“Well it had better be soon,” interrupted Shi’Nala as she rubbed her sore cheek. “I, and your queen, await the completion of your Pawar.”
She scowled back at the executor. She was still a noble with amplified rights due her station, but Ly’Orra was still royalty, at least until her honorable death.
“We will meet again in combat.” Ly’Orra turned and left. Her counterparts followed suit.
Shocked, Rashnir stood next to Zeh-Ahbe’. Neither knew quite what to make of the situation. Within a matter of moments, one woman had tempted him greatly and another delivered a death warrant. They could only look at each other and laugh.
Chapter Seven
Cool humidity permeated the subterranean blackness. Night would soon fall, reflected the arch-mage, but he would not be above ground to witness it.
Two of his new acolytes deposited a rack upon the earthen floor of the staging area. A powerful, important relic hung upon it.
The damp air seemed to crackle as Absinthium neared the artifact that he’d brought with from the Monastery of Light. He caressed the reptilian-scaled garment, a potent gift from his demonic master, the Dark Lord of the Gathering.
Crimson scales glistened in the pale alchemical lights that illuminated the cavern—they wouldn’t risk discovery by drilling opening vent holes for torches. Absinthium savored the power he felt as he caressed the garment, but he would not don the mantle just yet. When the time was right, he would put it on; the mantle was only brought out for the most taxing encounters.
His magical shroud was a cache of great power and supernatural energies. The totem was made from a patch of hide that had been torn from the great dragon meh’-red, the shapeshifted demon who led the Gathering before his master beh-tsah’. Imbued with a heavy dose of nawchash, the armored mantle was a separate, temporary power source should the mage need to tap into it. He rarely required it, but the arch-mage had learned to over prepare for this specific enemy.
Absinthium leaned his toqeph staff against the rack where he’d mounted the shimmering mantle of power. His gaze scanned the rows and rows of ‘ãbêdâh vials neatly arranged in glimmering stacks. The Luciferian’s grin widened; his attack could soon begin.
***
Shimza dropped a handful of dried mushrooms into his pot and reconstituted them and took a bite of jerky from the supplies in his pack. He and his partner, Fixxer, tried to regain as much health as quickly as possible. They had already explained as much as possible about the bloodthirsty threats prowling the area to the Christians who they had taken refuge with.
Darkness would come relatively soon. The small remnant of a local population had already taken shelter in the mix of shanties and rundown shelters that dotted Low-Town.
Since freeing the wendigo hunters, Werthen and his group had discovered that there was more to Low-Town than initially appeared. Once the visiting group finally settled down and seemed to pose no threat, the people of Low-Town came out of hiding. Seeing the vampire hunters walking among the Christians dared the townsfolk to hope again.
Werthen and Vil-yay discovered a great deal about the people. The bulk of the remaining community came from socially unwanted segments: the elderly, the non-influential, the poor, and those who opposed the new regime that recently assumed control of Granik. They proved themselves generous despite having so little to offer; they availed themselves to the Christians, nonetheless.
As dusk drew near, most of them, including Shimza, had been brought up to date on who the Christians were and what they believed. Some of the folks joined their ranks. The more stubborn and skeptical challenged the Christians to free Granik High-Town and prove that their God was truly all-powerful.
Werthen gave thought and prayer to the issue before responding. “We have an interest in reaching the people of this country. Every person alive is entitled to hear this message of hope; it should be a basic human right. There are souls in bondage trapped in High-Town. I am unsure yet what we will be able to do, but we will attempt something. I must pray about it further.”
Night crept closer and Werthen appointed a watch detail at the wendigo hunters’ insistence. The vampires would not be happy that the Christians had released Shimza and Fixxer who had been placed in the cell to die as an example to the downtrodden folks of Granik. Their message: resistance would not be tolerated, went unheeded.
Before the shadows crept too long Shimza and Fixxer met with Werthen and Vil-yay in their tent. The Christian leaders needed more information about the exact happenings inside the city. There was little they could do without specific details.
“We’ve been inside the walled city,” said Shimza, indicating Granik’s High-Town. “We also interviewed many of the folks in High-Town before our eviction.”
“We discovered a lot of odd things,” interrupted Fixxer. “This isn’t like any of the other vampire nests we’ve cleared out before. Granik is more than just some random feeding zone or ghoul nest; there’s a grand scheme here… a more sinister purpose.
“For instance, all of the mills and foundries shut down, commercially anyhow. They aren’t exporting anything anymore, as far as metals go. The foundries run, but they are only making beams and mining tools as if they’ve ramped up excavations without pulling out any resources. The economy is destroyed but nobody inside cares. Anybody whose complained has been kicked down to Low-Town, or killed.”
“The whole place seems to have shut down and closed itself off from the rest of the world,” continued Shimza. “They are digging for something, and nothing else matters to them. The wendigo control all of High-Town. Anyone left whose not been enthralled has likely become one their ghouls.”
“Ghouls?”
“People who have not been offered the false-life… the option of becoming a vampire. They are instead held in reserve as dedicated blood donors, addicted to the euphoria that it causes when the creatures feed. Ghouls, in every way, are the slaves of the elders and of the wendigo.”
Werthen furrowed his brow, trying to unravel the mystery. “What could they be digging for? Precious metals?”
“No. Vampires have no need for riches; that is not a path that they follow for control or influence. Whatever it is they seek, it must be powerful and it must have been buried here for thousands of years before the miners became aware of it.”
“So what can we do, then?”
“We can only prepare, for now,” said Fixxer. “We will need to develop a solid plan of attack. Whatever is happening in Granik, it can’t bode well for humankind.”
***
The watcher stood on the hillside observing Kevin as he walked through the encampment with his angelic bodyguards. They’d just returned from trying to converse with their uncooperative prisoner, the forgotten acolyte. It seemed pointless and showing him kindness proved ineffective; Luciferian hearts were like a stone.
ekerithia’s powers of observation were immense; for thousands of years, he had done nothing but travel and observe life from a distance. He sensed what was about to happen—could feel the tremors of coming doom he’d guessed would come since before he left his tower. ekerithia could hardly fathom how his former brothers could not foresee the threat. It was easy to spot the creeping, southern army as it weaved snake-like through the shadows, finding places to crouch and strike from the dark.
Desire welled up within him; ekerithia wanted to fly to the preacher, to warn him of the danger he was in. Instead, he did what he'd always done. He stood… and watched. There was too much danger involved. Risks were too high. The fallen angel didn’t have any special compassion for Kevin nestled deep within in his hardened heart, but ekerithia needed the preacher to live so that he could further his own goals before the realm crumbled and expired. Of all of Kevin’s warnings, ekerithia took that one most seriously.
With a scowl, he stood and bore witness. If this battle went poorly it might necessitate changes to his plans. Already the Gathering had split, warring with itself
, but the Christian threat had given the demonic council tunnel vision, of sorts. After tonight he would need a new diversion to distract the Gathering.
ekerithia set his jaw and tried again to convince himself he didn’t care about the fate of Kevin. He knew that the preacher was doomed.
Unless…he thought with a grin… there are others in this realm.
***
Kevin walked flanked by his bodyguards and confidants. His efforts to reach the Wyvern Rider had been, thus far, fruitless. Nevertheless, Kevin had frequently gone down to speak to the prisoner, showing him every kindness.
Each exchange had gone as the last. Prock sat and endured the preacher’s attempts to speak with him—only glowering as if the man had tried to break him with his compassion. The acolyte barely even acknowledged the other man. Unreachable, almost catatonic, he seemed like he was plotting, waiting for the right moment.
Prock remained tied to a post in the ground; he had been humiliated, dethroned and demeaned by his prey. After every visit from the Christian leader, Prock tried to loosen his bonds with renewed vigor. The ropes, tied by the larger of the angels, never budged. The Acolyte could only stare daggers at Kevin’s back as he returned to his business.
“What do you think might reach him?” Kevin asked Jorge and Kyrius as they wandered through the middle of their encampment spread across Sprazik’s marketplace.
“I fear that he may be too far gone,” said Jorge.
Kevin looked to Kyrius, the more optimistic of the two. He wanted to hope that he could have an impact on their prisoner.
“I might have to agree,” said the other angel. “He may be hardening his heart to such a degree that he could never receive the Truth, no matter what evidence is presented.”
The preacher sighed and nodded. They continued walking in silence. He respected their opinions, but Kevin wasn’t ready to give just yet. He certainly didn’t have a backup plan for dealing with the dangerous warrior but he couldn’t stomach his execution.
In tandem, Jorge and Kyrius stopped suddenly. They looked about frantic and worried. Their keen eyes darted this way and that with defensive body language and wings flared out in alarm.
“What is it?” asked Kevin.
“There. Look,” Kyrius pointed to the horizon and Jorge turned his head.
Kevin could barely make out ekerithia on the horizon. The fallen angel stood in the distance. “He looks sad,” Kevin commented.
Suddenly, the air seemed to shimmer and the ground rumbled, shifting slightly below them. Patches of earth fell away all around them; earth cracked and chasms split open. Screams echoed through the village as goblins poured out of the fissures and wielded falchions. The subterranean warriors and cut down the innocent all across Sprazik, terrorizing people with blades while others plummeted to an unknown future.
With burning swords Jorge and Kyrius leaped into the fray, charging in opposite directions. They cut swaths through the attacking goblins and the chaos quickly blotted them out from sight.
Jorge glanced back as Minstra, the Luciferian battle monk Kevin had invested so much time into since Grinden, charged towards the preacher. Minstra planted himself in front of his friend and took a combat stance.
A woman shrieked nearby as she clutched her child. The cry pierced Kevin’s heart and overwhelmed his emotions. The preacher dropped to his knees to pray for his people. Minstra watched his mentor take a helpless form and tightened his gut—pledging himself to the man’s protection.
Dusky goblins swarmed through the village like secret shadows, bearing all manner of tattoos and markings, colored and branded differently. Sounds of the battle reverberated off the remaining buildings and the reek of ãbêdâh permeated the air. Explosions erupted and nearby structures burst into flames.
The azure blades of the Christians sprang into existence, shining like valiant beacons. They strobed and flared as they defended against the attackers with skillful defense; they were only slightly hindered by the surprise assault.
Jorge streaked through the streets at supernatural speed. Few enemies gave him pause as he cut through the offense. The angel paused to look back through his swath of destruction and find Kevin.
Goblins rushed for the earth-man. Minstra whirled and kicked, cracking gobbling skulls with his feet or the nunchaku he'd trained within the Order. A surge of ekthro rushed forward—too many for the monk to handle alone and the preacher kneeled in prayer! Any goblin that made it past the monk and grew too close to the preacher fell in spasms, overcome with a pustule-inducing blight. More than his monk friend, the man was protected by supernatural forces. The angel rounded a corner and dashed out of sight.
Kyrius cut through a blanket of opposing ekthro and whirled to take stock of the situation. Goblins continued spewing from their holes in the ground. Some of them rode upon massive, worm-like creatures; many didn’t carry the typical falchion that goblin warriors typically wielded. Kyrius suddenly understood why.
A group of stalwart Christians stood back to back with flaming, blue swords blazing brightly. The cadaverous remains of scores of goblins lay at their feet. Kyrius screamed for them to scatter, but it was too late. A suicidal goblin ran towards them as archers fired flaming arrows at him and the wooden cask strapped to his back.
The Christians’ eyes widened as they comprehended the situation. A split second later the detonation vaporized everything in the vicinity. Nothing remained of them, the light of their swords permanently snuffed.
Kyrius screamed in agony as blood from friend and foe splattered across his chin. All over the village, his friends began falling under the onslaught.
***
Bre’s sharp eyes were drawn to the fire the moment the first spark caught fuel and leapt into life. The elf silenced his two companions. “You see it?” He pointed. “There are figures, darker than shadows, advancing on Sprazik.”
The two other elven scouts stared into the night, neither agreeing nor discounting their kinsman. Despite his unspoken status as an outsider, Bre outranked them for good reason. He’d honed his skills in Lars, the last Gleendish town before the wastelands began, and came from a stronger, sturdier breed of elves. He and his kin spent most of their lives in the wilds, far from the comforts of the urban, developed areas—just as fair and handsome, but more accustomed to the sorts of perils that honed their renowned scouting skills.
“We’ve got to get closer to the city,” Bre urged them.
His two compatriots grudgingly followed as they advanced on Sprazik. In their eyes, ‘city’ couldn’t even be used for any but their own home, Xorst.
A bright flash, like ball lightning, cracked the sky. Buildings suddenly erupted in flame. The three sprinted towards the town.
“Stay here,” Bre commanded the two lesser scouts. “Watch the road,” he cursed between breaths. “War or weather regardless, we can not lose our quarry! I’m going to climb that silo.”
The two elves sank into the grove of trees nearest the highway as Bre scaled a rickety ladder and climbed the derelict grain silo looking for a better vantage point to search out their mark. They absolutely could not let him slip away.
***
Flames spat cinder and ash into the air lighting the night sky with the glow of raw pain. Subterranean explosions kept opening new holes. Entire buildings sank below the soil as the goblins destroyed both their enemies and their own without distinguishing between the two.
Kyrius took charge of a group of Christian warriors and directed them as they pushed the goblins from their vicinity. The angel wielded his blade deftly and his warriors stepping into the flow with him.
Suddenly, his flank ripped open with a swath of eldritch flame. The force of the blast smashed him against the walls of a shredded building. He grabbed his gut to stop the bleeding and used his other hand, trembling hand to pull out the deeply lodged shrapnel.
Kyrius gasped as he watched the others fall under the serrated kamas of the acolyte
s—a familiar threat reborn. In warrior-mages’ midst, the archmage led their charge. His mantle glimmered blood-red in the flame light. His footsteps crackled, vibrating with unholy power.
The angel lunged for the Luciferian leader, ricocheting off of the first three acolytes in his way, striking a blow at each. The assassins skillfully deflected each attack as they parried defensively—but none of them was the angel's target.
Absinthium met Kyrius head on wielding his staff as a weapon. The old man’s prowess was unbelievable and he traded strikes with the angel. The air shook with power as the two blocked and thrust.
Absinthium batted away an azure strike and spun his toqeph like a windmill, breaking the wounded angel’s defense wide open. The spin chained into a second blow as the gnarled end of his staff delivered a wicked uppercut to Kyrius' chin, staggering the heavenly warrior backward. Absinthium crouched low to the ground and thrust with his staff, screaming a magic trigger word.
Kyrius stumbled backwards, too shocked to comprehend his plight. A colossal burst of energy struck him in the chest. He felt his feet leave the ground. A tempest of arcane power slammed into him hard enough to blast him clear of the village. Just before his vision blurred and blinked out, he saw the burning rooftops of Sprazik; he saw Kevin below, shielded in prayer and his protector, Minstra struggling to keep pace with the influx of new enemies. far below, a large group of men marched on the town from the south—the Nindan border. His limp body rocketed clear through an empty silo near the barn at the towns’ edge. He burst clear through with a cloud of splinters, and then he saw nothing but black.
***
Havara, rightful king of Gleend, huddled alongside his people. Already weary and wounded from his previous pursuit, he and three other countrymen had fought their way clear of the thickest battle.
They crept through an alleyway and broke into a building through its rear door. Havara entered last, seeing everyone inside safely. Women, children, and those men he’d fought with looked to him for hope, but he had no idea what to do—his brother had always been the wise one. Havara felt torn between the faces of the helpless who pleading for protection and his sense of duty which urged him to fly into battle and help beat back their assailants.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 73
