The angel had executed his maneuver perfectly but rolled down atop a sharp, barbed object. Under the force of the demon’s spearing charge, the angel fell back-first atop a splintered sword—a weapon broken by the impact of the giant stones; it had been buried to the hilt where it waited unassumingly for prey with its shattered blade protruding upwards from the dirt.
beh’-tsah smiled over his wounded prey, gloating at the turn of events as he assessed the wounds. The shard had stabbed through the angel’s back, pierced his ribs, and slashed through his organs. The demon scooped up the angel and held the limp body high above his head in victory. Roaring triumphantly, he slammed Jorge onto the dirt with a piledriver-like maneuver, nearly breaking the angel’s neck.
The demon casually walked through the rows of shambling undead and retrieved his sword before returning to stand triumphantly over the angel. Jorge barely breathed, crumpled on the ground. With a growling chuckle the massive demon savored the moment—enjoying every second. He slowly raised his weapon high above his head, ready to extinguish the angel’s very existence. Absinthium, deep within the ethereal demon’s channeled form, allowed himself a broad grin. He was eager to kill the angel.
Suddenly something ripped his staff out of his hands—some kind of flail-like weapon! The arch-mage had been taken by totally by surprise. Struggling under the force of the demonic link he looked behind him and found the two renegade monks, Minstra and Leethan.
With Absinthium’s toqeph stolen, he could not maintain his focus on the spell and hold the channel open. His master’s form flickered into complete ethereality, suddenly blurred like smoke, and then dissipated as the link severed.
Gnashing with vitriol, the mage tried to apprehend the thief; Minstra untangled the pilfered weapon and tossed it to his friend, Leethan. Minstra fended off the first of Absinthium’s blows as Leethan sprinted away from the battle, depriving the mage of his staff.
Absinthium roared and demonstrated that high-ranking Luciferians, no matter what age or condition, had received the due amount of teaching in the combat arts. The Luciferian quickly dropped Minstra to the ground, disabling him with a nerve strike. He dropped his weapon and his arms fell to his sides—limp and numb. The mage dispatched him with a ferocious kick to the groin.
The old man snarled as he spotted Leethan sprinting away from the battle; he gave chase with surprising speed. Passing the body of the fallen angel, he recognized a familiar form in the distance. Wynn, one of his chief acolytes laid prone across a fallen tree where he’d been flung. A bundle of caissons were still attached to his belt, hooked together by chains. Absinthium snatched them up as he pursued the turncoat monk.
Minstra doubled over in pain that felt like he’d been turned inside out as he watched the chase from a distance. Elbow over elbow he crawled over to the wounded angel as best as he could. The vrykolakas drew extremely close as the monk staggered to his feet. Mustering all his strength amid he pain and his barely functioning arms, he dragged Jorge’s injured body back towards safety, hoping their enemies would not spot him and come for an easy kill.
As his vision flagged, a trio of sword wielding men charged for them. Minstra’s heart lodged in his throat—he could not see the flickering blue light emanating from their swords. As the last of his energy bled from his limbs he collapsed into Jaker’s arms as the former ranger and his men helped escort the angel to a safe place.
***
Scrambling over the lip of the quarry, Absinthium spotted the young thief in the distance as the former monk angled towards the distant forest. He ran after the insolent traitor, swirling the bundle of caissons as he pursued; Absinthium magically activated the deadly weapons as he gave chase. The mage uttered another incantation and hurled the spinning bundle.
Under guidance of the spell the tangled cluster of spiked boxes whirled through the air, pursuing Leethan much like an attacking falcon. The monk tried to escape into the wooded sluice nearby. He’d hoped to escape battle with the mage’s staff and swing the tide of victory by depriving the chief enemy of his most important weapon.
Absinthium waited until the right second. Just when the caisson bundle zoomed above his enemy the arch-mage shouted the powerful trigger word and the tangle of shackled boxes exploded, shredding the one-time Luciferian student to pieces.
At a more relaxed pace he continued the pursuit and found the Leethan’s grisly remains amongst the charred and melted chain links. Absinthium bent low and examined the mess. Little remained of the traitor except a set of blasted-open hips and battered legs; the rest of him had been scattered across the bracken of the drainage ditch. The mage bit his lips angrily as he sorted through moss and weed in order to find his prize. Finally, he located his soiled staff and yanked it from the swampy mud; the blast had darkened and dirtied it with ash and smeared flesh from the former monk but his toqeph was otherwise undamaged.
Absinthium leaned heavily upon his staff of power and took stock of the situation as he panted for air, turning his nose up at the foul odor of the swamp muck. He was physically and mentally spent. He had little power left within him to swing the tides of battle; the link to Paradise had been broken and he couldn’t sustain it again so soon. If he returned and the krist-chins regained the upper hand, he would certainly perish without the strength to rechannel his master’s spirit.
The wearied old man nearly collapsed under the weight of his own body as he struggled to pull his legs from the mire. In the trees nearby, he spotted a stray horse bearing the brands of Rutheir’s military; its reigns had become tangled in the thickets. The old mage approached it and snatched the leather straps from the branches.
Using the last of his strength, the old wizard climbed into the stirrups and pointed the horse back towards the city. He slumped over; every part of his being suffered from the psychic drain that that followed casting spells of such power. His eyes flickered and very nearly shut as the animal meandered on a path back towards its home—far from the din of battle.
***
Rashnir quickly cut down Rutheir’s personal guards, leaving him exposed and vulnerable to attack. Rutheir spotted him and brought his own sword to bear on the former Ranger.
“We meet again, whelp,” Rutheir spat. “Harmarty did not let me kill you all those years ago, and he really should have. But now, I have the privilege of killing you anyhow.”
Rutheir hacked at his opponent, slashing violently with the tapered end of his jagged broadsword. Flecks of red splashed off his ‘ãbêdâh greased blade as it harmlessly cut through the air.
The Christian warrior dodged and then closed the distance. He fended off another blow as he stepped closer, delivering a stinging haymaker to Rutheir’s square jaw. The king recoiled slightly from the blow and rubbed his chin.
“I am not the harmless gutter trash you mistake me for,” Rashnir warned him. “I am the chosen son of the great Rogis and a child of the highest God. You would do well to close that hole on your face and concentrate on fighting me if you intend to win.”
“I’m gonna enjoy this,” Rutheir muttered under his breath.
The two warriors thrust and parried with skills honed through long experience in actual combat. Their footwork and attack combinations proved the training of the best teachers to ever exist—their maneuvers appeared as a well-rehearsed dance as each met the other’s strikes with his own blade, turning them away and using the momentum to create offensive maneuvers out of defensive ones.
Rutheir forced Rashnir back with the power of his assaults. The ranger parried each attack but the king’s sheer strength drove the Christian backwards, nonetheless. Rutheir tried to force an opening in Rashnir’s defenses, but just as he thought he had one and would thrust for the kill, Rashnir blocked the king’s maneuver with some unorthodox move that he’d never seen before.
He beat the smaller warrior back with three quick and powerful blows that left Rashnir with his hands wide and body undefended. And then, quick as lightning,
Rashnir spun into Rutheir’s extended guard, leaving the haughty king with a massive, undefended side.
Rashnir delivered a hard kick to Rutheir’s kidneys. The king doubled over in pain and his vision crowded with fierce, yellow pain from the impact.
As Rutheir dropped to his knees he slashed with his sword, trying to cut Rashnir off his feet.
The Christian warrior proved too quick. Rashnir stepped on the wrist of Rutheir’s weapon hand, pinning the blade against the ground before Rutheir could chop him down. With one looping figure-eight swing, he severed Rutheir’s sword arm and then dismembered the other arm on the back end of the stroke.
In shock, King Rutheir faltered and fell back on his haunches. He looked up at his opponent. Un-armed and defenseless he watched helplessly—incredulously—as Rashnir spun his blade around one more time.
The keen edge separated head from body and the strongest remaining threat to the Christian’s continued existence collapsed into a heap on the quarry floor.
***
As the other-worldly groans of the shambling hoard got louder and louder, the combined Luciferian forces broke position and retreated behind the oncoming tide of undead. Those failing to retreat behind the walking wall of reinforcements were quickly cut down by the defenders who tightened ranks even as the vrykolakas moved in to the battle.
Many of the weakened Luciferian units regrouped into larger units at the quarry’s edge, huddled together to watch the demise of their hated enemies. Their resolve, broken moments ago, began to harden again as they watched the endless numbers of vrykolakas drag unfeeling feet towards their prey.
The slowly shambling monsters finally crossed the distance; they came from every angle, pressing against the Christians who tiredly cut at them as if they were chopping wood. As soon as one undead creature was hacked down another one would take its place and the original body reconstructed itself to attack yet again or resume the place of another fallen brother.
The threat of the demon, beh’-tsah had been removed and the Luciferian armies were routed, but even now the situation look on a renewed hopelessness in the face of this final, unyielding threat.
With the vrykolakas continuing to press in around them, the Christians retreated back to the base of their hill, forming a concentric ring of bodies around it. The hordes continued to come, pressing in around them as ragged remnants of the armies watched triumphantly from the distance with rising confidence.
Just as the tired Christians seemed about to falter in their tiring defense a peal of thunder clapped across the sky. It echoed as if some omnipotent force ripped the very fabric of the atmosphere apart. Lightning bolts streaked everywhere, weaving jagged, lethal nets of energy and striking the ground with explosive force. It was as if the head of each vrykolakas was a beacon that beckoned the lightning to find them and strike.
The bolts did not diminish or flash; they burned like lasers of energy through the clear sky and struck the undead with Godly precision. One bolt existed for each of the vrykolakas and the shaft of crackling energy did not cease until the corpse it targeted was fully immolated.
Only the vrykolakas were affected; the energy beams hurt not one Christian. The intensity of the light cast off from the lightning storm was so bright that the sky burned white, blurring everything from view—save the silhouette of the preacher perched on the crest of the central mound, book in hand. The Luciferian onlookers at the hillside had to shield their eyes.
When the energy storm finally ceased, there was nothing but eerie silence and the smells of ash and ozone. The Order’s forces on the quarry’s edge could finally open their eyes, but only darkness greeted them. Their eyes couldn’t seem to readjust to the low light. Only embers remained of the Christians’ previously ample fuel piles and with all threats removed, there were no longer any flaming blue blades to illuminate the night. The stars were so dim compared to the supernatural lightning storm that had just raged. Only silence and a deep blackness that seemed to stretch forever hung above the defeated forces; the gloom permeated their hearts, seeping deep into their resolve.
Far beyond, in the dark, shouts of praise and joy from the Christians arose, echoing across the floor of the body-littered pit. A terrible fear overcame the armies and the remaining survivors of the skirmish fled. Their panicked routes eventually brought them back the city of Grinden—back to perceived safety.
***
The Christians’ eyes readjusted to the low light and they immediately began praising the Lord for giving them the victory. Victory had been impossible by any other means.
They could not get an accurate count of their casualties right away, but it was assumed that they had lost too many good friends in the fight. Thousands of corpses lay scattered about the quarry floor; of those numbers they guessed that only about nine hundred of them belonged to Christians. Even the reduced casualties alone were miraculous considering that they fielded barely more than two thousand warriors, not including Jaker’s men, in the battle. They had faced an enemy at more than six times their size.
Rashnir dashed up the slope. He paused by the former monk, Minstra, who helped drag Jorge’s limp body to safety. Minstra nearly collapsed under the strain of the large being; his hands and garments were slicked and soaked with sweat and blood. He and two others labored to pull the angel to safety before the animated corpses could reach them.
Nervously, Rashnir checked the body and found a pulse. Jorge still lived, but he’d been badly injured. He called to some of the others nearby and had them carry Jorge up to Ersha. He could see her in the distance setting up a triage unit where they sorted the injured and treated wounds; Rashnir knew that she would tend to his wounds.
He continued up the trail to the palisade that protected the children. Rashnir called out to inform them that a victory had been won and it was safe for them to come out.
“Stand back. I am going to cut an opening and let you all out,” he hollered.
Rashnir made a large hole in the palisade and the children excitedly gushed out to find their loved ones. Jibbin was the first one through the gap and he latched on to Rashnir’s knees like a feral tube-worm.
Kyrius only now emerged from a large hole in the back of the earthen mound; he used his flickering blade to carve away a swatch of stone and collapse the hole. The angel was scratched and bruised, but he looked otherwise okay. Kyrius spoke briefly with one of the adults and was given charge of a hostage that they had taken: the darkly clad man was bound and gagged with ripped clothing strips. Rashnir recognized him as the Wyvern Rider—the one who’d commanded the Dragon Impervious, the man who he had knocked from his mount at the beginning of the battle.
Rashnir hugged Jibbin to him. “We did it, Jibbin. We won.”
“I knew we would,” the little boy said. “I prayed.”
“You prayed, huh?”
“Yes, I did. I prayed very hard and God answered my prayers.”
Chapter 13
Even though the sun remained below the horizon a sterile light radiated from the sorcerer’s toqeph; it illuminated the chamber with a hollow glow. Absinthium sat on the foot of the royal bed. His shoulders hunched with defeat and self-loathing. He only allowed the feelings for a short while—there was a greater mission to achieve and diving into ascetic self-loathing would not help that end.
Just as the arch mage had previously disallowed the Wyvern Rider to wallow in the bitter afterglow of defeat, Absinthium shook it from himself and pushed his mind towards the future. He noticed the tapestry hanging at the far end of the room. It had been there for as long as he’d ever known, certainly since Harmarty’s reign. Rutheir had not been one to put energy into redecorating.
Approaching the large weaving, he scoffed at the filth and stains of so many years’ worth of debauchery and uncleanliness. Harmarty had been as vile as Rutheir was ruthless.
The mage grinned and cast off the heavy drapery as he pressed his hands to the cold masonry. He knew what hid
behind that wall—he’d been inside the secret chamber once before. The perfectly preserved body held in magical torpor seemed to call out to him. Like a vacuum it demanded satisfaction for its condition of un-life. The soulless state of this body had perfectly preserved her youth and beauty; this ageless flesh, which the mage had personally stitched together from bone and dust, would remain unspoiled until spirit and life was forced back into it... or it was reanimated by some other means.
Absinthium could try again with his grand temptation. His attempts could become increasingly real if the game mandated his secret card be played.
He thoughtfully touched the tiny hole in the stonework and remembered when had been here once before, long before Rutheir and far advanced from Rashnir’s resurrection. He’d helped Harmarty with the preservation of his trophy for a pledge of loyalty to a then-faltering Luciferian Order.
With a thoughtful nod, Absinthium slid a finger into the slot and depressed the button. A mechanism released and the door panel clicked free.
The smiling Luciferian pushed the brick wall back and revealed the tiny, secret compartment. Lying in state upon a stone slab in the room’s center was the unbreathing body of Rashnir’s long lost love: Kelsa, daughter of Rogis.
She could be a tool for the mage—the perfect seductress for Rashnir.
***
Day broke over the countryside. The sun’s rays provided only a vacant sort of light in the hazy morning air. The light was neither warm nor refreshing; it merely made things easier to see—a byproduct of the fallen nature of hay-lale’s realm.
A single horse-drawn cart kicked dust up on the highway that led to Grinden. Odd for the city which focused so heavily on trade, the pall of an ill omen hung in the air and no other traffic came or went along the road. The entire place felt desolate to the driver, like the early days of corporate genocide that ravaged Domn’s cities in the dead lands.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 54
