark. “I think when this is over, you will be very disappointed, General. He is no god. Just another man with delusions.�
�� The sky lit as the Angels flew to where the old man waited.
“If you’re not going to kill me,” said Arienaethin, “I have to go.” She gathered will and summoned the Wind, but her weariness made her body slow to rise.
“You will die an eternal death!” Emersin called. “Surely his rule is preferable to that!”
She looked at him. “No. It isn’t.” She gathered her spear into her hand and flew after the Angels.
The cage ripped and tore, and Irving, coated in the sweat of his efforts, struggled to hold the elements together. Noah could see the harness beginning to fray as the Lord of Horse and Fate battled wills. The threads of fate gripped and pulled the elements of the cage, and the old man could feel the magic being leached. He held onto the hilt of his sword and poured will into his grip. The Lord of Fate had arrived as a god, not a human. The disadvantage to the old man was becoming quickly apparent. It was nearly a relief when the shield broke, allowing him to conserve precious energy. He threw his will into the cage, crushing it in a desperate attempt to deliver a deathblow. He reached up a hand and brought down lightning to ignite the cage in a magnificent explosion of power. Power from within the cage deflected the strike and the resulting explosion ignited the trees far from battle. Too much had been lost; the magic was withdrawing against Fate’s power as he battered the inner cage with savage strikes. Niandithir twisted the blade, drawing a howl from within. He reached into the Earth, seeking the flames of creation, and drew the power into himself. With will, he seared the wounds around the daggers, stalling the loss of blood. The cage began to crumble as Angels descended upon him in a perfect circle, their number depleted but still plenty. Relief that Fate had not been able to break all laws of creation and summon a legion of gods was a small consolation.
Irving roared in fury as he tried to maintain the prison. The cage shattered outward as the last of the old man’s power faded. The old man and his sword were thrown some distance. Irving collapsed in a steaming heap, breathing heavily. The Lord of Fate glared at the old man, and then turned his gaze to the horse. He strode casually to Irving and grabbed the stallion by his mane.
“Clever,” said Fate. He bashed in Irving’s skull in a single blow and threw the carcass several meters into the empty field. The old man’s own pain was not nearly enough to cover the loss as he watched his old friend sail through the air and disappear into darkness. Fate came back and stood before the old man. “Please don’t tell me that was all you had.” Niandithir stood, and stumbled. “You’ve spent too long in that body, old friend,” Fate remarked. He looked at the headless bodies of the Wise. “What a terrible waste.”
Several Angels died then in violet explosions, and a silver bolt took Fate in the arm, throwing him halfway across the circle. Arienaethin was on him in a flash; her spear regained composure and found her hand. She raised the spear but several lances of energy sent her to the ground brutally before she could land the killing blow. For a few brief moments, the world quieted around them. The Angels remained still as Fate found his feet and pulled Galeblade’s shard from his shoulder. He squeezed and crushed it into a fine dust, letting it fall from his fingers. He took in his torn robe and the blood that welled there in disgust. Fate looked to where the goddess lay and, despite the mask, the old man could tell there was surprise on his face.
“And how did you do that, my love?” Fate asked of her still form.
Jon sagged with the effort of defeating the undead horde. It was not that their attacks were hard to parry or that his sword was not sharp enough. It was that they kept getting back up. He did not know how to defeat the blood magic and found himself constantly on the defensive, to the point where he did not have the time to think of a solution. If there was one at all. In the corner of his vision, he was aware of Murder’s head making progress on the slow trek back to its body, but he did not have time to deal with that either. Running was the best idea he had, but the thought of what these creatures might do to the townsfolk gave him pause. Perhaps they would only target him and might well follow him beyond the town, but assumptions being what they were, he could not trust it to be true. The horde gathered itself again for another attack, arms and legs reattaching, heads resewing themselves to the stumps of necks. Jon took a moment and went to one knee to catch his breath, letting his enemy reassert itself, so that he might conserve some stamina.
Except for the lightning far above, the sky had gone dark. The battle was either over or had moved to another locale. He had no idea if Ana or the old man were still alive, or if this battle he now fought was all for nothing. If he was the last one remaining, he would not lie down and let them have him. He did not hold much to the thought of glory, but he would not give them the satisfaction.
A concussive blast ripped apart several of the undead Maddogs, followed quickly by another. Jon looked up. An airship flying Imperial colors launched cannonballs into the mass of dead men, sending parts and bodies flying. The airship fired repeatedly as it circled the town square, giving Jon barely enough time to run through the gore and out of the line of fire.
“Jon!” Isca called to him at the edge of the square. He ran to her.
“They won’t fucking die,” he breathed. He sheathed his sword and mounted, grateful that she kneeled.
“We have to go.” Her voice was stern, but he grasped that something had happened.
“What’s wrong?” Other than the obvious.
She regained her feet. “We have to go,” she repeated, and started at a gallop through the town square.
“Jon’s making a break for it!” called Beeter.
“Where?” Rom asked. He finished loading another cannon as Ham prepped the igniter.
“Out of the town. We lost him in the dark, but there’s some lights and shit over in Harp’s field!”
Ham lit the igniter and pulled the fuse. The cannonball blasted several Maddogs attempting to leave the town square.
“All right,” said Rom. “Then that’s where we go.”
Niandithir watched as time seemed to slow, and the Lord of Fate stalked to the prone body of the Lady of the Wind. He watched as the King of Anu took the girl by the throat and lifted her to eye level, inspecting and questioning. Fate suddenly placed a hand on the girl’s belly, then took it back as though he placed it over a fire. He looked back at the old man with a questioning glare then back to the woman. He placed a hand on her belly again and paused as if listening.
“Do you know?” Fate asked.
Niandithir did not understand the question.
“No,” Fate answered. “You don’t.” He lowered the girl to the ground and caressed her cheek. “Someone cut her thread. I am assuming it was the Natheran. Just as I assume he is the one who impregnated her.” Fate lowered his lips to the girl’s forehead and planted a kiss. “Not to worry,” he whispered, “it’s nothing I can’t fix, my love.”
He stood and wiped his hands on his cloak as Niandithir stared in shock. She’s pregnant? Impossible. Fate walked to the old man and stood in front of him. “This…development will not delay the inevitable. For your betrayal, there can only be one solution. Death. At least, that was the old way. Things are different now. I offer you a chance to explore the glory of Anu again.”
The old man spat blood. “As a slave.”
Fate nodded. “With you, the Revolution is dead. All that is left now is to bury it.” The Niandithir saw the movement in the snowy field but did not hear a sound.
He allowed himself a slow smile. “Fuck you.”
“That is a shame.” The Lord of Fate stood abruptly. A golden thread sprung from the ground and seized the old man by the neck. “Hanging it is.”
Emersin watched as Angels surrounded the old man. He watched as the threads of Fate wound about his neck. His mind boiled.
“Ivan.” He turned and found his wife standing in the field, wearing the same dress, her hair unmoved by the wind. “Don’t.”
The general stared at the picture of his wife. An eternity of happi
ness waited for him. All he had to do was wait. And let the world burn.
The old man gathered will into his body and released it. The daggers exploded from his torso. Two careened into Fate’s chest, lifting him off the ground, while the third spun over the old man’s head and cut the thread around his neck. He summoned Spellhound to his hand and launched himself the distance to where the god lay. Golden cords burst through the ground and entangled the old man’s legs. He cut the threads as fast as they appeared and continued to close the distance. The Angels maneuvered between him and his foe and unleashed hell upon him. The fingers of his offhand made quick work igniting a shield that bore the brunt of the Angels’ lances. The old man sent the dagger that had cut the cord through the head of an armored automaton. His shield began to crack and boil.
The Wolf launched into the circle, razor teeth and claws shredding golden armor. Nearly two meters of lean muscle, the Wolf tore through the Angelic ranks, moving fast in and out of darkness. The Pack, a hundred strong, raced with him, throwing body and claw at their enemy, even at great expense. The Angels launched into motion, mechanical armor granting them inhuman speed. Burning lances scorched the field and sky as wolves bounded from their places of hiding and engaged angelic armor with claws and fangs. Wolves died by the score, as the armor of the Angels was hard to pierce, but one by one the Angels succumbed to superior numbers.
