The General rose with a bellicose roar, spinning about and hefting his weapon as he prepared to charge this newcomer, but out of the smoke came a war cry; Arbistrath charged, his arm smoking from burns but his sabre raised high, the rest of the Tulador Guard sprinting behind him, golden bursts of light erupting from their cannons to smash the beast in the chest, in the shoulders, in the face. Bavard flailed in pain beneath the onslaught; his runic protection kept him safe from magic, but this was something different. No sorceries assailed him from these new and strange weapons.
This was science; Marlyn’s genius but advanced a thousand years.
Alann walked out calmly into the storm of light, standing before the iron-titan that contorted in agony and wailed in metallic rage.
“Listen to me,” he called out as the beast sank to one knee, “and take this message to your masters. We may have shamans. We may have cannons. We may even have an angel on our side. But these are not what you should worry about.” He smiled as the maddened eyes glared out at him from slits now red with heat. “You face the hope of free men, men you have wronged, time and again. And there is nothing, no infernal army, no gibbering demon that can ever take that hope away. So go back to your hell, Councilman. And tell your masters this; whenever they come, we will be ready…”
The beast moved towards him, slowly, grindingly, its joints seizing solid beneath the withering heat as he reached out to grasp this puny mortal that stood so bravely before him. Finally, the General stopped, still, motionless; a grey statue, a testament to what could happen to good men should they fall into bad company.
Silence now, the platform still, no noise save the incessant howling of the wind and the patter of raindrops on the stone floor. Alann regarded the swollen figure before him, before swinging his axe into its helmeted head. The General exploded into a thousand fragments which fell to the floor, smoking and smouldering, before flaring up with a dark orange burst of flame and disappearing, leaving only the smell of sulphur and the acrid tang of smoke.
Figures gathered about the Woodsman, gazing down at the scorched outline that used to hold the General. Marlyn, Hofsted, Arbistrath, Iain, Pol. The other three that comprised the Woodsman’s Four; Narlen, Elerik, Naresh.
Gwenna too, her flaming hair whipped up by the wind as she looked up at the Woodsman before her, eyes glancing over every now and then to the weary form of Marlyn, who stood, eyes half-closed in exhaustion. Then a flash of sudden concern as she noted an absence amongst the sea of faces.
“Wrynn…”
***
Time had no meaning here. Events blurred into one, with no discernible order. But one thing remained a constant.
Pain.
Pain such as he had thought left behind now, in his transfiguration. But his power was limited here, wherever here may be. And the teeth that pierced his muscled torso were testament to that fact, his lifeblood dripping down and out of the mouth, trailing over the lizard lips to be whipped away in the rush of air.
Where was the beast taking him? They had left that pocket dimension, that waiting room of evil, soaring high and above the armada of hell. A strange feeling, almost like the changing of radio stations; different states of being interspersed with meaningless static. This vast creature, this predator, this – he loathed to use the word; dragon – was taking him from dimension to dimension as it flew.
Here, a universe of colour, where the world was spread out in a blurred wash of watercolour pastels, no boundaries or sharp edges to define form from form.
There, a dimension of sound, where everything existed only as patterns of notes; he, a descending call of trumpets, to indicate his fading strength; the beast that carried him, a throbbing, strumming chorus of bass.
Further and faster the dragon flew, transcending space and time with all the aplomb of a fish through the waves, to find a dimension where even Stone’s unkillable form might somehow be destroyed.
“No…”
His power drained, Stone could do nought but grit his teeth in pain and look about in futile frustration. The dragon’s maw was like a cave, a prison even, its fangs bars, the rushing of the multiverse a streaking blur of unnameable colour behind its bite. He looked about for any sign of weakness, a hint of vulnerability to exploit, but there was none; the beast was seemingly hewn from dark grey stone. Even so, he thought, the gums had to be weaker than the teeth that trapped him. If only he had a weapon.
Where was Dexter? He had dropped the Glaive as the jaws had clamped down on him. Had the weapon thought to follow? He hoped beyond hope, calling out in the void, his voice billowing out like bubbles of thought that streamed to pop against the roof of the mouth.
“Come!”
Moment passed, though it could equally have been years, here in this corridor that traversed dimensions. Did he imagine that whistling noise? Could it be?
A streak of crystal flashed into view and he laughed in relief. The Glaive no longer glowed, its stored power all but exhausted, yet it was still a weapon beyond compare.
“Help me. Pierce. Stab. Open this mouth!”
The weapon obeyed, instinctively knowing the weakest point of its enemy, as it blurred further into the mouth, down the throat and into the very heart of the dragon. The cosmic winds outside stopped all of a sudden and a trembling rumble like a distant earthquake began to vibrate though Stone’s prison. A blue glow bathed him from the throat of the beast and Stone instinctively covered his face with his arms as the mouth opened, the points of the tree-size teeth ripping free and a blast of pure power erupted to hurl him forth and into the void.
Over and over, end over end he flew, till the whistling of air indicated the rushing aid of his Glaive. The handle found his right hand with ease and the sturdy weapon hauled him to a halt. The dizziness abated in moments and the puncture wound through his chest began to heal with unnatural speed; no elemental power needed, just the raw, impossible might of his perfect superhuman form.
Now stopped, healing and free, he had time at last to regard his captor.
Against the backdrop of swirling anti-colour that hurt even his immortal eyes, the silhouetted beast loomed like some primordial predator from the birth of the cosmos. A hunter of gods. Even from here, hurled as he had been some half a mile distant from the creature, the dragon still dwarfed him. Its wings – six of them, he now saw, three per side – spread out like the solar panels of a satellite, twirling eddies of what passed for atmosphere in this realm clinging to its dark grey form like mist.
Its huge, reptilian head was perched on the end of a long and thick neck, about which was hung a dark bronze band that glistened with foul demonic runes. From its brows, huge horns erupted, beneath which glowed eyes, blue, cold, calculating and possessed of an intellect that spanned aeons.
From nose to the tip of its slender tail, the beast probably measured half a mile long.
Stone sniffed, no fear running through his mind, only calculations as his subconscious flickered with the speed of a supercomputer, turning over every possible outcome of the coming conflict in an effort to salvage something from his predicament. Nope. Nothing.
This beast would prove invincible.
Perhaps in the real world with both his Glaives to hand, their crystal forms allowing him almost unhindered access to his power, then maybe, maybe he could beat this thing. But not here.
Not now.
Not like this.
Still… no reason to let small things like logic get in the way.
The dragon roared, its noise second only to the booming rumble of the Avatar of Earth in the scale of things he’d been cowed by, its mouth glowing a bright and searing blue as powers untold welled up from within its cavernous chest. A beam lanced forth, streaking towards him and Stone held the Glaive before him like a shield. He screamed as the torrent bathed him, those parts of his flesh that weren’t sheltered by the indestructible Glaive steaming and smoking beneath the onslaught.
Nothing could survive this power. Mountains would h
ave evaporated. Planets, cracked asunder.
So it was almost a comical look of confusion that twisted the beast’s ancient features as the stream of light died away, to reveal Stone floating there, singed, blackened, but still very much alive. The dragon roared once more, lunging forwards like a snake to imprison him again in its maw.
“No thanks…”
Stone had been there once, on the end of those long teeth. Not again. Dexter dragged him downwards as the beast’s head shot past above, thick, stony plates passing by like a locomotive. Instinctively he struck upwards with the Glaive, the crystal point piercing inches into the stony flesh as the beast passed by, squeals and dancing streams of sparks flying out as the momentum of the dragon did his work for him.
This wound on such a creature was tiny, insignificant.
Yet at the same time, it would save his life.
The beast flew past him, further and further, the bronze torq at the base of its neck approaching fast. Another squeal, no sparks this time, and the Glaive cut through the ornamentation like a hot knife through butter. Abruptly, the flickering orange runes that bedecked its surface faded out, whatever eldritch power that had dwelt therein now gone. An outstretched wing and Stone was smashed into by a million tons of flesh, hurled aside in a daze.
He came to his senses a second later, the monstrous beast having turned, ready to strike anew, but something was different. The atmosphere, the ambience, the tension between the two combatants had changed. The creature snarled, but no longer at him, its indignation now aimed at the collar of bronze. Its front claws whipped up, scratching with talons the length of train cars, till finally, the ornamentation was torn free, to hurtle into the endless depths of the void.
Stone floated, watching, tense and ready, but something told him that the fight was over. The beast no longer seethed with aggression. Slowly, the dragon’s head snaked forwards on its neck, mouth firmly closed, glowing blue eyes bidding him to remain calm.
The nose approached him, a minnow before the prow of an ocean liner.
A nod from the beast.
Stone cocked his head to one side before clocking what the dragon wanted.
He reached forward with his hand, placing it against the creature’s stony flesh. Then reached out, too, with his mind, feeling the ancient, incredible intellect that dwelt within, the power of this primordial beast that soared upon the currents of time and space, flitting from dimension to dimension and aeon to aeon with ease, the hidden paths of the universe as open and plain to this creature as a forest trail on a summer’s day.
The beast opened up to him, sharing its secrets.
Stone laughed.
And the dragon laughed.
And the void echoed to their mirth.
***
No. The thought just kept repeating itself through her head, as though on a loop, railing against the impossibility of what lay before her.
No. This isn’t how it should happen. This isn’t how it should end.
Not like this.
But no matter how hard she screwed her eyes shut, no matter how fervently she wished, every time she opened them the truth of the matter lay evident before her. The old shaman lay, perched up against the stone steps at the foot of the pyramid that loomed above them. His healing of the Woodsman had been with dire consequences; here, beneath the shadow of evil, the earth had been too far away to accept his burden. The fearsome injuries had been his alone to bear. His breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs gurgling with blood, as he looked up at Gwenna with calm eyes, his strong, lined face creasing into a pained grin as he spoke.
“Do not cry…” he bade the girl, as he reached up with a weak hand to brush away the tears from her pale cheek.
The girl shook her head.
“You cannot leave us, Master. There is still so much to do.”
Wrynn nodded.
“Aye. And until Stone returns to aid you,” he pointed over at the figure of the Woodsman that stood, in the semi-circle of leaders, “then Alann shall lead you to victory.”
At mention of his name, the Woodsman fell to his knees, face sombre.
“No. I shall be the cause of no good man’s death. Take back what life you gave me, shaman.”
Wrynn laughed, gently lest the pain wrack him further.
“No, Woodsman. It is a fair trade. The very fact you offer shows me that my instincts about you were right.”
Alann shook his head, eyes distant.
“This is the second time someone has made me out to be more than I am…”
The shaman smiled.
“What’s more likely, my friend? That the entire world is blind? Or that it is just you, blinkered by your own humility?”
Gwenna gazed up into the pyramid above them, the top of the structure shrouded by sickly green light. She knew what awaited them up there and focused on the task at hand in an effort to distract herself from the pain of the here and now.
“Gwenna…”
The weak voice called her from her contemplation of fights to come and, with glistening green eyes, she looked down at the prone form of her master. He beckoned her to draw near, and she did, crouching close to him that he might whisper and save his strength. The old man regarded her pale face, half-hidden by curls of red-hair that whipped about in the breeze, and he could feel her seething rage. He shook his head.
“Hold onto the hatred, if you must, my girl,” he whispered in hushed, rasping tones, seeming so out of place coming from the same mouth that usually issued booming, confident commands. “But don’t let it consume you. Stone learned that, Alann learned that. That way leads only to pain and darkness.”
The girl screwed her eyes shut, her usual strong demeanour breaking apart to reveal a façade so vulnerable and delicate that he had rarely seen over the years.
“But I’m not Alann. And I’m certainly not Stone. I don’t think… I’m strong enough.” She thought to the struggle to come, to the foe she would soon, inevitably, have to face, not knowing whether she would be able to stand once again against her nemesis, not now, not after this.
Wrynn smiled, warm and gentle.
“My dear… you are closer to Stone than you realise. All you lack is… experience.”
A sudden look of contemplation on his weary features, before a flicker of an uncertain smile.
“Gwenna…”
She looked up at him, opening her eyes to see him smiling with growing confidence.
“Take my hand…”
Hesitant, she did as he asked.
***
“Can we really do this?” Marlyn’s voice was trembling and unsure as he spoke to the young shaman beside him. “Can we complete it without him?”
Normally Marlyn kept his distance from Pol; the young spirit-crafter having taken an instant dislike to the Tulador Guard. Well, instant as soon as Gwenna had flashed him a smile she had hitherto reserved for Pol himself. But now circumstance had brought them together; both wished to be there, to protect this petite red-head at her time of need. Quite ironic, thought the Tuladorian youth; she could probably crush them both like bugs with her power.
She was quite literally out of their league.
The shaman sniffed.
“Of course.” His confidence was baffling, under the circumstances. “As soon as Lord Stone returns, we shall vanquish our foe and close the portal.”
“And if Stone doesn’t return?”
The young shaman looked at him, eyes full of disdain, mouth open to reply but cut short as they were both bathed in a sudden and intense glow from the foot of the pyramid steps. A moment later, the light dimmed and Marlyn blinked away the dazzling after-effects from his eyes.
Gwenna rose, head bowed, flaming-auburn hair hanging down as she paid her respects to the fallen shaman.
“Master Wrynn has passed from this world,” she told them, voice low and sombre. “But there will be time to mourn later.” She turned to them and the gathered crowd were staggered by the beauty and serene confidence
that radiated out from those green eyes. It was as though all the cares and fears of the war had been washed away by a tide of wisdom, her wavering confidence restored, renewed, with knowledge and skill beyond her years.
“We cannot linger. We have a portal to close. And a world to save.”
Pol stepped forwards, a frown on his face.
“Master Wrynn’s body…?”
She smiled at him, voice gentle as she replied.
“A body is just a body. Wrynn is gone.”
She glanced down at the body of her Master in a final goodbye, before turning to face up the steps before them.
“Now, with me, my friends.” She narrowed her green eyes, smiling in grim anticipation. “This is where it ends.”
***
Their heads ached as they approached the summit of the pyramid. It was like the altitude sickness that the Plainsmen would sometimes experience upon venturing high into the mountains of the North. A dizzying wave of nausea and breathlessness. But this wasn’t the height affecting them.
It was the cloying, pressing weight of evil.
They crested the top of the stairs, the vanguard now atop the platform and there she was. The orchestrator, the architect; she who parlayed with evil.
The Seeress.
She didn’t turn to see them, instead remaining facing the portal, her arms outstretched to the lurid green tempest above as she spoke.
“And so… we meet again. I knew we would.”
Gwenna nodded, her voice low.
“So did I. This ends now, Ceceline.”
The army of men were quiet, not knowing what to make of the exchange. There was a tension between the two women. Then, a rising whine of a charging cannon and Hofsted took a step forwards, weapon hoisted and face grim as he inclined his head to the flame-haired shaman.
“Allow me this honour, my lady.”
Her mouth opened to deny him, but too late, his finger on the trigger, a golden blast of power leaping out to strike down the Seeress. Ceceline smiled, her mirth hidden from the crowd at her back as she raised one hand, the cloud of coruscating power coming to a halt behind her. She turned, grinning in sinister and evil delight.
From the Ashes Page 16
