A demon spawn lunged at him, murder in its primitive eyes, but it stopped just short of reaching him, gazing about in confusion, then fear, its face almost pitiful as it seemed to drain away before vanishing in a cloud of flame and smoke. All around, all the other demon spawn that surrounded the men did the same, dying away and vanishing without a trace, untouched by human hand, as though being withdrawn from the world against their wishes.
A cheer from the ragtag army on the empty stretch of Causeway, men slapping each other on backs as though victory had been won, but Wrynn held up a hand.
“Silence.”
His booming word cut through the din, every ear turning to him as he spoke, his voice low, ominous.
“Something bigger this way comes…”
A violent tremor began to shake the bridge, as though the earth itself were buckling in protest at the horror to come. A reek of brimstone, the stone beneath them beginning to burn as orange lines flared up, snaking along to form the pattern of a giant pentagram, men staggering backwards in fear to get away.
Wrynn sank to his knees, the ground shuddering beneath him as he roared to his men.
“To the other side!”
As one they rose up, sprinting at full pelt, putting their trust in him as they ran to cross the pentagram, to make it to the island side of the circle. Not quick enough.
A roaring vortex of flame and smoke erupted from the centre of the pentagram, the section of the bridge it covered exploding in a shower of stones, the searing fireball sending those shamans, Guards and Foresters unlucky enough to still be crossing hurtling into the air. Most of them were dead before they even hit the sea.
Ahead of the fleeing army, a roaring wall of flame reared up, blocking their path, forcing them to turn back, trapped now between the hungry flames and the broken bridge. The roiling column of smoke and flame that rose from the gap in the ruined bridge began to disperse upon the stormy gale, revealing behind it a horror of horrors.
A beast to haunt the dreams of each man for years to come.
Only the top half of the demon was visible, its lower portion hidden below the waves, yet half was enough. It reared fifty feet high from the waist alone, its torso massively swollen with musculature and black as night, wrought with scarred symbols that twisted and hurt the eyes to gaze upon for any length of time. Atop its monstrous shoulders, a head, horned like that of a bull only a hundred times enlarged, the horns stretching out the length of a bowshot, reaching round as though to embrace them all in their lethal grasp. No eyes could be seen, the skin where they should be smooth, as though the beast was blind, but it had a maw, a great yawning abyss filled with fangs the length of men. Its arms stretched out on either side, like oak trees in size, each with the strength of a thousand men and ending with vast hands armed in fearsome, obsidian claws.
The men shouted, screamed, soiled themselves in fear, dignity forgotten in the face of the beast. For this was a creature beyond nightmare, a construct of beings far beyond man’s pathetic concept of horror. It was a monster to end all monsters. A monster to end worlds.
Wrynn fought down the urge to retch violently, as so many were around him, his terrified heart hammering in his chest as he sought to steady himself for his men. He had seen glimpses of such monstrosities in the visions the Avatars had granted him from time to time, but to see such an infernal creature in the flesh…
Break free from this terror, his wisdom called to him. The men need leadership. But I can’t, screamed his senses, his frozen limbs, his turning stomach. This being is too large, too powerful to be defeated. What is the point in fighting it?
“Men of Tulador! Rally to me!”
The unexpected call rang out over the roar of the beast and the boiling of the seas, rising over the howl of the gales and the whimpers of men, steeling hearts with its confidence and shocking people into action as they turned to gaze at its unlikely source.
Arbistrath stood, windswept and heroic, sabre held out before him as he defied the beast, a mouse before a charging tiger.
“I am no pawn!” he yelled into the raging storm. “I am Arbistrath, Lord of the Land, heir to the mantle of my forefathers. I will not be cowed any longer!” He grinned in fervent anger, even as the army looked on in disbelief at his courage. “Tulador Guards, to me!”
The troops arrayed about him in disciplined ranks, shaken into movement by his bold call. Hofsted by his side, eyes glistening in his lined face as he watched his lord with pride, seeing, at last, the courage of his noble ancestry shining through.
Arbistrath nodded to the Lieutenant.
“Give the word, old friend.”
Hofsted grinned, teeth bared as he roared to the troops.
“First rank… FIRE!”
Man-made thunder eclipsed the storm, the beast roaring out in pain as it was peppered by a dozen cannon shots. The army cheered as rents opened up in the muscular chest, foul, reeking ichor oozing out to steam in the air. The paralysing fear that held sway began to loosen its grip on the assembled warriors as Wrynn stared in profound admiration at the youth that led the assault.
“Small wonders…” he breathed, before turning to his own troupe of wonder-workers. “Shamans!”
“Already on it…”
Gwenna smiled as she swept up her arm, tendrils of silvery-blue lightning launching out, joined by those of her comrades as they lent the weight of their power to the fusillade. Iain cried out too, the Foresters sinking to their knees as they aimed their bows, firing with quiet skill and determination, every arrow hitting its mark, for the target was impossible to miss.
The beast howled its frustration as it raised a vast arm to shield its face from the hail of fire. This cannot be, the howl seemed to cry out. I have lain waste to a thousand worlds, armies have quailed before me. How do these mortals, a mere hundred, dare strike back?
Its raised hand balled into a fist the size of a horse-cart, and Hofsted’s seasoned eyes saw the attack before it came.
“Scatter!”
The order was obeyed just in time, the balled fist smashing down like a meteor, a crater of ruined stone now where the Tulador Guard were but seconds before. Lesser men would have balked at the display of primeval power, but leadership prevailed, the rallying cries of Arbistrath and Wrynn combining to keep the men focused, the stream of missiles and magic continuing unabated.
The outstretched arm swept to one side now, sweeping the bridge and catching those too slow to move out of the way, smashing into them like a landslide and hurling them from the Causeway to land in the foamy brine below.
Again the men rallied, pouring their hearts and souls into their attack as they sought to bring the bellowing behemoth down.
It’s not enough, thought Wrynn, sweat beading his forehead as he strained his every ounce of being into the rain of fire that erupted from his fingertips. A shaman beside him fell to the floor, unconscious, the claws of spirit-sickness having taken its toll. We cannot hold out much longer…
The beast reared, both hands rising into the sky now as it readied itself for a double hammer-blow that would smash the bridge section asunder completely, sending them all to a watery grave. There would be no running, not with the wall of fire to their rear.
The demon paused in its attack, as though in gleeful anticipation of the carnage to come. The pause drew on, men’s hearts thundering in chests as they waited for their doom. Seconds dragged, when suddenly a keening wail began to erupt from the monster’s gaping mouth, a hideous screech, as though in pain. Its arms fell down with a rush of wind to its sides and the torso rocked, unsteady, from side to side.
Wrynn gazed up in wonderment and confusion before yelling out in warning.
“Back off! To me, quickly!”
He ran backwards as far as he could, as close to the wall of seething flames as he could bear and the others followed, packing in tightly. With a great, creaking groan, the titanic demon fell forwards, smashing face first into the stone of the causeway, its horns on either
side piercing deep into the dark water. The dark flesh began to smoulder, great billowing clouds of dark smoke rising up and twisting away in the wind as flames began to lick across its body.
There, in the back of the beast’s head, a tiny fleck of shining silver, a spider’s web of cracks trailing out from it as though anathema to the demon’s flesh. A fleck of silver, with a handle of plain, unassuming wood.
The army, as one, craned their necks, even as the wall of flame began to die away behind them, gazing in awe as figures began to emerge from the cloud of smoke that now enveloped the fallen demon.
Four men strode forth across the creature’s back, climbing into view as they traversed its neck and walked onto its head. Bloodied, battered, wearied and tattered, the men looked no more than common peasants; an ex-servant, a Plainsman, a farmer. And, to the fore, a woodsman, who bent down to retrieve his axe, the blade untarnished, unmarked by blood as he tore it free.
A gasp beside Wrynn, and he turned, seeing Iain falling to his knees, tears of wonder streaming down his face. The other Foresters too, all collapsing, faces wrought with joy at the sight before them.
A voice atop the smouldering demon.
“Stone sent us,” smiled Alann the Woodsman. “He said you’d have use for us…”
***
The lightning flashed out, bleaching the soaring bridge momentarily, but Stone’s eyes were beyond blinding these days. He smiled as he looked out across the yawning chasm that divided the Pen from the Isle, noting with pleasure the heroic efforts of the army as they left behind the corpse of the smouldering demon.
“Your joy will be short-lived,” called the cold voice from the other end of the flying bridge.
Memphias stood, taut and ready, lethal godbane daggers in each hand, their blades flickering with black lightning that hungered for the taste of Stone’s immortal flesh. A clamouring of vile hisses from Stone’s back, a roiling cluster of smoke and shadows in the doorway behind him that led to the Seers’ Tower, but Memphias snarled.
“Back, men,” he ordered the Khrdas. His eyes narrowed as he smiled. “This is my fight, and I’ve waited a very long time…”
Stone held his hands out to either side to show that he was unarmed.
“Then seize your chance, traitor.”
A snarl then a blur of dark motion as the assassin charged, the air shrieking in protest as he moved at supernatural speed. Stone leant to one side, the whistling tips of daggers missing him by an inch, then flipped past his foe, landing on his feet, hands on the smooth, cold stone of the railings as he looked out at sea.
“I used to like this view,” he murmured as if to himself.
Another tortured whine behind him, the assassin not pausing for banter, daggers poised to kill. They swung through empty air, embedding deep in the stone, Memphias wrenching them out with a roar of fury as he span. Stone was behind him now, arms folded, leant against the other side of the bridge.
“You toy with me as though I’m a child,” the master of assassins snarled. “Take me seriously, for mine will be the last face you ever see,” he spat.
“I could think of better,” replied the white-robed giant, a wry smile on his face.
Memphias charged again and the two forms disappeared in a blur of motion too fast for mortal eyes to follow. Seconds past, then they appeared once more, Stone dusting his shoulders as the assassin stood before him, heaving with exertion despite the infernal power that coursed through his veins.
“Why won’t you fight back?” he cried out in exasperation. “Either die or kill me!”
Stone’s air of nonchalance dissipated, luminous green eyes narrowing as he regarded the warrior before him.
“My dear Memphias… you were dead the moment you set foot on this bridge.”
The assassin frowned, taken aback by the vehemence in the words, then his eyes widened as a series of smashes echoed from behind him.
From the King’s quarters.
From the antechamber…
A streaking blur of speed beyond even Memphias’ means to avoid and he gasped, looking down with disbelief, even as the debris from the shattered wall before him settled to the ground.
The daggers in each hand dropped to the floor with a clatter, a thin trail of blood leaking from his mouth as it opened and shut like a fish out of water. He rose, suspended in the air, turning about to face his killer that walked, hands behind his back, mouth set grim.
Sinister and Dexter awaited Stone’s command, holding their victim steady as their lord addressed him.
“It was only ever going to end this way, assassin.”
The murdered Memphias spat blood.
“I will return, false King.”
Stone smiled humourlessly and nodded.
“I know. And it will always end the same way.”
He turned and walked to the railing, the twin Glaives bringing the man through the air to hover out above the abyss.
“Goodbye, Memphias. Or should I say, au revoir?”
The assassin frowned, for the words meant nothing to him, opening his mouth to reply, but Stone shook his head. No more words.
At unspoken command, the Glaives returned to Stone’s sides, and the assassin plummeted into empty space, trailing smoke and flame as he was dragged, screaming, to the hellish realm of his infernal lords. To Stone’s side, the Khrdas shrieked in pain, as they too dissipated in a cloud of smoke, following their master wherever he may go. A sizzling on the floor beside him, the godbane daggers vanishing with a hiss, leaving but their outline on the slabs.
Stone stood for a moment on the bridge between the two towers, content to enjoy the silence, but knowing that there was still work to be done. He gazed across to the Isle of Storms, seeing his men charging, heroically, into the jaws of the enemy as they fought their way to the Beacon.
Even his eyes couldn’t pierce the ruddy haze that beset the top of the soaring tower, such was the potency of the otherworldly energies at work. There would be enemies there, such as to render the beast of causeway nothing more than a fond memory, he thought, with a shudder. He couldn’t afford to hold back any longer, not as he had here, facing Memphias and the Khrdas. Yet at the same time, such outpouring of energy would surely endanger the very friends he was trying to aid. If only there was a way to have that power at his beck and call, yet not have it rippling out to affect the world about him…
A nudge at his side; the obsidian point of Dexter responding to his subconscious thoughts.
He smiled as he regarded the indestructible Glaives.
Yes, that might work.
He took a step backwards, away from the stone railing, holding out his hands, the jet-black handles of his weapons floating naturally into his grasp as he closed his eyes.
“My loyal friends,” he whispered. “Let’s see just how indestructible you are…”
With a smile that vanished amidst the blazing white, he opened the floodgates to his power.
Chapter Six:
A blazing light erupting from the towers of the Pen on the coast, but no time to think about it, not now, not amidst the noise of carnage and pain.
For the closer they came to the Beacon as they scrambled up from the causeway and onto the Isle proper, the larger and more monstrous the foes they faced.
The demon spawn still swarmed, but they were only a nuisance now, supplanted as they were by the hulking great forms of iron giants; suits of armour, ten feet tall and wielding broadswords the length of a man. Wrynn lashed out, lightning spewing from one hand, fire from the other, the swirling energies bathing one such construct that stomped its way towards him, but the magicks simply washed over its metal form; only physical force could hurt these, he realised with a snarl.
“Marlyn!”
The youth turned from his own battle, face dripping sweat and streaked with dried blood, following the shaman’s eyes and levelling his cannon, a ripple of air as the blast leapt out to take the approaching giant’s helmet clean off, a tortured howl erupting
from the darkness within. The suit collapsed to the ground and Wrynn frowned, for the armour was hollow, empty. No time to ponder this though; the foes kept coming.
A war cry and the shaman smiled; Arbistrath leading the charge of his men as they pushed forwards towards the steps at the foot of the Beacon. His newfound bravery, whether inspired by madness or revelation, had breathed new life into the Tulador Guards.
He turned, a pack of demon spawn leaping towards him, but they were cut down in mid-air by a hail of arrows and he waved behind him to the group of Foresters that knelt, bows raised, to his rear. The Foresters; they too now fought with renewed determination. The arrival of their leader, for so long thought lost, had given them a fire in their already brave hearts.
And he could see why; the Woodsman fought with a steel and skill more suited to a seasoned soldier than a common man. Wherever he strode, men fought harder, inspired by his bravery. Wherever that simple axe swung, demons fell down and broken men rose again.
The odds were stacked against the small army of men, yet with the bravery of men like these to aid them, Wrynn never felt more sure of their victory.
“We must push forwards, take the stairs.”
He nodded at Gwenna’s words of wisdom; take the stairs and the demons would have to come at them in smaller numbers, the Tulador cannon doubling in effectiveness.
“Army of Men – forward to the stairs!”
A mighty roar as the host charged forwards as one, the red-haired girl at his side sprinting ahead, lightning lashing out from her fingertips in dazzling arcs, laying waste to the demon spawn that charged forth to meet her. Marlyn and Pol, by her sides, one with cannon, the other with spirit-craft, protecting her flanks as she ran.
Wrynn wondered at the shaman-girl’s fortitude; alone out of all the spirit-crafters in the army, Gwenna seemed undiminished by the constant battle, her reserves never flagging, never wavering. Wrynn marvelled, but wasn’t surprised; the girl was special, in many ways.
From the Ashes Page 12
